After the demon's departure, a heavy silence descended upon Cesac, leaving behind a village in ruins and a fate entwined in the talons of a sinister pact. Each rule of this pact seemed to resonate in the recesses of my mind, dictated by the entity of darkness itself, decreeing a power far beyond my comprehension.
"Rule number one hundred eighty-nine," whispered this shadow within me, "Let not the dawn be absent from your gaze, or you shall feel your bones burn for every missed minute of sunlight..."
Every morning, as the sky began to tint with the cold glow of dawn, I rose, obedient to this first rule, knowing that missing the sunrise was akin to invoking searing pain. The minutes that passed without my eyes beholding the birth of the day felt as if they were counted by invisible flames.
"Rule number one thousand six hundred forty-two," echoed the shadow within me, "Let your body be purified each day, let water expel all impurity, let filth not soil what is deemed pure."
Every day, I immersed myself in water, erasing the traces of the past, following the second rule of the pact. My body became an immaculate altar, as if each drop of water cleansed not only my flesh but also my soul, according to the precepts of the mysterious being binding me to this inevitable destiny.
"Rule number five hundred ninety-seven," murmured the shadow, "Let the worms not feast on metal, for in their banquet lies your survival."
The third rule dictated the necessity of collecting any metallic object, as the worms, those ravenous creatures, showed no interest in metal. Each retrieved piece became a relic, a necessity in this world where even debris took on crucial importance.
Thus, the rules unfolded, each number announced by the entity of darkness marking a new constraint in my life governed by a pact whose extent remained unknown. My daily routine became a symphony of rules, each resonating like a dark note in the unsettling orchestra of my existence, where every gesture was dictated by the sinister choreography of this diabolical contract.
Despite my eight years of existence, the obligation to bury the bodies quickly became evident. A rule of life imposed itself, even among the ruins of Cesac, where each corpse was a dark relic of the past. The shadow within me stated the rule, assigning a number to the law: "Rule number two thousand fifty-six – Let the earth cover the flesh, let silence bear witness."
The days unfolded, punctuated by these rules inscribed in the echo of my soul. The rule of hygiene repeated in a loop, even when I attempted to relieve myself in the shadow of a ruined house. Purity was an obsession, an unbearable burden, but a necessity I could not ignore.
However, the third day marked a rupture in the monotony of the routine. A fleeting presence slipped among the debris, a hungry goblin in search of prey. The shadow within me remained silent, allowing the unspoken rule of survival to emerge. There was no specific number, just the primal instinct to preserve my life.
The confrontation was a brutal cacophony in this village in ruins. My innocent hands clung desperately to a small blunt weapon, worn by the bloody battle against demons. The goblin, a grotesque creature with sharp fangs, rushed towards me with a frenzied hunger. Its face distorted by hatred was a terrifying sight, an incarnation of cruelty in this devastated world.
Terror froze my veins, but the instinct for survival took over. The goblin attempted a first claw strike that missed my throat by inches. The swordplay was hesitant, clumsy, a chaotic dance of disordered gestures. Each impact of the weapon against the goblin's rough skin resonated like a discordant symphony of our screams. The struggle was not graceful; it was raw, fueled by the necessity to stay alive.
The goblin scratched and bit, its savage attacks leaving painful marks on my fragile flesh. A cry pierced the air each time the small weapon found its way, a glimmer of despair in the creature's eyes. My arm was injured, pain piercing me like a sharp blade. Then, another wound to the leg, every movement becoming a trial in this desperate struggle.
"Rule number two: Only I can kill you."
Despite the pain, survival was imperative. My strikes became more desperate, my movements infused with primitive fury. The weapon struck repeatedly, finally finding its way to the goblin's skull. The creature collapsed, its resistance broken, leaving behind the acrid stench of victory mixed with the smell of death.
My body bore the marks of the struggle, wounded and exhausted, but survival had imposed its law. The village in ruins, a silent witness to this desperate confrontation, carried the stigmata of the ruthless reality of my new world. Victory, however, was tinged with a painful understanding: in this dark world, survival would never be attained without sacrifice.
I fell to the ground, exhausted, panting. I desperately sought a gaze, a witness, help. But amidst these ruins, there was only absence and solitude as judges of my survival.
"Rule number ten: If you are wounded, take care of your body; this rule prevails until you rise again," the demon murmured to me. I had never been so injured; adrenaline gave way to a lingering, insidious pain, piercing my small body. I called for my mother that day, my last tears as a child streaming down my face. In the trenches of my face deformed by suffering and profound sadness, determination was etched.
I clung to rule ten, seeking comfort in the echo of the demon's words. My mother could not answer my call, but her memory persisted, bringing a fleeting glimmer of warmth into the coldness of the ruins. My trembling fingers awkwardly sketched a rudimentary bandage around my wounds, following the implicit lessons of survival imposed upon me.
I sat in a fetal position in the nest I had constructed in the cellar, the only place still sheltered from the night's inclemency.