- Much time has passed since then. Were those days? Weeks?.. Months?.. I no longer know...
This order, brotherhood, sect… honestly, they turned out to be nothing like what Shirou had initially seen in them. And although he didn't have a clear answer, they began to seem to him like something more than just a simple organization of assassins.
Their leader, Hassan-i-Sabbah, whom the Assassins revered and feared… since that time, he had not met with him again. It seemed as though he had completely forgotten about the existence of Emiya, yet the young man could not shake the feeling that the Elder's eyes were constantly watching him, seeking any slip, weakness, or flaw.
However, considering how his new… ahem… brothers looked at him, he clearly had no reason to be surprised. The other Assassins regarded him with a cold disdain, as if he were an uninvited guest or a stray dog. Everyone was extremely polite to him and showed no aggression, but behind their gazes, Shiro saw a boiling ocean that threatened to drown him in its turbulent waters.
And yet, whoever this Old Man from the Mountain was, he could not help but note the effectiveness of the organization he had created. It resembled a kind of special service with a religious twist or executors of the Church, rather than a sect of fanatics (though there were, of course, plenty of those here).
He had never seen such discipline… in a sense, their organization could be compared to a hive, where each inhabitant knew their place and duty, and where everyone was ready to die for the prosperity of their small world. A vivid example of this was the fida'i, the ordinary Assassins, who willingly went to their deaths for their "great cause." Medieval shahids or kamikaze, if you will…
Interestingly enough, here the term was spoken with respect and acknowledgment. Dying the death of a shahid was considered the highest honor. Fanatics… their logic was far beyond Shirou's understanding. He confidently thought that he would likely never be able to comprehend them.
However, the mortality rate among these "warriors of Allah" was also extremely high. So high that they were hardly ever trained in the skills of assassins - they were simply given a target and told, "Do it!" Naturally, for many, such an order became the last thing they did in their lives. Moreover, many didn't even try to escape after killing their target because they considered their duty fulfilled, and thus paradise awaited them. It's natural selection for capable personnel, as it were…
Though… Emiya could not help but see a hidden meaning in this. Considering how many new people came here in search of paradise after death, it would be an extreme waste to train them all. After all, there were no guarantees that a trained warrior wouldn't croak on their very first assignment, which would be a pointless expenditure of time and resources that could be used more effectively. Only those who managed to survive due to their skills and completed several assignments began to be watched, and over time, trained. These were the people who became Assassins in a way that was familiar to most…
But it seemed that despite Hassan's words, everyone treated Shirou differently. Given what he had managed to do, his skills were beyond doubt, so the first tests were meant to reinforce this opinion, not to assess whether he could do anything. However, due to the prevailing attitude towards him, Emiya believed that his first assignment would be much tougher and dirtier than what was usually given to novices.
In the end, everything came back to Death again...
- However… I need to stop with this lyrical musing...
***
The first assignment took him to the city of Shalemzar, located in the southwest of modern Iran. His first task was to find the local rafik and learn the details of his mission. As he approached the city, Shirou could increasingly feel that a difficult day awaited him.
The city itself didn't leave him with any particularly strong impressions. Perhaps it was because the cultural shock had already worn off. Gradually, Emiya was getting used to the local realities, but his life hadn't become any easier for it…
Oddly enough, even finding himself far in the past, he continued to notice with surprise the similarities between local life and his time. No matter what time period he was in, the streets of large cities were always bustling and filled with people of all kinds, statuses, and colors. Merchants, warriors, scholars, caravan drivers, travelers, peasants, townspeople, and beggars - this diverse crowd gave the city the semblance of a living organism, against which his own life seemed insignificant…
However, this thought quickly faded.
He needed to focus on the upcoming assignment. In fact, he knew absolutely nothing about it, but, as mentioned, the intuition he had learned to trust clearly told him that it was going to be a difficult matter.
Fortunately, finding the house of the necessary person turned out easier than he had expected. All he needed to do was ask a passerby for the location of the healer's shop, and they kindly pointed him in the right direction.
- Ah… a killer under the guise of a healer… these people have a peculiar sense of humor... – Shirou thought with a cold smirk as he walked to the designated house.
The shop greeted him with a sharp, pungent smell of herbs. After the dusty city streets and the long journey from Alamut, this smell was particularly strong, making the young man feel lightheaded for a couple of seconds and causing an itch in his nose that he barely managed to suppress.
- Good day, efendi, - a young girl greeted him at the door, who had been tidying up the shelves. - How may I assist you?
- I need a man named Namir. I was told he is a local healer and that I could find him here, - he replied casually to avoid raising any unnecessary questions.
- If you are looking for my father, I'm afraid he cannot help you right now, - the girl said apologetically. - He is currently busy preparing medicine for Omar-bey and asked not to be disturbed.
- Tell him I have come for medicine for Harama-efendi; he will understand.
- That's a rather strange recommendation...
- You'll see, it's worth more than any other.
Shirou's words were soon confirmed. It took only a few minutes before the girl returned to him and gestured for him to come inside.
As he walked past the rows of parchments, various herbs, and flasks, he saw a man in his fifties with a gray beard and hair of the same color. It seemed the healer paid no attention to the appearance of his guest, continuing to diligently grind something in a mortar. Emiya considered drawing attention to himself but chose to remain silent in a show of courtesy.
A few minutes passed before Namir finally finished preparing the medicine, carefully pouring it into one of the flasks, after which he corked it and set it aside. Only then did he turn to Shirou, slightly tilting his head:
- Thank you for waiting, - he said in a steady, low voice. - Though the importance of my work is hard to overstate, many of your kind would take advantage of their position.
- If you didn't deem it necessary to speak to me right away, there must have been a reason, - the young man replied with a shrug. - Though I must admit, I'm surprised… That one of us is a healer can hardly be called anything but ironic.
- Healing society can be done in various ways: you can save a worthy person or execute a scoundrel. I just chose my path and strive to follow it. But you're not here for a debate, am I right?
It was only now that Shirou noticed that throughout their conversation, Namir's penetrating gaze was subtly observing him, taking him in from head to toe.
- So, you're the very demon who burst into our home and killed so many of our brothers? - he said slowly, a hint of irony in his voice. - Frankly, I expected something more, but evidently, my expectations are solely my problem.
- You spoke about that with such an impassive demeanor...
- And did you expect a cold gaze and a dismissive attitude? - Namir chuckled under his breath. -Perhaps it would have been appropriate, but I prefer to form my own opinion of a person before deciding if the rumors about them are true. Moreover, since the Master decided to give you a chance, it means he saw something in you — something more valuable than just the ability to wield a dagger. And who am I to question his decisions?
- I was told to seek you out... - Shirou began, wishing to get to the matter at hand.
- Yes, yes, I'm aware, - he interrupted, taking a basket that stood near the table. - But let's take a stroll first. The prospect of spending the rest of the day in this stone bag seems extremely unattractive...
The young man nodded in understanding, and they left the shop, disappearing into the winding alleys of Shalemzar...
***
- Why are we here? - Emiya asked, struggling to maneuver through the streams of people and trying not to fall behind Namir.
- First of all, I need to acquire some ingredients that can only be found here, - the healer replied, barely audible over the noise of hundreds of voices. - And secondly, we won't attract any unwanted attention here.
- Want to hide a tree? Hide it in a forest?
- Precisely, and if you pay more attention, you'll notice one of the notable details of this 'forest'," - he replied with a frown and stepped closer to a boisterous merchant, beginning a mundane conversation about the items he needed.
- Be more attentive? Ask for something simpler… This is an enormous market! Here there's so much going on that my eyes dart in confusion at this colorful scene. And the noise of voices does nothing to simplify the task. Perhaps... this is also part of the mission or a test? To see if I am capable of anything more than just thoughtless slaughter?..
Arriving at this ambiguous question, Emiya began to look around. His focused gaze slowly drifted along the stalls and the masses of people, trying to pick out something unusual.
For a while, he noticed nothing, but then his attention was drawn to a distant part of the bazaar that seemed somewhat isolated from everything else. There were no stalls — just a few canopies made of dark fabric and a couple of open tents surrounded by armed men. However, it wasn't them that caught Shiro's eye. Under the canopies were many people, from small children to quite mature girls and boys, among whom guards also wandered. From time to time, buyers approached the tents, scrutinizing the people under the canopies as if they were some kind of merchandise, after which traders would often approach to assist the potential clients in their selection.
— Slavers... - it wasn't difficult to grasp the essence of what was happening there.
— Yes, traders of the most abominable and, at the same time, so desirable commodity for everyone— humans. Only when a person holds someone else's life in their hands do they truly grasp the sinful sweetness of what we call power... — sighed Namir, who had come up to him.
— Doesn't Islam forbid this? — Emiya asked with mild curiosity.
— Oh, you know our religion well, — the healer smiled respectfully. — Indeed: the Quran proclaims that the souls and bodies of the faithful servants of Allah must be free. To deprive a Muslim of this gift is a grave sin. But we all know that the devil finds his way everywhere…
— So, I take it that for those who don't qualify as "faithful"… these sacred laws do not apply? — Emiya asked, fully aware of where the conversation was leading.
— In the end, if everyone followed one truth, the world would be a much better place. But driven by greed and pride, people can distort even the word of God... and if they need to condemn their neighbor to eternal shackles to quench their desires, they will make that sacrifice without a second thought. Especially when the cost is borne by others…
— So, my target is one of them? — the young man asked, glancing again at the tents.
— Exactly, although your target is not among them right now, — the healer nodded, motioning for him to follow. — His name is Jibril Al-Bara. He's a well-known human trafficker in certain circles. His thugs often raid peaceful settlements, killing anyone who resists and taking the rest into captivity. A couple of weeks ago, he dared to torch several villages whose inhabitants were under the protection of our lord. The cup is overflowing, the verdict has been passed: this monster in human guise has no right to walk this earth. Az-Zabania are already awaiting him, and you will be the one to send him to meet Allah.
— What do I need to know?
— He rarely stays in one city for long, so his caravan will be moving on tomorrow, and intercepting him while on the road will be quite difficult. The sentence must be executed immediately... Jibril has set up his camp in a district near the market. He keeps his slaves there and lives there himself with his subordinates. Getting inside won't be easy, as it is a real fortress that few can enter. It might be better if you look around first, and then wait for dawn when the guards change... — a light chuckle escaped Namir's lips, followed by a sly glance at Shirou. — Oh, to whom am I even telling all this? You're not a child, surely you've already come up with something, right?
— And who do you think you're talking to?..
***
- Why?..
— …Get up, you filthy wretch!
The sharp shout of the guard was followed by a whistling lash that made the young man curled up in the corner of the cage writhe in pain. His legs jerked, as if cramping, but his tightly clenched lips suppressed even a muffled groan.
He had long since run out of strength and desire to scream…
— I said get up, you useless piece of trash! — this time the mercenary kicked, nearly forcing the boy to regurgitate the disgusting stew they were given for breakfast and dinner.
The young man gasped, struggling to rise on his trembling arms. The guard grumbled impatiently, waiting for him to stand, while tapping the tip of the whip meaningfully.
Finally, the slave stood and stared blankly at his tormentor.
— Move, — the guard shoved him toward the opening of the cage, covered on top by some grimy rags that barely shielded the remaining slaves from the burning sun.
Accompanied by constant pushes and the guard's curses, the young man walked along a narrow path between similar cages, where dozens and even hundreds of human eyes silently stared at him. A couple of times he met the gaze of their owners, but that was where it ended.
He couldn't help them...
After a couple of minutes wandering through the winding passages, they reached the entrance to the slave quarter, where at least a dozen armed soldiers stood watch at the steel-bound gates, while archers lazily patrolled the high walls. Without stopping, they passed through the open gates and stepped into the market square.
For a moment, the young man froze, taking in the riot of colors, smells, and... living people. Not like those still sitting in cages behind him. Those who smiled, laughed, and if disagreements arose among them, they rarely escalated to violence...
- Why?... — the young man thought silently, but as always, he didn't have time to finish the question.
— Why the hell are you standing around? Get moving…
The guard's blow nearly knocked him off his feet, but the boy managed to stabilize himself, quickly crouching. Straightening, he turned his head toward the mercenary, and for a moment, hatred flashed in his eyes... it was the gaze of a wolf ready to sink its teeth into the throat of its enemy...
For a moment, his hand clenched into a fist, so much so that his unkempt nails dug into his skin, but then he slowly released his palm and trudged silently toward dozens of his fellow captives.
Slaves...
Women, children, boys, and girls — those who posed no significant threat to the guards and those who were reluctantly accepted at the mines. A fairly large yet remote section of the market was designated for traders of the slaves. This was done primarily to keep it out of sight of ordinary citizens, not to mention that the "merchandise" could be hurriedly brought from their cages.
The guard led him to the canopies where the slaves were held, then let out a tired sigh and stepped back to join a group of comrades gathered around a large open tent, beneath which the off-duty mercenaries were eating. The others strolled leisurely along the perimeter, making sure the slaves didn't attempt to escape. Still, the number of guards made any escape attempt pointless.
The young man scanned the area with a vacant look, searching for a somewhat less crowded spot, but there were too many slaves today, so he silently sank down into the sand. This wasn't his first outing to the market; he knew well that no one could stand the heat all day, especially with regard to their slop.
Moreover, he had been feeling particularly unwell lately, which was reflected in his already frail body, making him, as the traders termed it, "extremely unattractive merchandise." This was precisely why the guards were rough with him—food and water had long been a loss for their employer, meaning his value dropped with each passing day.
These gloomy thoughts accompanied the long hours of waiting.
Slaves shuffled aimlessly in place, while some, like him, sat on the sand or stone steps, gazing into the faces of hurried passersby who rushed past them. They preferred to ignore the slaves — a direct violation of Allah's commandments, to whom they prayed so fervently. When the young man first witnessed this hypocrisy, he wanted to grab the first passerby by the throat to force them to look at him, to elicit some reaction to his existence, but… now he observed these people with indifference.
All hatred and malice had vanished. Only one single question continued to echo in his head:
- Why?..
— …Show me that one over there, — a strange voice sounded nearby.
Usually, he didn't pay attention to buyers who constantly moved in front of the slaves, inspecting them as if they were mere objects. The fastidiousness and arrogance with which they assessed their future servants disgusted him.
But this time, the buyer's voice somehow caught his interest. There was some barely discernible peculiarity in his tone as he addressed one of the traders, which drew the young slave's attention.
He raised his gaze, and for a moment, something akin to surprise flickered in the depths of his eyes. The stranger was clearly a foreigner. This was evident from both his strange appearance and his movements and gestures, which were uncharacteristic of the locals.
The gray garments of the Arabs seemed unfamiliar on him, as they hung slightly loosely, but that did not affect his gaze... This wasn't the look of a slave owner coming to choose the next servant, nor was it that of a careless passerby wanting a closer look at the slaves, only to indifferently express that no one appealed to him.
His gaze was clear and attentive. The foreigner was clearly searching the crowd of slaves for someone specific, someone who stood out from their featureless mass. He scrutinized the faces of the slaves and asked the guards to bring them forth one by one. The young man was able to dismiss a couple dozen people: women, men, children... none of them managed to impress him.
— You can't be pleased, effendi. It's almost as if you're choosing not a slave, but a camel for a long journey, — the slave trader remarked with a laugh.
The foreigner gave him a cold glance, and the trader fell silent, clearing his throat awkwardly.
— That girl over there, by the steps, — the stranger suddenly said, pointing among the line of slaves.
The slave trader nodded and gestured for one of the mercenaries to bring the indicated "merchandise," but, contrary to custom, the guard encountered unexpected resistance. The girl began to struggle out of his grip, and a young lad suddenly rushed at him, attempting to help her in vain. The mercenary showed no gentleness in dealing with him and struck him hard, sending him tumbling to the ground. The girl screamed, reaching out for him, but the guard indifferently dragged her toward the buyer.
— Brother... brother!.. — the girl cried in despair, quickly shifting her terrified gaze from one slave to another, but found no support among them.
Hearing her cries, the young man recoiled and trembled. In his vacant eyes reflected the horror awakened by this scene, and he buried his face into his knees pressed to his chest, tears welling up.
- She too... cried just like that...
An unpleasant lump rose in his throat, causing him to choke. He didn't want to hear the continuation of this scene, but despite himself, he heard everything...
— I'll take her, — the foreigner said curtly, without even looking at the girl.
— Ooh, good choice, effen... — commented the trader, but the girl interrupted him, falling to her knees and wrapping her arms around the buyer's legs.
— Effendi, please, my brother is over there! Take him too... I beg you!
The foreigner grimaced, as everyone thought, in disgust, and the trader sighed, thinking that he would refuse to purchase this girl, but contrary to his expectations, he quietly said:
— Get up...
There was an icy steel in his voice that made the girl fall silent and tremble as she stood up. The buyer slowly walked around her, as if examining her, and discreetly whispered something in her ear, causing her to flinch.
— Your decision, effendi?
— I said I'll take her.
The trader smiled approvingly and invited him into a tent to discuss all the necessary details. The girl uncertainly followed them, glancing back for a moment at her brother lying on the ground, who was quietly groaning in pain...
And that young man couldn't calm down. All traces of his previous indifference and tranquility had vanished. Memories awakened fear and pain that tormented his soul...
...He had not always been a slave...
Not long ago, he was a free man, living happily with his family in a small village, a few days' travel from here. He had a simple, unremarkable life, filled with its own difficulties, joys, and sorrows...
That life... which burned in the fire...
On the night of the new moon, their village was attacked. In the chaos of the first moments, everyone thought they were just common bandits, but soon the villagers realized how grave their mistake was.
It was a band of slavers.
The mercenaries descended upon the settlement like a desert storm, killing, looting, burning, and destroying everything that was so familiar to him. He watched as his parents were slaughtered before his eyes when they tried to protect their son and daughter. His sister was only slightly older than the girl that foreigner had just bought. This became the catalyst for the unbearable memories of that night...
He vividly remembered how the sword of one of the slavers cut his father's throat, and then pierced his mother's heart, who attempted to avenge her husband in a desperate rush. They remained alone against several blood-drunk murderers, and the outcome was horrific.
Both of them were captured, and his sister was laughingly raped right before his eyes. He clearly recalled how he screamed until his throat was raw, struggling so fiercely that the mercenaries "calmed" him down a couple of times with heavy blows to the gut, causing him to lose consciousness briefly, only to have it start all over again...
It was an unbearable torture that stretched for him like an eternity until his dead sister was thrown among the corpses of their parents. Gathering all the valuables from their home, the mercenaries set it on fire and dragged the young man to the center of the looted village, where many people had already been herded together.
Here his memories became hazy. He remembered dry wheezing erupting from his throat, but there were no more tears left. All this time he prayed to Allah for help, and even now his lips silently called for God, but no one came. No one saved his family from their terrible fate.
...And then he saw that man... the leader of the slavers.
He slowly circled his new slaves, sometimes yanking them by their hair to relish their hatred, pain, and despair.
The young man remembered well the face covered in numerous scars, clearly visible even through the thick black beard... he remembered the look, full of contempt and mockery of their fate... oh, how he longed to stand before that slaver and gouge his eyes out.
He grabbed a stone lying on the ground and, with a shout, charged at him, but ultimately, he didn't get more than a couple of steps before running straight into the steel fist of one of the mercenaries.
— What do I see?.. — the slaver approached him leisurely, gripping him by the throat and lifting him off the ground, staring into his rage-filled eyes. — There are still those in this village who do not accept their new fate? Don't worry, you'll soon break, just like everyone else. After all... you're just a toothless wolf cub...
He released him, and the young man collapsed onto the sand, gasping for air, and then... nothing... emptiness...
When he finally came to, they were already pushing him through the desert. Cities were replaced by one another, markets changed, faces altered, and so did those who surrounded him. Those who still harbored hope slowly turned into spineless slaves, stripped of all humanity. He fought for a long time, but ultimately, the same happened to him.
Only one single question remained, echoing in his mind:
- If Allah exists... then why did He allow this to happen?..
...It's unknown how long he sat in that state, gnawed by memories and despair, but when the young man finally calmed down and organized his thoughts, dusk was beginning to settle. The day was coming to an end, and the guards began shouting to drive the slaves back into their quarters.
— ...Get up! — someone's boot drove into his ribs, sending him sprawling onto the sand.
Writhing in pain, he struggled to rise and staggered on unsteady legs after the other slaves. Upon entering the local slave trader's compound, which now resembled a vast fortress full of mercenaries, he headed toward his cage located in the far corner of the enclosure.
Suddenly, his gaze caught a familiar figure, and he froze in horror. The head of the slavers was leisurely approaching his house, talking with his aides. The young man tried to find any weapon with his eyes, but his hurried glance found nothing suitable. Ignoring this fact, he lunged toward the slaver, but at that moment, a guard's hand closed around his neck, hurling him into an open cell.
— Idiot... do you think anyone will let you attack Master Jibril? You'd better accept it. You'll either die now or later in the mines.
The mercenary locked the cage and was about to add something else, but then he spat and walked toward the barracks.
The young man crawled to the cage door and weakly grasped the bars, gasping curses under his breath. But then his hand dropped tiredly, and hugging his knees to his chest, he slipped into unconsciousness.
Another day in his personal Hell came to an end...
***
From the murky haze of dreams, he was jolted awake by a strange metallic ringing that echoed in the distance. At first, the young man thought it was an echo of his nightmarish visions, but the sound gradually intensified, and he realized it was no dream.
Opening his eyes, he saw the full moon shining in the sky, surrounded by a scattering of stars. The other slaves in his cage also began to wake up from the noise, and it filled them with an incomprehensible fear. Not wanting to know the source of the sound, they huddled together in the back of the cage, making no noise. The young man, however, propped himself up off the floor and, clutching the bars with his hands, listened intently.
The source of the noise was evidently approaching them, and now, alongside the metallic ringing, his keen ears discerned the shouts of the mercenaries, the sound of rushing feet, and someone's desperate cries.
Several guards rushed past his cell, some of whom were asking their comrades about the reason for the commotion, but no one knew anything. Their figures disappeared around a corner between the cages, and gradually their footsteps faded into the sounds of a struggle.
Yes, the young man no longer doubted: a battle was underway, and for the slavers, this attack came as a complete surprise, as they were still unaware of what was happening in their impregnable fortress.
The slave gripped the bars of his cage, straining his eyes painfully to catch a glimpse through the slits between the cells, hoping to see something, and soon… he did.
One of the mercenaries suddenly burst out of the passage and, crashing into the sand, rolled right up to the cage, causing the young man to flinch back. It happened so quickly and unexpectedly that he didn't immediately realize the guard was dead. A short blade protruded from his throat, and crimson blood pooled on the sand beneath him. As he squinted, the young man recognized with astonishment the body of the guard who had thrown him into the cage.
Strangely… the sight of the corpse filled him with a strange sense of satisfaction. Seeing this man depart from life was an extraordinary joy for him, the first joy he had experienced since that cursed night. Coldly smirking, the young man noticed a ring of keys hanging from the guard's belt, glinting in the light. Without further thought, he thrust his hand between the bars and, with trembling fingers, pulled them toward himself.
It took him some time to fit the key into the lock due to his nervousness, but then it clicked, and the young man leaned against the grate, struggling to push the heavy body of the mercenary aside. The area around him was empty—the sounds of battle now echoed from the main road leading to the guards' barracks and the slaver leader's house. This meant all the guards were there, giving him a chance to escape.
That indeed was his first impulse. He dashed toward the passage from which the guard's corpse had recently flown, but suddenly froze, clutching his chest. His heart raced, and he felt that the sudden freedom had invigorated him, but he could not escape.
The leader of the slavers… a man responsible for so many deaths and the cause of his suffering. He could not run away without avenging his family. Even if it meant he might die in battle, that was his choice.
Turning around, he rushed to the guard's body and violently yanked the blade from his throat, adjusting his grip. The weapon felt unfamiliar to him—he had never held a sword before, despite his plans to enlist in the army, but that didn't matter to him now.
- One strike's worth of strength will be enough, and I won't need more…
The young man glanced at the ring of keys in his hands, then looked toward the neighboring cell. A figure was watching him unmoving through the bars, and without hesitation, he threw the keys in its direction. A pale, bony hand deftly caught the ring and vanished back into the depths of the cell. The slave merely snorted at this.
Moments later, he moved between the cages, listening to the sounds of battle, careful not to accidentally find himself in the center of it. When he heard footsteps, he froze a couple of times, hiding in the shadows, but the guards passing nearby were so agitated that they didn't notice him as they rushed toward the main road.
Finally, he reached the entrance to a small square in front of Jibril's house, where several dozen mercenaries had already gathered. The sergeants shouted irritably at their subordinates, not understanding why the attackers had not been turned into cold corpses and continued to push forward. No one dared to respond, lest they face a barrage of curses directed at themselves.
The young man looked around, searching for any crack in the mass of enemies, but the square seemed impregnable. Guards were stationed at all exits to the square and at the thresholds of the house, watchfully scanning their surroundings. Trying to get through here would be equivalent to suicide, which did not sit well with him.
He turned and plunged back into the maze of paths between the cells, trying to go left of the square. The sounds of battle began to fade away, becoming as indistinct as they had been when he first awakened.
After wandering for a few minutes, he came upon a row of old wooden barracks, which were unfit even for slaves. There were no entrances or exits leading from Jibril's house here, and the boy nearly groaned in frustration. Whoever the attackers were, they should have reached the square by now, which meant there was a bloodbath going on, one in which he surely wouldn't survive.
The young man fell helplessly onto the sand, leaning against the wall of one of the barracks, and wearily lifted his gaze upward, allowing his eyes to slide over the stone wall of the house… until they landed on a dark window, shielded by wooden shutters.
It was positioned quite high off the ground, making it impossible to jump up to, and there was nothing around that could help him with that. His first thought was to try to jump to the window, but even at his best, he wouldn't have been able to touch the edge of the window with the tip of his finger, let alone now…
He stood up and touched the old boards of the barrack, applying slight pressure. The boards creaked, and the wall trembled noticeably, seeming on the verge of collapsing under its weight.
- Nonsense… complete nonsense… - the young man thought with a wry smile, and, tucking the blade into his belt, he jumped, reaching for the roof of the barrack, struggling to pull himself up.
The old structure shook and creaked, swaying from his movements. In another moment, he would have retreated, giving up on this idea, but right then he had no other choice. Straightening up, he spread his arms to the sides, trying to stabilize the barrack, but he failed to do so.
The young man raised his eyes to the sky, whispering something like a short prayer, and, gathering speed, leaped from the roof toward the window…
He managed to hear the barrack behind him collapse with a crash, but he had no time to look back. The wooden shutters were rapidly approaching, and he curled into a ball, fearing only that he might miss his target, but that fear soon proved unfounded.
The young man burst through the shutters, which shattered into fragments the moment he did. He came crashing down onto the floor of the room, tearing his skin on the shards, and this pain brought him a life-giving effect.
Hissing in pain, he cautiously got up and looked around. Despite the broken window, it was quite dark in the room and heavily scented with some sort of incense. After the bright moonlight, his eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness. The young man blinked a couple of times, and after a few seconds, indistinct silhouettes of objects began to take shape: some boxes, braziers, a bed… It looked like he had ended up in one of the guest rooms, which was rather fortunate given how much noise he had made.
Pleased by this fact, he found the door with his eyes and cautiously moved toward it, trying to avoid stepping on the shards of the shutters. He was just a couple of steps away when he heard distant footsteps. Cursing silently, the young man slipped to the left, feeling something crackle under his feet.
An unknown person ran past the room, and he breathed a sigh of relief, involuntarily wondering how favorably fate had smiled upon him. The former slave stepped toward the door, but again something crunched silently beneath him, and a sickening smell of blood hit his nose.
The young man turned to the wall and recoiled in horror. The first thing he discerned in the dimness were chains dangling from the ceiling, and then, from the darkness, thin hands shackled in chains emerged… hands that led up to a suspended female silhouette…
The boy involuntarily covered his mouth with his hand, averting his gaze. Even in the half-light, he could clearly see how mutilated the girl's body was. Wounds and dark patches of burns covered her entire form, leaving no doubt—she had been tortured. Tortured for a long time and with expertise to prolong the sufferings of the unfortunate girl.
He thought that after what had happened to his sister, nothing could throw him off balance, but now the boy barely managed to suppress the urge to vomit. He swayed, wanting to move toward the window, but stopped, belatedly noticing as the door to the room opened. An unknown man stepped inside and, upon seeing the stranger, froze in surprise—this cost him his life.
The young man quickly drew his blade and lunged at the slaver, slashing at his throat so swiftly that the man didn't even have time to scream. Grunting something unintelligible, he swayed and fell to the floor, generously spilling blood.
- Damn it… - The young man backed away to the wall and looked down at the blade in his hand. - I didn't even think before I struck…
He stepped over to the dead man to ensure his demise, then hesitantly approached the girl hanging in chains. Her skin was icy, leaving no hope. After a moment's hesitation, the young man rummaged through the nearest boxes and among a pile of pincers, tongs, and knives found the required key.
The locks clicked, and the girl's lifeless body fell into his arms. The sensation was unpleasant, but he still carried her to the window, laying her in a funeral pose.
— No one allowed my sister and parents to rest as they should… I hope you will fare better in this… – he clasped his hands, bowing his head slightly over the corpse, then turned and quickly left that horrific room…
***
Evidently, that evening, fortune decided to settle all its debts with him, for there was no other way to explain the fact that he had not encountered a single enemy since then.
Descending to the first floor, the young man slowly made his way through the deserted corridors, drawing closer to the site of the battle, the sounds of which continued to echo. This instilled hope in him that perhaps this nightmare would end once and for all.
At last, he caught a glimpse of the square where the fierce fighting was taking place, and the young man froze, as if spellbound. Outside, columns of fire blazed, illuminating the bodies of mercenaries, but he could not see those who had slain them. Only a few times did a dark silhouette flit through the flames, but it vanished from his sight just as quickly.
However, he could not linger here much longer. He needed to move forward as fast as possible. Jibril might have thought until the last moment that the attack would be repelled and soon he would receive the severed heads of "those idiots," but now anyone would understand that it was much wiser to prepare for an escape.
When the young man reached the hall of the house, that thought was confirmed. In the vast chamber, several of Jibril's trusted allies and his personal guards were gathered, waiting for their leader's appearance so they could flee before the situation settled.
Navigating past them would have been problematic had they not been distracted by the battle raging just behind the fortified doors. The slave traders were quarreling, trying to figure out whom to blame for the turn of events, while the guards stood at the windows, grimly observing the demise of their comrades.
The young man silently slipped past them and made his way to the central corridor, which, as he had deduced, led to the quarters of the slave trader's leader. After a short while, he found himself in front of a door that was unguarded, and the boy entered freely.
He found himself in a small reception area where Jibril was evidently negotiating with particularly important buyers, for whom a market meeting would have been a blow to their reputations.
The room was empty, which made the young man curse under his breath.
- Is he not here?.. Then… onward..?
He was about to head to the next door when it swung open, and a bulky figure hurriedly entered the reception area. The young man instantly recognized Jibril, who froze in surprise upon seeing one of his slaves there, especially with a blade in hand.
The leader of the slave traders could not be called a fool—he did not call for help, but instead frowned at the boy's face.
— I didn't expect to see someone like you here. Lower your weapon, and we'll have a calm conversation, boy, I'm sure we can…
— I have nothing to discuss with you, monster! – the young man interrupted, raising his dagger. – I only need your corpse!
He lunged at the slave trader, who clicked his tongue in fatigue but didn't even try to dodge or defend against the strike. If hatred and thirst for blood had not clouded the young man's mind, he would have likely been on guard, but nothing could stop him from delivering that blow…
The blade in his hand seemed to hit an invisible wall and shattered into pieces, while he was violently thrown against the wall. All his bones creaked at once, and he screamed in pain, crashing to the floor with a thud. Groaning in agony, he tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond, and he weakly lifted his blurry gaze to Jibril.
— God… why do creatures like you always cause so many problems? – the slave trader grimaced, lowering his hand. An incomprehensible blue pattern blazed on his wrist, radiating something mystical. – Ah, I do remember you, boy; it was you who tried to attack me in that village we pillaged a couple of weeks ago, wasn't it? Looks like the little wolf thought he had sharp teeth, coming after the leader of the pack…
Jibril moved towards him, drawing a simple dagger from his belt, intending to finish what he had started, but he was not able to do so.
The doors of the reception room flew off their hinges, and the severed head of one of the mercenaries rolled into the room, drawing a bloody line between the young man and the slave trader. Al-Bara grimaced and looked outside, and then... fear reflected in his eyes.
The young man involuntarily followed his gaze and held his breath in astonishment…
The attacker was alone. A single figure slowly stepped into the room, and the air around seemed to grow cold. The grim solemnity that surrounded him at that moment made everyone freeze in place, watching him. The young man didn't know what word should best describe him, and so his mind instinctively chose the one that seemed most fitting.
Angel…
But not the pure and beautiful being that eternally sings praises to the Almighty in heaven and protects the righteous, no… This was an angel that sends shackled sinners to the very depths of Hell, where they are doomed to pay for their deeds until the end of time…
Even his appearance was far from human: his entire body was cloaked in a black robe stained with foreign blood, and his face was concealed by a white skull-like mask, which the young man initially mistook for bare bones. But the most horrifying feature of this figure was his eyes: they shone with an otherworldly, icy fire. The boy instinctively looked away, feeling as if, even without looking at him, the unknown was drawing out his very soul.
Glancing around momentarily, the bloody angel turned his gaze to Jibril, who had finally regained his composure:
— So you're one of those degenerates who decided to kill me? There are so few of you left… – the slave trader lowered his dagger, raising his hands. – Although I must commend you, you managed to break through such a number of mercenaries, which should have been no easy feat…
— Not so difficult… your people turned out to be just a bunch of annoying flies in my way… – the unknown replied suddenly. His voice was so deep and chilling that the young man involuntarily shuddered, unable to believe that this could be a human voice.
— Wait… you don't mean to say you killed them all by yourself? That's ridiculous, – Jibril attempted to sneer, but apparently the assailant's voice stunned him just as much, because his lips merely twitched, as if they were seized by a cramp.
— You can find out for yourself… when you meet them in Hell.
The "Angel" instantly sprang into action, moving so quickly that tracking his movements was nearly impossible. The edges of his cloak billowed, and he swung his blade at the slave trader, intent on killing him with a single blow, but the boy's scream made him stop.
— Watch out!
The killer jumped back, throwing his blade at Jibril, who clicked his tongue in annoyance as he raised his arm. The incomprehensible mark flashed on his wrist again, and the attacker's weapon shattered into thousands of metal shards.
But the killer seemed unfazed by this inexplicable occurrence: he simply retreated, drawing a new dagger from beneath his cloak that was strikingly different from the previous one. Swinging it, the "angel" charged again, eliciting a cold smirk from Jibril. He thought the attacker hadn't learned from the last assault, but that was far from the truth…
The blade in the killer's hands suddenly became covered with a light blue pattern, after which the edge sliced through the air freely and struck Jibril's face. Jibril screamed in pain, releasing his weapon, and he doubled over, clutching the wound from which blood poured profusely.
— What the hell?.. – he howled, but received an elbow to the back of his head and crashed to the floor.
— I must admit, I'm surprised that you turned out to be one of them… However, this does not change much for you, – the killer glanced at the young man, but now his gaze was slightly calmer. – Get up, boy. I'm sure you don't want to miss this spectacle…
He grabbed Jibril by the collar and dragged him toward the exit of the house, quickly disappearing from the boy's view. Moaning and wincing in pain, he struggled to rise and, holding his shoulder with one hand, limped after him, but as soon as he stepped into the hall, he froze like a statue.
The entire hall was piled high with the bodies of guards, past whom he had recently slipped. Various blades and swords protruded from their bodies, some of which were mangled by an incomprehensible force. But what surprised the young man even more was another fact… among them lay not a single corpse resembling that man.
- He couldn't… he couldn't have killed them all by himself… who… what is he?!..
The young man swallowed hard and quickly crossed the blood-soaked hall, making his way to the steps outside the house.
The square, where the battle had raged for so long, was still ablaze. Dozens of mercenary corpses were scattered here and there, just like in the hall, but in far greater numbers. As far as he could see, there wasn't a single outsider among them either…
Meanwhile, the killer threw Jibril down the steps, causing him to howl again in pain, clearly breaking several bones, and that cry made the young man flinch.
At the sounds of the slaver's cries, freed slaves quickly began converging on the square. Among them, he recognized a few, but most were unfamiliar to him. They all watched with concealed pleasure the torment of Jibril, yet fear reflected in their expressions—a tremulous dread of the man who had killed so many mercenaries alone.
Surveying the gathered crowd, he pointed his blade at the slaver and began to speak in that same eerie tone:
— Jibril Al-Bara… you are guilty of the deaths and suffering of thousands. There is no forgiveness for the sins you have committed. Allah has long turned a blind eye to your atrocities, but every patience has its limits…
— Shut up! Who would believe you are doing this for righteous reasons?! — Jibril raised himself on his elbow, still covering his split face with his hand.
The killer slowly stepped down to him and abruptly drove his blade into the slaver's knee, causing him to scream out in agony once more.
— Do not judge the rest by your corrupted soul, carrion. Allah never forgets His debtors, and I have come simply to deliver your soul to Him as payment.
— Who the hell are you?!
— You know… I have many names. So many have accumulated that I am no longer sure I remember my true one, but I think one of them might suffice as an answer… — he leaned closer to the silent slaver and continued in a muffled voice. — My name is Hassan…
This name made many of the slaves shudder in surprise. The young man did not know what significance it held. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about it, but the effect it had on people made him whisper that strange name silently to himself.
Jibril, on the other hand, trembled with fear, shaking his head in disbelief. Despair reflected on his face, a type the young man had never seen in anyone else… and he found he liked that despair on the slaver's face.
The killer raised his bloodied blade and then brought it down over Jibril's head.
— From the body to the heart, from the heart to the crime! Until we meet in Hell…
With one swift motion, he severed the slaver's head from his shoulders.
Time seemed to slow as the young man watched the severed head roll in the sand, staining it dark.
This was the end… a bloody end to the most dreadful slaver this side of Sinai, marking the liberation of hundreds of slaves who witnessed this strange execution, which resembled a divine judgment.
So thought many, and that was why people began to kneel one by one, whispering prayers to Allah and their sudden savior with bitter sobs. Meanwhile, he sheathed his dagger under his cloak and breathed a quiet sigh as he observed the aftermath of the slaughter he had orchestrated…
The young man collapsed weakly onto the steps. His revenge was fulfilled, though not by his own hands, but now his family and thousands of others had been avenged. This strange messenger of Allah had been able to punish the criminals who had broken so many of His commandments and caused so much suffering to His followers.
— Hey, kid, — the killer suddenly addressed him, pulling him out of his reverie. — I can commend you: many in your place would have run away at such an opportunity, but you went for revenge. That's commendable… and deserving of a reward…
The young man lowered his gaze in confusion and saw a small pouch tightly filled with coins. He had never seen so much money, and he instinctively pulled it closer, watching the flickering flames reflect off their uneven surfaces. But after a moment's thought, he set the money back down, preparing to say that he hadn't done it for them. He lifted his gaze, but the killer had already vanished without a trace.
— "Commendable"?.. — he muttered, picking up one of the coins before returning it. — I don't know, lord Hassan… I just thought it would be the right thing to do…
Muttering this, he embraced the pouch and stretched out on the steps, instantly falling into a deep sleep… it was the first night he spent without nightmares…
***
— I swear, they could bite a person in half with one bite!
— You're lying! Next, you'll say elephants need ears to fly!
- Don't you have anything else to talk about? — Shirou thought irritably as he listened to the bickering for an hour.
Needless to say, he wasn't in the best of moods? As he expected, he had been given a mission with a clear intention of receiving word of his death. Blindly attacking a fortified area defended by just over a hundred prepared mercenaries was no simple task.
That was why, before the assault, he decided to gather intel on the layout of the quarter, which is why he sought a suitable slave. The truth is, it was quite problematic to find someone among them who wasn't just a walking corpse. Fortunately, he struck gold — the girl he bought provided him with all the information she knew. The thought of reuniting with her brother and avenging the slavers for their deeds was excellent motivation for her.
Thanks to her information, everything went smoother, albeit no less bloody. That night, he killed so many mercenaries and slavers that he lost count. He simply killed anyone who crossed his path until he finally reached Jibril.
It should be noted that the fact the leader of the slavers turned out to be a mage slightly surprised him. However, his abilities were so pathetic that calling him a mage would insult everyone Kiritsugu had killed.
As for that slave... Emiya was pleasantly surprised that he hadn't run away but had gone after revenge for his suffering. Moreover, he had managed to reach Jibril, and who knows what would have happened had the slaver not had such a trump card up his sleeve.
Regardless, the target was dead, and his mission was completed. After staying the night at a local inn, Shiro departed the city the next morning. Luckily, a caravan headed from Shelemzar to Wah Sind was gathering guards for protection, and Emiya, without a second thought, signed on with them.
The group was quite colorful, but especially noteworthy was a Chinese merchant named Long Wei, who was a rather hearty and talkative man, despite having crossed his fifties. During the journey, he nonstop recounted his travels, having visited many countries in Asia: from his native China to India and the Caspian. Some listened to his tales with interest, while others wrinkled their noses in distaste, occasionally shaking their heads. However, no one openly clashed with him: the Chinese man's positive character and funny accent made it hard to stay angry.
— You're such a grouch, laowai; the people of Nippon are usually more smiley, — Long Wei remarked as he fell in step with Shiro.
— What made you think I'm from Japan? — Shirou sighed resignedly, realizing he wouldn't shake off the merchant easily.
— I've seen enough of your kind to recognize you among thousands. Though you don't look very much like a Nipponese…
— Are you here to make my family tree or something? — Shiro snapped irritably, still recovering from his brutal battle.
— Oh, I'm sorry. I must have touched a sore subject, huh? — Long Wei smiled apologetically. — It's just not often one encounters one of you here, and I'm naturally curious.
— Curiosity killed the cat.
— Still, if it's not a secret, — the Chinese continued, clearly undeterred by Shiro's tone. — How did you end up so far from your homeland?
— I have a purpose that brought me to these lands, — Shiro replied curtly, realizing the merchant wouldn't let up until he got a clear answer. — And I wouldn't call Japan my homeland. I hardly remember it anymore.
— Oh, I can relate... You may not believe it, but I understand what you're feeling. Sometimes the only nice thing you can say about your homeland is that you were born there, — the Chinese said understandingly.
— And that's why you're here?
— A merchant goes where the profit is, laowai. And the chance to see new countries, peoples, their customs, and interesting stories… quite a pleasant bonus. However, alas, the years have started to take their toll. I'm no longer young enough to overcome all the obstacles that may await on the road, — he sighed sadly, shifting in his saddle.
— Let me guess, that bundle you even sleep with is your road to a comfortable old age? — Emiya smirked, pointing at the bundle wrapped in red cloth.
For a moment, the Chinese man's gaze grew stern and suspicious, but a second later, his usual smile returned.
— Ho-ho, you're quite observant, laowai! No denying that! Perhaps, of all the things I've traded, this is a genuine diamond among heaps of coal. A work of art, a masterpiece that holds more history than all the people in this caravan! But, alas, I still haven't found a worthy owner for it...
— Worthy, or sufficiently wealthy? — Emiya snorted.
— One doesn't impede the other, don't you agree? — Long Wei grinned slyly, already preparing to chuckle heartily when he was interrupted…
— To arms!!! We're under attack!!! — a cry rang from the front of the column.
The surrounding air suddenly filled with the sound of hooves, the whistling of flying arrows, and loud cries. Rising in his stirrups, Shiro saw a band of marauders approaching, their numbers hard to gauge due to the swirling clouds of dust.
Amid the caravan members, chaos erupted, as it often does: some drew weapons and leaped from their horses, preparing for battle, while others, clearly more concerned for their lives, scattered in all directions.
- Idiots… - Shirou thought fleetingly as he jumped to the ground.
A lone rider was an especially easy target, and a solitary one even more so. If an arrow struck the horse, which was often the case, the animal could easily either collapse, burying its rider beneath it, or throw him off, breaking bones in the process—equating to a death sentence in the midst of combat.
However, he had time to think about the price of their idiocy...
The clang of steel filled the air. The marauders engaged in battle, though there were clearly fewer of them than before. Evidently, the return fire from bows had reduced their numbers. One of them charged at Emia, aiming to behead him while the young man allowed himself to gaze about.
What a naïve mistake on his part…
That was the last thought he managed to grasp before a sword, appearing from nowhere, parried his strike and then sliced through the tendon in his left leg. But the marauder didn't have time to comprehend this, for at that moment, a short dagger plunged into his head…
The thug fell from his horse, and Shiro quickly drew the weapon from his cooling body, shook off the blood, and plunged into the thick of the fight…
***
- Damn... why did this have to happen just when it was my turn? - The caravan leader cursed incessantly, looking at the pile of corpses.
- We all knew what we were getting into. So stop shaking the air, - Shiro remarked indifferently, surveying the bodies of the slain.
- Indeed, our service is both dangerous and difficult! - the Arab snorted irritably, but then sighed and added more softly and respectfully, - Though I think I should thank you. For your age, you're quite adept with that sword.
- Well, it's the first time I've seen such a young lad handle weapons so skillfully, - one of the others laughed approvingly, only to grimace in pain as he clutched his ribs.
- Tch… Well, we should clean up the bodies and bury them somehow. We can't leave them for the jackals and crows, can we? - the caravan leader rhetorically asked, then turned to Shiro. - As a token of gratitude, you can take anything you fancy. I'm sure the fellows will share!
After which everyone except Emiya burst into laughter...
As he walked among the corpses, he stumbled upon a familiar face. Long Wei lay on the sand with an arrow in his right eye, clutching the cursed bundle in his hands.
- Well, there's one of the locals' customs, laowai, - Shirou smirked sadly and bent down to examine what the Chinese man had fought so hard to keep. - Let's see what you were saving for your seaside cottage…
He grasped the bundle and tried to pull it from the corpse's hands, but to his surprise, he found that the man was reluctant to let go even in death. After tugging a couple more times, Emia cursed under his breath, then directed his prana to his hands and yanked the bundle free from the corpse's grip.
- Wow, he really didn't want to give that up!- someone laughed at the young man's efforts.
Ignoring the comment, Shirou, assured that everyone was busy dragging bodies, carefully unwrapped the bundle. He expected anything: money, jewels, works of art… honestly, he wouldn't have been surprised to find a magical artifact…
… and thus his astonishment grew upon seeing its contents.
On the crimson cloth lay a pair of blades of clearly Chinese origin. One had a dark hue and was adorned with a hexagonal red pattern, while the other was a lighter, smokier color. Their grips were inscribed with Chinese characters, the meaning of which he understood only vaguely due to the similarity of Chinese writing to Japanese kanji. Looking at the weapons, one couldn't help but think they were like twins, two halves of a whole. The symbols of yin and yang only confirmed this notion.
The blades were undoubtedly unusual, though they didn't inspire a sense of sacred awe. They were the work of a great master who had poured his soul into them, but no more than that. Still, Shiro couldn't shake the feeling that something greater lay hidden within them…
- Well, there's only one way to find out… - he thought as he placed his hands on them.
— Arms On.
A rush of information flooded his mind instantly…
Spirit and technique, flawless and firm
Our strength rips the mountains...
Their creator sought to expand boundaries in the pursuit of beauty…
Our swords split the water...
His trials and failures, his fervor and disappointment, his hopes and despair…
Our names reach the imperial villa
A sacrifice made to transcend boundaries and reach the beautiful and the unknown…Their story,
their destiny, their very essence now lay before him…
The two of us cannot hold the heavens together...
***
The blizzard showed no signs of easing…
The inhabitants of Alamut huddled in their homes, glancing unhappily at the enormous black clouds enveloping the mountain fortress of assassins. Such inclement weather was not uncommon here, but this time the storm was fierce, burying all roads into the mountains and cutting them off from the rest of the world for several days.
Even the most desperate and robust warriors of Hassan chose to wait out the snowstorm in the city, biding their time until it passed, but… that mattered little to him…
A solitary, lanky figure, cloaked in black, trudged through knee-deep snow, resolutely making his way toward the fortress. His fingers and skin had long since turned blue from the biting cold, but he did not stop in his search for refuge and continued to press stubbornly forward.
The former slave had not changed much since his emancipation: his appearance still bore that painful and weary look, but now there was no emptiness in his gaze. A calm fire burned deep in his eyes, warming his soul in this bitter frost…
The morning after Jibril's death, the slaves searched his house and found enough gold for each of them to start a new life. Nonetheless… they all understood that life would never be the same again.
It should be mentioned that the young man personally paid for the funeral of that girl he had found on that bloody night. It was the least he could do for her.
Afterward, he spoke with a few survivors from his village who planned to return to rebuild it. They pledged to bury the remains of his relatives, but would not accept payment, saying it was not the case to speak of money.
From them, he learned about Hassan…
The long and impassioned speech by the former slaves, bolstered by the impressions of the previous day, was rich in detail, albeit not without some blatant exaggerations. Upon finding out the location of the assassin fortress, of which he had heard only in passing, the young man bid farewell to his fellow villagers, then joined the first caravan heading north.
For someone who had never left his home village, the journey through the desert was arduous and lengthy, but he kept moving forward. He felt that the fate he had chosen would be dozens, if not hundreds, of times more difficult than what he had experienced before, hence he endured all hardships, hardening his character.
Thus he reached Alamut, where he was told how to get to the assassin fortress but advised to wait out the impending snowstorm that promised to be terrible. Perhaps… someone else in his place would have decided to stop in the city and wait, but he could not afford to delay.
He needed to understand what drove the people in that fortress… to feel what motivated them in their bloody endeavors…
But the first trial proved too heavy. The young man sensed his strength waning, and at this rate, he would simply die in the snows without ever reaching his goal, but then he saw, through the snowy veil, the dim silhouette of the fortress emerging. Its majestic view gave him strength for one final push.
The blizzard continued to intensify, and he felt it against his skin, barely moving his numbed legs.
There were no more than ten steps to the castle gates when he suddenly realized he could go no further. His legs buckled, and he fell face-first into the snow, feeling that he couldn't move anymore.
Strangely, the realization that his life could end just a step away from achieving his goal did not shake him. He accepted this thought calmly and… even felt a sense of relief.
A pleasant dark haze enveloped his mind, and his eyelids fluttered, slowly closing…
… the last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the castle gates swinging open, revealing a black figure rushing toward him, and then… nothing…