Aisa_

"Rather than serving you, I prefer to die."

The Outsiders have been subjected to the oppression of the king's soldiers for centuries, especially during the annual Purge, where every sixteen-year-old person - now an adult - is kidnapped.
Ystal is only a child when, during his tenth Purge, is bought by a mysterious man.

He says his name is Sylien and that he is an Alchemist, the only known survivor of a population that has now been destroyed.
He claims to be looking for an assistant, and that Ystal is the right person.

Through mysterious spells, ancient books of lost history and unknown feelings, Ystal will make a journey, in search of true freedom, against a tyrant who, for years, has reigned supreme.

- Three chapter every month

Sun's Long Journey

Ystal bit his bottom lip, hoping that kind of pain was enough to keep away the tremor that was gripping him. He wanted to escape, but his body refused to take even a single step.


-And then, he told me clearly. He's faster than me, and if I run away, he'll hurt me.-


That thought, fast and almost elusive, plunged him deeper into an abyss of panic.


"Why?" he asked, in a vain attempt to get more insights into the situation. Maybe, knowing why he would have felt less fear.


"Because I decided I would have you from the first moment we met." the man replied hastily, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He seemed, somehow, agitated, but Ystal didn't notice, stunned and dumbfounded, by that statement.


Suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, all the similarities he had previously noticed and ignored found a place in his mind. His eyes widened, stifling a groan of horror.


The man smiled, with what Ystal denoted as nauseating sweetness.


"In a way ..." he admitted, shrugging. The cloak followed his movements perfectly, swaying in the air, without however getting too much upset, allowing the man to keep his authoritative and orderly figure stable.


"Why me? I haven't seen the fifteenth winter yet ... I'm no good ... I'm not an adult..." Ystal whimpered "... you told me a story ..." he added, as if that simple particular was enough to make him free again.


"It is precisely because you are not yet an adult that I have chosen you."


At that new statement, the child's heart skipped a beat. He was afraid. He felt threatened, like a rabbit caught in some trap set by a greedy hunter. He held his breath, repressing a sob, yet unable to hide the spasm that crossed his shoulders.


At that sight, the man wanted to get closer, but the risk of being attacked had increased exponentially, and he had no intention of stunning that poor child again.


"I told you a story," he said suddenly, startling Ystal, "but I never told you I was a minstrel."


The child looked up, pointing it at him. His eyes, now two liquid wells and about to overflow, wandered all over his figure, desperate for a way out. He found none and, with no more reservations, he let himself go to a desperate and infantile cry.


"Please ... I prefer to die ...!" he cried, putting his hands to his chest, clutching his shirt between his fingers, sobbing in pain, gasping as if he were about to suffocate.


The man frowned slightly - gesture that the child did not see - approaching him at a fast pace.


"Hey, little boy. Breathe. You risk suffocating if you do that." the man whispered good-naturedly, placing a hand on the back of the child, now slumped to the ground. He was screaming and sobbing like he had never seen anyone else do, and immediately wondered what he had seen or experienced to react that way.


"Don't touch me, please! Please, I don't want to! I want to go home! I want to go back to my mom!"


Ystal tried to free himself from the mysterious man's grasp, simply ending up collapsing more to the ground. His legs trembled, as did his entire body. He felt his heart pounding violently, and the tears of fear mingled with those of despair. He couldn't breathe, it was true.


-Better death.- the child thought once again, as he had heard many times from the boys carried away by weight, this time deliberately holding his breath until his lungs burned.


It's better to die (II)