The God of Blood

The flying man charged towards Lee, who found himself helpless and in pain on the forest floor.

He felt fear course through his veins, shocking his heart into beating faster and harder, his stomach rolling. He felt sweat gather up on his skin, his clothes gluing themselves onto his limbs. He felt the world around him slow down, the wind stopping its charge, and the blades of grass slowing until a standstill.

Lee found himself resigned, somewhat apathetic, watching everything from a place outside his body, as if he was watching somebody else quake in fear, a stranger who he couldn't recognise. He couldn't find it within himself to move away from the flying man, a perverse, sick curiosity seizing his brain.

Lee wanted to see what would happen.

His headache was only getting worse.

Lee decided to place himself back into the mountains and deserts he used to dream of, closing his eyes, and unwilling to deal with another shock or panic. He let himself drift and dream in the recesses of his mind, in the small space he had carved out for himself with his bleeding fingers - roughened against the soil and sun, sleeping sheets and peanut shells - imagining that he was stood in the middle of a snow storm, placed in front of a sentient wolf, howling and summoning those icy winds by his demands.

The wolf would speak in a deep voice, summoned on the monthly night of the full moon, appearing as wandering, hunting beings, moving in packs and disappearing as soon as the sun rose once more. They would also be able to shift into people, moving in and through towns, and ordinary people throughout the day, claiming to be nomads, a travelling artisan troupe maybe, or even peddlers, or traders.

There would be mothers who whispered lullabies to their children, tucking them in at night, and helping them move through the motions of the day, playing games, taking them to the market, and having fun. There would be fathers who would laugh loudly, give out hugs, and let his children climb him as if he were some giant tree, fishing together, and doing chores. There would be brothers who talked with their sisters jovially and freely, joking and discussing any and all topics, as they cleaned up after their latest shared adventure. There would be sisters who-

no.

Little Mei was perfect.

She was the best Lee could ever hope for.

Even if she chose Shen to be married to.

It was a nice dream, and Lee smiled to himself, calming down, before he had to open his eyes to face his unpleasant reality. The flying man, in front of him, was still hovering, above the earth, but had slowed to a stop in front of Lee.

Lee could see now that he was stood on an extremely ornate sword with long, looping, gold patterns at the hilt, forming a sharp wrist guard from the horns of a bull, whose snout belched out glowing red smoke, forming the raised and thoroughly carved handle of the sword. He could see the strategic positions of each and every sharp slant forming the peaks and valleys where one should place their hand, and where he ought to move it, depending on the manoeuvre and sword technique.

There were obvious smooth dents of where too much pressure had been applied.

The blade itself was painfully thin and shinier than the silver piece that Shen had given him. It looked as if it had been sharpened for over a thousand years continuously, and was perfectly well prepared for a war.

Too well prepared for war. The sunlight itself looked as if it was being sliced into two on the edge of the sword.

The man, who stood upon it, was decked in all the shades and variations possible of blood red, from his inner robes, his outer robes, and all of the maybe three or four layers in between, ascending outwards, the colours seemed to become more brighter and vivid, with the entire outfit decorated in black accents. There was a hint of gold particularly in the borders of the inner robes, framing where the man's heart was, and there was a jade pendant hanging off the his belt, his boots and wrist guards also black to match. Upon his head, a shimmering silver headpiece stood tall and pointy and proud, looking as if it were another weapon in itself with its harsh lines and deceptively jagged edges, made up of even more small curling spirals which jutted outwards.

His face had the same glowing red eyes, as he had seen on the creature which had chased him the night prior.

His entire figure screamed the promise of pain, the man looking simultaneously as if he were about to run Lee through with a blade, or if were going to beat Lee, his large, powerful muscles painfully obvious through the layers he wore, with his defined jaw, and veins bulging down his neck as if they were the roots of a large, old tree.

The man, on the swords, was glaring at Lee, his brow furrowed and his eyes carrying barely concealed murderous intent, probably at Lee's lack of response at his regal figure, in Lee's mind anyway, and then being forced to wait for Lee to stop ogling him.

Lee looked downwards at the grass and the river, avoiding his too familiar eyes, and flinching once more when he saw no shadow for the man. There was no patch of darkness on the grass, nor the water, to indicate any kind of possible physical presence.

Was Lee in the presence of a spirit of sorts?

He was in too much pain and exhaustion, close to tears, to really bother caring who stood in front of him.

Nobody spoke, seemingly content to keep their gazes and do nothing for quite sometime.

Lee was torn between wanting to go back to staring at the man to hopefully learn more, and the rising fear he felt at the sight of the man's eyes. He ducked his eyes further downwards into his lap, the trebling in his body obvious and becoming too unbearable for him to try and ignore.

The man that stood above him clicked his tongue angrily, and gave a patronising sigh.

"State your name, mortal," he demanded, a growl present in every word he spoke and his voice box sounding as if it were unaccustomed to more quiet conversations, too used to yelling.

"Wei Lee, my lord," Lee managed to choke out, at the address of his mortality.

His eyes widened and he began to sweat fiercely.

He may have just offended an immortal or a God!

Why was he like this!? Why couldn't he just have kept his head down, and had been respectful when he had seen the man flying!? Why did he have to place his measly headache over this divine being!?

He was going to die painfully tortured now! His soul was going to be plucked from the carnage that was his corpse, then shattered! He would never reincarnate! He would never see Little Mei ever again!

Lee suppressed a wail that was threatening to break free of his chest, when he heard the Immortal give a prideful grunt above him.

"Where did you get that scroll?" the Immortal asked, a smirk present in his tone, his entire being now practically oozing superiority, while all Lee could do was quake.

"I found it," Lee quickly splurged out, beginning to panic, his breathing sharply increasing, as he blinked rapidly to hold back his tears.

He couldn't actually say where he found the scroll. It would implicate his mother in the situation, and regardless of whether she was guilty of committing an act against divinity or not, he couldn't place her directly on the warpath of this blood obsessed deity. He had already created so much trouble for her, it would really be best if he didn't do more. He could only imagine how hard her life was now, he didn't want to burn anymore holes in her future prospects.

He certainly didn't want her tortured, and her soul destroyed by his own actions! Nobody deserved anything that harsh!

Lee felt the pain in his head increase, and the sounds of the world blur together into one giant, intelligible mess, until there was only ringing in his ears, the world fading around him.

Oh, Lee thought to himself. He was passing out from too much panicking and stress.

A slightly crazed part himself, asserting itself more and more recently, not escaping Lee's notice, didn't mind another nap so soon from the previous, and gleefully revelled in the fact that passing out was a legitimate escape strategy from answering uncomfortable questions.

The more rational part of himself continued to panic, as Lee fell unconscious, in front of an armed stranger with some kind of vendetta against Lee regarding the scroll.

Either way, Lee found himself resigning to another painful cycle of sleep, hoping that he'd wake up somewhere at least more comfortable than another knobbly tree.