BADAGUINBIR
Jol was not breathing.
Bada tried to kick the figure away, but her strength had left her. Her body felt leaden, her limbs sluggish and weak. She did the only thing she could—she used the figure as a brace, flipping backward to pull Jol's motionless form to her. He was heavy, unnaturally so, like the weight of the world had settled into his lifeless frame.
Jol was not breathing.
The figure stood still, as if watching her struggle with some twisted amusement. Or perhaps it only mimicked the expression, its broken face stretching into a mockery of human emotion.
"You, you are, are not, not courageous, courageous now, now."
It spoke in that doubled voice, each word a hammer blow against her skull. It wasn't taunting. It wasn't cruel. It simply stated a fact...or so she could surmise.
Bada did not answer. She could not.
Jol was dead.
Why? Why does it always have to be him? Why is he the one to pay the price every time something must be lost?
Her vision blurred. Her breath hitched. The tears came fast and hot, rolling down her cheeks before freezing against her skin. She pressed a hand to Jol's face, as if she could will warmth back into him, as if she could pull him from the abyss with sheer force of will alone.
Why couldn't it have been me? Just once. Just this once.
Bada had never been anything but a follower. Raised in the wild, she had learned early to move with the herd, never apart from it. Cows and pigs were her only kin, and they lived as she did—by instinct alone. The first man she ever knew, the first person she could have called family, had been a farmer. Old, frail, brittle as dry wood, but strong enough to work the land with hands weathered by time.
She had watched him carve through crops with aching bones, had seen him labor despite the weight of years pressing down upon him. And when the famine came, when the land withered and the rivers ran dry, she had shared his last meal.
Only after he was gone had she understood what he had done.
His body was light when she buried him, as if something vital had already been taken. When she rolled him onto his stomach to cover him with earth, she saw the truth.
His back had been stripped to the bone.
He had been feeding her his own flesh.
Even then, she had felt nothing. Not grief. Not sorrow. Only an emptiness, vast and consuming. An urge to vomit, not food, but words.
She had swallowed them down. She did not do anything but watch.
Now, kneeling in the snow beside Jol's body, that same hollowness yawned wide within her.
Bada's grip on her blade tightened until her knuckles went white, the edge biting into her palm, drawing fresh blood that dripped onto El Ritch's face, mingling with the crimson already staining him. Her arm trembled—not with fear, but with fury.
It is all or nothing.
"If it's the last thing I do," she hissed through clenched teeth, "I will make sure you die with me."
The figure cocked its head, that grotesque imitation of a smile stretching the right side of its face, the skin pulling taut over the bone. It was mocking her, amused by her resolve, and that made Bada's blood boil hotter than ever.
She had no chance. She knew she had no chance.
But she'd be damned if she let this thing leave unscathed.
Why is it so hard to say what I feel? Unlike Jol, why couldn't I just be happy? I had him, but I mistook it for a privilege, something given rather than something to be earned.
She moved, her blade slicing upward in a wide arc. The figure shifted effortlessly to avoid it, just as she had expected. Her left fist came next, rising with all the force she could muster, striking the creature's jaw in a violent uppercut.
For the first time, it staggered.
Its head tilted, almost mechanically, as though it had to manually correct itself. Its eyes flickered, not in malice, but in something that almost resembled surprise.
Bada wiped her face with her sleeve, smearing sweat, blood, and tears into one.
I loved Jol. I loved everything about him. But why couldn't I just be better for him? Do I have to struggle endlessly, shifting like grey sand in a story that isn't my own?
A sharp whistling cut through the air.
The branch struck before she could react, thick as Jol's arm, spearing straight through her bicep and pinning her to the nest.
The pain was immediate, unbearable. A bloodcurdling scream tore from her throat as she thrashed, her free hand grasping the branch, pulling at it, ignoring the wet, sickening sound of flesh tearing as she ripped herself free.
Blood poured from the wound, but she didn't stop.
Her left arm was useless now.
But she wasn't done.
She would kill this thing.
Somehow. Someway.
She had decided.
________
Blood painted the snow in dark streaks as Bada collapsed to her knees, her breath ragged and shallow. Mucus and blood clogged her nose, making every gasp of air a desperate, wheezing struggle. Her stomach heaved, bile and water spilling onto the frozen ground, her body purging itself from sheer agony.
The figure did not press the attack.
It watched.
Amused. Thrilled.
Not with the cold precision of a killer, nor the ruthless hunger of a beast. It reveled in the spectacle, savoring her suffering like a connoisseur sampling fine wine.
"I, I never, never had, had this, this much, much joy, joy," it crooned, its twin voices reaching an unsettling pitch, trembling with delight. "I, I am, am delighted, delighted."
Bada coughed, red spilling past her lips, warmth leaving her fingers.
I am sorry, Jol.
The figure seized her by the collar of her leather armor, lifting her with unnatural ease. Its other hand found her jaw, fingers pressing against her lips, forcing them apart.
"If, if you, you cannot, cannot speak, speak," it whispered, its breath stinking of rot and something far worse, "then, then you, you have, have no, no use, use for, for it, it."
It pulled.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Her skin stretched, tore. White-hot pain lanced through her face as she screamed, her body thrashing, her nails raking against its twisted flesh. She clawed at its arms, drove weak, trembling fists against its face, anything to stop the inevitable.
It did not budge.
It was not a being of mercy.
I am selfish, desperate and selfish. I wanted revenge, but it was never about Jol. It was about me. And I couldn't even do it.
The skin at the corners of her lips began to rip.
Then—
A voice.
Calm. Familiar.
Amused.
"That is enough joy for you, I think?"
The grip loosened.
The cold wind carried the scent of blood and something old.
Julian.
_________________
[If my words had a form, it would not reach you standing in the dark.]
JULIAN FELIS
Julian had moved before the beast could tear the girl's jaw apart. A single, fluid motion—grabbing its arm, wrenching it backward, and hurling it aside as though it weighed no more than a sack of grain. The creature tumbled through the frost-covered earth, limbs twisting unnaturally as it righted itself with an eerie grace.
He let the girl down gently, though she collapsed to her knees at once. Blood and dirt marred her face, her lips split and raw, her breath coming in wheezing gasps. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with desperation, but he did not spare her a second glance.
Instead, Julian's gaze shifted behind her.
And there, lying still upon the frozen ground, was Jol.
Or rather, what remained of him.
A faint, pulsating glow bathed his lifeless chest, shifting between crimson and blue. The hare—his bonded beast—was nestled upon him, its small body trembling, fur bristling as if caught between two warring forces.
Bada turned to Julian again, searching for an answer he would not give.
"Whatever it's doing," Julian murmured, watching the scene with vague interest, "do not disturb it. Stay back. I'll handle this in due time."
It was a half-truth, of course. The beast was separating itself from Jol, severing the bond. There was no telling what would remain when it was done. But he saw no reason to burden the girl with that knowledge, for now.
Unconcerned, Julian turned back to the figure that now crouched before him, muscles coiled tight, its grotesque half-smile gone, replaced by something unreadable. He looked at the figure, which had been frowning and in half stance, aggressive towards Julian, but it did not have the time to react as he yanked the figure out with bare strength out in the cold, where the temperature dropped down instantly. It was below freezing temperature, Jol and Bada was lucky, Julian thought as he smiled, the fire and the smoke collecting above the nest had saved them.
It recognized him.
It feared him.
Good.
Julian sighed and rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension of the cold settle into his bones. "Well?" he asked lightly, tilting his head. "Have you had enough fun with my shoulder's worth of strength?"
It did not attack immediately.
Because, of course, it remembered him.
Not all of him. Only fragments.
A third of his strength. A third of his mind. A third of his self.
That was why it had played with its prey instead of ending them outright. Why it relished in suffering, savoring every moment rather than finishing the job. A sliver of his personality had bled into it—one of the more entertaining parts, it seemed.
............
Out in the frozen wasteland, beneath a sky choked with mist, Julian exhaled a slow breath and watched it turn to frost in the air. The bitter cold gnawed at his skin, but he savored it, the solitude of the moment—a quiet interlude between hunter and hunted. No interruptions. No distractions. Just him and the thing that had stolen a fraction of his being.
"How, how did, did you, you find, find me, me?" The figure stammered, its voice doubled and discordant, thick with something akin to unease.
Ah. So it can feel fear now.
Julian smiled, lazy and unconcerned, shifting his weight as if he had all the time in the world. "First, my questions, my mighty companion."
But the beast was insistent. It stepped forward, its posture rigid, demanding. "How, how, did, did, you, you find, find me, me?"
Annoying. It had taken just enough of his mind to know when it was being toyed with.
Julian would've played with it, retorting the same question again and again but matters with El Ritch concerned him.
Julian shrugged. "I have my ways."
"Lies, lies."
A chuckle. "I looked at the mana—"
"Lies, lies. You, you cannot, cannot simply, simply inspect, inspect mana, mana in, in this, this fog, fog. Mana, mana should, should, be, be disrupted, disrupted in, in here, here."
Julian sighed, feigning disappointment. "And yet, here I am."
The creature twitched. The ruined half of its face stretched into something that was not quite a frown, not quite a grimace—recognition.
He had it now.
"You looked into my memories," Julian continued smoothly, he had teased it enough, "frightening the children, unraveling the Rose of Venus. And yet, for all that wisdom you stole, it never occurred to you that I could look back into yours?"
The beast flinched.
"That, that should, should not, not be, be possible, possible."
Of course it would think that. It had only taken a fraction of him—a third of his mind, a third of his memories, a third of his nature. It would never understand the whole. Julian was not just a horned man{a demon}.
Julian grinned. "Well," he mused, "how about I let you in on the secret?"
And with that, he let the creature see.
Its own memories unraveled before it, twisted and rewritten with knowledge it was never meant to possess. A gift—a curse—of Julian's choosing.
The figure staggered, its malformed fingers clawing at its own flesh, raking deep gashes into the twisted mockery of a face. It thrashed, spasmed, coughed up dark, bubbling blood that sizzled as it hit the frozen earth. Its breath came in ragged gasps, its doubled voice shrieking in agony.
"Lies, lies. Lies, lies. Lies, lies. Lies, lies. Lies, lies."
Julian watched.
And Julian smiled.
................
The figure convulsed, writhing in the snow as though the cold itself had set fire to its flesh. Its right side screeched in fractured agony, while the left whispered broken condemnations.
"How, how did, did we, we ever, ever belong, belong to, to this, this world, world of, of fake, fake?"
The distortion in its voice was a wretched symphony, each syllable an echo of something not meant to exist. It clawed at its own face, nails raking deep into the twisting flesh as though it might tear itself apart.
"It, it is, is your, your fault, fault," it choked, a bubbling hiss of rage and misery. "Our, our birth, birth, should, should never, never be, be this, this gruesome, gruesome. You, you cursed, cursed us, us."
Julian tilted his head, watching with the distant amusement of a scholar inspecting a particularly interesting specimen. "I?" he mused, as if the very notion was absurd. "I, as a sincere and well-meaning member of society, had no hand in your unfortunate creation. Your kind were dragged into being, unwilling and unwelcome, carved from the scraps of some long-dead wretch's suffering. You are, in essence, a mistake."
The figure shrieked, its spine arching grotesquely.
"But me?" Julian continued, placing a thoughtful hand to his chest. "I am no mistake. I was born—not shaped, not forced, but conceived in strength and lust. A proper being of magical beasts and demons, forged from lineage rather than the whispers of a curse. A magical beast in the old world was not a beast who was anchored upon some unwilling existential threat that willed them into existence. They were present and real. You, however…" He smirked, watching the way the creature trembled at his words. "You are nothing more than a stain."
"Screw, screw you, you," the beast spat, its left face now eerily still, the right twitching in violent spasms. "Liar, liar, of, of your, your kind, kind. I, I at least, at least, have, have the, the face, face to, to uphold, uphold my, my kind's, kind's nature, nature. You, you are, are not, not a, a savior, savior."
Julian chuckled, nodding in mock approval. "Indeed, I am not. This?" He gestured to the world around them, the snow-strewn battlefield, the distant echoes of suffering. "This is merely for my amusement." He shrugged. "Though, in my benevolence, I have made the Rose of Venus a bit gentler. More survivable. Unlike the tournament we had to endure in the old world."
The creature twitched violently, its one working eye bulging, the other dark and empty. Julian knelt beside it, resting an elbow on his knee, regarding it as a man might regard a dying rat.
"The tradition is not my doing," he said, his voice soft, almost wistful. "It will continue until the last demon stands. The culling of the weak. A necessary thing. The weak must be carved away, lest we stagnate. A demon without a name is no different from an animal—to be tamed, put down, or used. We cannot give an ancient name on to two demons at once, and neither can we use a new name, therefore unless the weak die here, the children born in planned coupling would be killed unnecessarily and resources would be wasted."
He reached out, almost gently, tilting the figure's mangled face toward him. "I used to wonder why mankind were so burdened with their own emotions. Why they chose to feel guilt, to let their hearts weigh them down with their own pathetic sympathies. A curse, I thought. And still do, mostly." His grin widened. "But then I meet something like you, and suddenly, I find this world quite entertaining."
Crunching footsteps in the snow. Julian turned his head lazily, unsurprised to find Agun and Misti's corpses standing behind him, swaying slightly, their dead eyes locked onto him. Puppets. A grotesque attempt at intimidation.
Julian sighed. "I had assumed you beasts were merely mimicking the dead. I never considered the extent of your influence." He smirked. "Well. There's always time for new discoveries." Julian smiled, "You had fun commanding Jol and Bada there right? You probably wanted to do more."
He lifted a hand, flicking his fingers as though brushing away a speck of dust. "Kill each other."
The two bodies obeyed instantly, lunging at one another with mechanical precision. Hands wrapped around throats, fingers dug into chests, flesh tore, and in a matter of seconds, two lifeless husks lay crumpled in the snow, their hearts torn from their ribs.
Julian exhaled, almost disappointed. "In time," he murmured, "when Aldric's little schemes come to fruition, I have a fair share of revenge to settle with—"
But before he could finish the thought—
Boom.
The beast exploded.
Chunks of flesh and bone rained down, steam curling where the warmth of its innards met the frozen air. Julian remained still, unfazed as a splatter of gore painted his clothes.
"Hm," he mused, flicking a piece of charred sinew from his sleeve. "The limit's quite small for a beast. Humans break far more… slowly."
The thought pleased him.
He turned, hands in his pockets, already thinking of his next steps. "Well, my work here is done. Let's hope those two ladies can finish the job…"
His voice trailed off as he walked, the fog swallowing the sound, the solitude settling over him like a well-worn cloak.
Alone, he allowed himself the smallest indulgence—
A whispered thought, an idle wish.
"…Wouldn't mind a Sanctuary of my own like a knights..."
______________________
[My words need no form, nor logic. I need you not to understand, for I do not wish to care about you. I think, therefore I am.]