Natnael-or rather, the entity that had taken his name-stood motionless, staring at the lifeless body sprawled before him. The woman's memories swirled in his mind like a torrent of fragmented thoughts, emotions, and images. Each fragment offered glimpses of her life: her laughter, her pain, her dreams, and most importantly, her fears.
The entity felt no guilt, no remorse. Instead, a sense of curiosity consumed him. What am I? The question echoed in his mind. He clenched his fists, feeling the raw strength coursing through his veins, strength that was not entirely human. Why am I here? He looked at the bloodied hands and then at the sky above. There were no answers, only questions.
He turned away from the body and surveyed the farm. The fields stretched endlessly, dotted with workers who toiled under the oppressive sun. Their backs were bent, their faces hollow with exhaustion. He could see it now, the power dynamics, the chains that bound them-not just physical but also psychological. The memories he had absorbed revealed the harshness of their lives. Slavery was their reality, and Natnael had been one of them.
But he was no longer a slave.
The realization brought a wicked grin to his face. He walked toward the small shack that the memories told him was his quarters. Inside, it was cramped, with a straw bed and a few tools scattered around. The entity rummaged through the belongings, finding a rusty knife. He held it up, examining the blade. It was crude, but it would serve his purpose.
The memories had also revealed another critical piece of information: the farm owner's house. It was large, imposing, and filled with the kind of luxuries the workers could only dream of. More importantly, it held people who might have answers about his existence.
As night fell, he moved silently through the shadows. The farm owner's house loomed in the distance, its windows glowing faintly with candlelight. He approached cautiously, the knife gripped tightly in his hand. He wasn't afraid-fear was an emotion that seemed foreign to him now- but he was calculated.
He slipped through an open window and found himself in a lavishly decorated room. The air smelled of expensive perfume and burning wax. A soft voice drifted from the adjacent room, and he crept toward it. Peeking through the doorway, he saw the farm owner, a burly man with a thick beard, sitting at a table with a young woman. She was timid, her eyes downcast, her hands trembling as she poured wine into his goblet.
The entity stepped into the room, his presence unnoticed until he spoke. "What am I?"
The man looked up, startled. "Natnael? What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in the fields!"
The entity ignored him, his gaze fixed on the man. "What am I?" he repeated, his voice cold and unyielding.
The man stood, reaching for a whip that hung on the wall. "You've lost your mind, boy. I'll teach you some respect."
But before he could take another step, the entity lunged. The knife plunged into the man's chest with a sickening thud. Blood gushed from the wound, staining the rich fabric of his shirt. The young woman screamed, but the entity silenced her with a glare.
The farm owner collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. The entity knelt beside him, his expression unreadable. "Tell me what I am," he demanded.
The man's eyes widened in terror.
"You're... a slave. Nothing more," he choked out before his body went limp.
The entity closed his eyes, focusing on the man's memories as they poured into his mind. It was overwhelming, like drowning in a sea of unfamiliar sensations. But amid the chaos, he found what he was looking for: a name.
Azag.
It wasn't his name, but it was connected to him somehow. A whisper in the dark, a presence in the void. Azag. The word resonated within him, stirring something ancient and primal.
He stood, leaving the young woman trembling in the corner. She was insignificant to him now. He had a purpose, a direction. He would uncover the truth about Azag and, in doing so, uncover the truth about himself.
As he stepped out into the night, the farm burned behind him, flames consuming the house and all it represented. He walked away without looking back, the fire casting long shadows across the fields.
For the first time, he felt something akin to satisfaction. Not human satisfaction, but something deeper, darker.
Natnael was gone.
And whatever he had become was only just beginning.