Ingrates for the chance to live

Zmey appeared somewhere!

The air whistled, crisp and fresh. He felt a twisting sensation while lost in thought.

He realised in an instant that the wind was dancing around his loose robes. His dark hair followed the breeze. He opened his eyes.

Zmey grinned, seeing the path before him. Nothing like the red-carpeted throne room. He remembered the sensation of magic washing over him, the promise of transformation.

"Didn't know the magic would yield." His voice was a faint whisper, filled with wonder and trepidation. His eyes rolled from left to right, right to left.

He furrowed his brow as he realised mysterious black materials flanked both sides. They both seemed to be within his reach, so he grabbed hold of one of them.

And just like that, Zmey discovered that his hand pulled it down his head with almost no effort. Air continued to play with his hair; he felt a sharp sting run through his skin as he shivered.

'A hood?' Zmey grappled with something, feeling a new material brush against his skin.

He looked down. Zmey didn't furrow his brows or tense upon noticing he was no longer in the long trailing red cloak. Instead, he was now in a black cloak with a hood that pinned close to his head.

His eyes shifted to the flowing full-length designs on it. It had loose sleeves. A silver clasp fastened the collar. Subtle embroidered patterns lined the edges.

The texture felt glossy when he touched it, and the dark, moody aesthetic was undeniable.

He raised his eyes to the road ahead. No traces of any living being around, not even one.

Snow drifted airborne, piled on the road like cobwebs sticking to insects. The landscape seemed to stretch on, almost like an unforgiving cream-coloured ocean.

The walls of the houses around him on top of the snow did nothing to keep Zmey hidden. If anything, he stuck out like a rose in a field of sunflowers. Not that either could grow in this climate, anyway.

Nor would they have much room to flourish: looking to his front and back, houses lined up, keeping him in the middle. But the pattern did not continue without end.

He saw tall trees shrouded in mist in the distance, their leaves dancing in sync with the drifting snow. Further out, just beyond Zmey's vision, dew seemed to be forming around the tall, thin trees.

Zmey knew it was only a mirage. The houses were small and sturdy. They were in pretentious, orderly rows. Dark stone and weathered wood made up their skeletons.

Zmey was still in the narrow road between them. His thick-skinned cloak billowed in the chilly air.

Fallen ice covered the mossy roof of each house – the same of which had turned the road into a slippery path.

He could smell something. It was the smoky aroma of grilled meat. The savoury scent of steamed rice balls, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg, mixed in.

Zmey turned around, looking at every stocky little house around him.

'This can't be the world I recalled back then. This world – it was vast. Chaotic but vast, that was obvious! Or are they still suffering from Ashbane's ruthlessness?'

A periodic, warm light glowed from the arched windows. The light drew his attention with each flicker.

In his memory, there had been lofty structures that stood their ground amidst the bolts of fire.

Many wide areas and countless people sprinted to escape the flames. If so, why does the life force feel drained from this area?

Were they still recovering from the dragon's plague that made them stay at home in broad daylight? Were they still suffering from anxiety developed from that brusque experience?

All? Zmey could feel his chest constrict against his will... as he caught a glimpse of a shadow cast on the window shield of one house. Petite and lacking tenderness, he could tell right away it was a child.

'Seriously… are you guys being cowards? Why would a single misfortune hinder you from continuing to live?'

He walked over the icy road, forward, forward as always. At some points, his leg would stick in the snow.

But the pressure was negligible compared to the force pulling them upwards to ascend.

Scrap!

The sound hollered at him on reaching the front of one house, its façade as clean as if unattended to for a century.

His shoulders tensed as the window of the house creaked shut immediately. Zmey's expression was blank, devoid of emotion. But his arched eyebrows suggested otherwise.

Yet, deep inside, contemplation filled him. Why was the window shut when they noticed him?

As if each and every one of them had shared a signal just now, creaks roamed like thunder in his ears. He turned around every time he heard one, only to see someone locking the windows.

"When was the last time I warned you against looking through the window?! Do you want to get me and your siblings killed?!"

From the house that began the signal, the voice of a woman scolded someone else. Zmey continued moving, as though he heard nothing.

'

Another bunch of losers! You had the privilege of living with those you care about profoundly, yet you refuse to live? They don't realise how lucky they are.

A life some dream of.

A family-driven peace some desire. So what if you experienced something terrible before? Does that mean you should deny yourself and your kids the right to live?!

I came here to cause a scene without harm. My death… not anyone else's. I thought I could hold in transforming. That I would have found somewhere that's less populated.

But you guys– you guys are unworthy of such respect. I had held so tight to life in my original to my seven fabricated ones – not minding if I died. I had a strong desire to live.

Yet, I'm seeing those who have the freedom to refuse. So what if the Western dragon attacked you once?

So what if it's another thing? At least your entire world wasn't closed on you. And only YOU… only you live in different unreal ones. Cursed bastards! INGRATES.'

His fists clenched. A thrill coursed through his arms, running across his neck to his lower body.

His knuckles whitened under the cold weather. Each breath shook him to his core. They tried to escape reality and forgot to life.

Sometimes, you fall, and that's that. But then you have to get back on your feet! Failure? Powerlessness? The opposite comes when one tries more and more, then again. Fate left him with no other option than to die, Zmey thought.

The same rehearsal. The same tragedy.

Repetitions! Amidst all that, he had always hoped to end the cycle before an automatic death or suicide. Be able to live like himself, not like other people. Make memories. He halted, losing his balance on the snow.

He looked over his shoulder, glancing at a nearby house with a hand-carved wooden shield hung on the wall. It had the faded paint of two spears crossed over each other.

"Well, they really have a tragedy behind all this. But I wish I could be a normal human without fabrication," he said, his voice edged with both consideration. Yet, resentment.

He closed his eyes. "Cursed cowards. Conquer your fear before anything else. I will let you witness the reality you're so much hiding from all this while."

With that ultimate statement, he straightened his back. He recalled something. The original owner, being a Transformer, had a spell he recited when about to turn into his authentic form.

'Keep your eyes wide open, ingrates.'

Zmey recited, the words flowing like a symphony from his mouth: "Ancient blood, awaken and rise. By claws that rend and flames that burn. Let my bones break, my flesh churn. Wings of wrath, scales of night. Grant me the fury of draconic might!"

WUSH!

The air howled like a wolf and roared like a dragon. Stillness settled in, hanging like a pendulum.