Death Hunter

Through internal and external motivations, Zmey defeated the wolves. Greater Guardians, as a matter of fact.

Now, two things confused him. Does that victory make him overpowered? Can he now defeat any opponent with his willpower?

And... how come Zmey Ashbane talked to him himself?

Lys's call to action didn't let him ponder the mystery. Nor could he marvel at his own incredible actions. But before adhering to the call, he had moved to Spark and squatted before it.

Long deep claw marks stretched on the surface of its prongy legs and near its torso. Zmey could see the effortful gasps it was making, telling him that this tame needed to rest.

And, like last time in the assessment arena, he placed his palm on its torso. The thick liquid became sticky with his palm. He closed his eyes and recited in a silent manner:

'Return to rest, my bonded soul. Heal your wounds, and become whole. To Soul Land's embrace, flee with haste. Await my call, and fight with me.'

The atmosphere replied immediately like a silent listener. It grew thick, the air almost not moving anymore. The mean space that held both of them seemed dimmer than the rest of the kingdom.

Without warning, the ground opened beneath Spark. Zmey could swear he saw fireflies deep down, as he had a few days ago.

And in the blink of an eye, the ground swallowed Spark. Then it went back to normal, the cracks falling back into place. Seeing this almost made Zmey question the reality of existence. But, again, Lys's call cut him off.

***

Unlike the quiet cave, the market was lively. It buzzed with the distinct voices of many people all at once. But, as some dressed in a different way, some also spoke a different language.

Zmey stared back at a particular one they had just passed before his counter. His style of dressing was as warm and light as everyone else in Eldengrove. But his language... this made Zmey crease his brows even more.

The man asked a passer-by with a bold smile, making an effort to drive more sales, "Nalva seythis?"

The passer-by, a lady wearing a light blue silk and having braided hair, smiled back. But she nodded in disagreement.

'She understands what he said,' Zmey thought, glancing straight forward. He looked at Lys and asked, "Nalva seythis...? What does that mean?"

Lys glanced left. "You can already pronounce it with the melody it demands. It means you already understand such a basic one. Why else are you asking?"

Zmey held his stare for a few seconds, after which he sighed. And shook his head. "Never mind then."

He paced himself faster before the recruit's slow-striding horse.

Lys said, "He's from one of the popular tribes in Eldengrove, the Lirathians. Folks who speak the most melodic language. It blends soft consonants and long, drawn-out vowels.

They're pretty cool, you know. Their most popular food is the Starfish Cake. And their drink is the Solar Dew Elixir, which can enhance one's inner magic with a temporary touch."

Zmey nodded without making a sound. The horse's hooves drew nearer behind him. But he didn't act as though he had any interest in what he was saying, not giving him the least bit of his attention.

Lys chuckled. "Well, I will keep it a secret..."

Zmey halted. His brows creased, and he turned around. "Not understanding another tribe's language amounts to a secret now? Come on, that's a wrong approach even if you really want to force a discussion..."

"... That you were able to kill two Greater Guardians. I will save you the worry of dealing with the hardcore panel of judges of the Sanctuary. There have been abnormal mages in the past too who end up losing their lights.

I can't wrap my head around it, but they either go missing or end up in bad conditions. Getting crippled, paralysed, and all sorts of other terrible conditions. That is, if the Sanctuary doesn't know about it.

But if otherwise, the Sanctuary would capture them. We call these kinds Abnormal Mages, who symbolise uncertainty in the magical world. No one can measure their powers at a constant rate, nor can anyone assume their potential."

Zmey felt the mention of Abnormal Mages like a slap to the side of his face. But he found it hard to believe. Of course, Abnormal Mages symbolise such here.

But the general belief had likely opposed his own situation. Everyone else were mortals, while he was a dragon. A beast.

He had justified things to himself. So, he felt no emotion about it now. Then, he asked Lys,

"Are you an Abnormal Mage too? ... 'Someone might have messed up along the line'... you said this when I argued last time you weren't even an elite fighter."

Lys felt uncomfortable about this question. He shifted on the horse and gripped the riding rope with a firm hold. But Zmey continued,

"Does being an Abnormal Mage disqualify one from defending the kingdom abroad?"

For a few seconds, Lys only chuckled at his question, as if he were funny there. Zmey saw this the other way round, though.

Later, Lys replied, first letting out a sigh.

"Well, the irony about it is that Abnormal Mages are exactly the fittest to fight outside the borders.

A weaker metal can't forge a sword, they say," he replied in a cryptic manner.

"Well, to your understanding of Abnormal Mages comes Failed Mages too. Those who not only got stuck in one Mage Body without progression. But also ended up losing the grace of their Mage Body."

Zmey creased his brows in confusion. "... A Mage Body can end up like that?"

Lys managed to chuckle again. "You still have a lot to learn about the system, newbie. It's complex, though, so no offence."

He continued, "Their Mage Body weakens after their cultivation stagnates. People see those like that as trash and an insult to the reality of magic. Gods be good, we have our hopes high in the hearts of the Sanctuary's Magi Lords.

So, instead of exiling us, they gave us the title of Task Recruits. We deliver messages within and outside the kingdom. Among our other menial missions is to test newbies in combat.

This usually happens years after their instructors have trained them. Wonders truly exist to see the Sanctuary, seeing as they rushed you guys in less than two months of admission."

Zmey nodded his head. "So, right after your Mage Body weakens, you can use magic, but not for long. Right?"

Lys chuckled. "A quick learner you are, newbie."

The newbie thought,

'Tch... as easy to get along with as Nero Nor...'

At that moment, someone passed by his side so close that their garment brushed against his skin.

That seemed unusual - it could have been a pickpocket. Zmey creased his brows. Then he turned around. He didn't particularly feel like anything on him was missing.

But just to inspect things, he gripped their arm with force. He held them back, bringing them to a halt.

The person turned, shrouded in a black cloak.

...

Right when Zmey was about to see their face, his eyes shifted to their wrist in an instant. As if...

His eyes widened.

His eyes locked on the design on their wrists.

Zmey gasped. His heart seemed to sink into his ribs. He lost grip of their wrist, his vision getting blurry so that he couldn't see anything at all anymore. But he could still see that sign.

He gasped. 'I can see it... I remember it...'

... He had seen it one time before that he couldn't ever forget it. A set of slanted lines meets at a point at the top. Two sets of identical straight lines hook to their ends.

To conclude, a horizontal black line stretches from the ends of one line to the other, covering them.

At the centre of this simple design was an 'F' letter.

Every intersection, every angle, every joint... all fell into place like a real-life image before him.

'The same on the minister's wrist and the Fate Talisman!'

Zmey clenched his fist. He shot his eyes forward, unshed tears lining his bags. But the cloaked stranger was moving away from them. He was just getting past the Lirathian.

The night came rushing back like a flood. The suffocating scent of blood held in bowls for the ritual. The burning scent of candle wax, the sound of his own screams echoing in his ears.... His knees trembled.

A phantom pain ignited in his lungs. An unseen force had strangled him to death. And his ribcage was where one of the thugs had stabbed him when he tried to disrupt the ritual formation.

The mark on the Minister's wrist burned into his memory, a scar that never faded.

'It's him! The... the Minister of Defence! He is...' Zmey clenched his jaw tightly, tears streaking down more and more...

Lys got down his horse. And asked with concern etched into his features, "Is everything all right?"

'I have found him! But... but... my body is refusing to move,' Zmey lamented in his thoughts.

He glanced left, and the devil was about to cut a corner into an alleyway. The devil who killed him! The single man he had been searching for all his life!

The stranger paused for a moment, as if he had noticed Zmey. A subtle tilt of the head. An almost imperceptible smirk that vanished in an instant. Was it him... or was it Zmey's mind playing tricks again?

But... why was his body refusing to fight?

Zmey came to know this finally. Despite his promise to kill this man, he could not shake off the fact that this same person was his only fear. It was clear to him—his body recalled the agony he went through the night he died.

But, he told himself...

'No matter how hard it is for me to confront him, I must do it anyway. I will take my revenge today... After that, I can talk about the fear of living or dying.'

If the Minister held the Fate Talisman, then killing him might be useful to reverse his curse.

Zmey then glanced at Lys.

His hands trembled as he reached out. "Senior Lys," he said, his voice firm despite the storm raging within. "Lend me your sword, please."

Without waiting for approval, Zmey closed in on the horse. He fetched the green-sheathed sword from the side pouch with brutal force. In the next second, Zmey dashed into the crowd, like a madman chasing after death.

A madman sees what he sees.

Lys screamed at the top of his lungs. "Newbie Zmey Ashbane! Get back here this instant!"