Chapter 5: Leonardo

BOOOOOOOOM!

Bittu almost had a heartattack with the sudden deafening sound that came from the west. He frowned. Should he… go and check what was going? If he does not then how would he understand how deep in water he was? But, if he does, with his current condition…

"..."

He might as well die if it was anything dangerous!

After some thoughts, he decided against going. He should first rest and find some food and water and only when, he is in his optimum condition should he try to explore this land and a weapon was a must. With what happened to him recently… he has become paranoid.

He first checked the tent he was in for anything useful and began walking north where the mountains reside, with a high vintage point, he should be able to find something useful.

...

The sun bled into the horizon, staining the sky crimson, as stars pierced the dusk like splinters of ice. Bittu knelt by the lake, the water's surface reflecting the chaos above—shattered, red-rippled. Around him, the forest stood silent, ancient trees clawing at the dark.

He didn't look up.

Not at the stars. Not at the blood pooling thick and black between the roots, not at the bodies tangled in the reeds. The air reeked of iron and rot. His hands trembled, slick with something warm that wasn't his.

This wasn't the first lake.

The thought coiled in his chest, cold and certain. He'd seen the same stillness before—corpses half-sunk in mud, the same jagged wounds. The same unanswered question gnawing at the edges of his mind: Who keeps leaving them here?

A twig snapped behind him.

Bittu froze. The forest held its breath.

Almost as if it were his last breath on this earth, visions of what he saw since the morning flashed before his eyes.

The first lake caught him by surprise. He'd been tracking a deer, mud caking his shoes, when the reeds rustled and the stench hit him—a metallic punch. Bodies. Dozens, maybe more, sprawled like broken dolls. His stomach lurched. He stumbled back, tripping over roots, and retched until his throat burned. Who? Why? The questions circled, unanswered. He fled, glancing over his shoulder until the trees swallowed the horror.

A few hours later, another lake. Same still water, same crimson smears on the rocks. This time, he noticed the symmetry—the way the bodies lay in precise arcs, limbs arranged like compass points. No scavengers. No decay. Just… stillness. His breath hitched. This isn't random. He crouched, fingers brushing a scrap of fabric near a corpse's hand. A symbol: three jagged lines. His pulse roared. When he looked up, the forest seemed to lean closer, watching.

The third lake was smaller, choked with algae. The bodies here were fresher, wounds raw and gaping. He forced himself to count them—seven, same as before —and spotted the symbol again, carved into a tree. His notes from the previous lakes crinkled in his pocket. Patterns emerged: lunar cycles, the angle of the wounds. Someone's ritual. But why lead him here? He left a marker—a stone cairn—and swore he'd break the cycle.

After that, the lakes blurred. He'd wake in unfamiliar woods, the air thick with dread, and know. Each site echoed the last: the symbol, the positioning, the eerie absence of footprints. He stopped running. Started digging. Unearthed bones, trinkets, a dagger with a hilt shaped like a serpent. The whispers began—faint, insistent—scratching at the edges of his dreams. Find the source. Run. Remember.

Now, here. The sun bleeds, the stars slice the dark. He kneels, numb, hands sticky with blood not his own. The bodies are familiar, but the symbol's changed—four lines now. A twig snaps. The whisper coils through his skull, sharper this time: Run. His eyes lock on the lake's reflection—a shadow behind him, tall and spindled like the trees. Not human. Not alive.

He didn't run.

However, as time passed the expected sharp edge of a dagger or knife, maybe even a sword did not brush against his skin, neither did the gruesome pain tried to shatter his brain. Confusion breached his fear as he tried to turn his head to see if there was anyone, behind him, however before he could, he heard a raspy voice filled with excitement and happiness ….Happiness?

"…Bittu?"

....

BOOOOOOOOM!

The western treeline erupted in a roar of fire and earth, the detonation echoing like a beast's howl. Leonardo stood at the edge of the blast zone, his silhouette stark against the billowing smoke. The explosives had been precise—too precise. A small village's worth of lives reduced to ash and splintered bone. He exhaled slowly, the acrid tang of gunpowder sharp in his nostrils. Let them come for me now, he thought, a grim smile flickering across his lips. Let them see what happens when they cross me.

But as the echoes faded, a prickle of unease crept up his spine. Shadows moved in the northern treeline—too deliberate, too human. He squinted, but the figure (if it was a figure) vanished like smoke. Paranoia, he told himself. Good. Stay afraid.

Leonardo's boots sank into the mud as he dragged the first body to the water's edge. The man's face was frozen in a rictus of terror, eyes wide and unseeing. Pathetic. He'd slaughtered the entire village—men, women, children—all to erase the stain of what they'd done. Their betrayal had cost him everything: his home, his family, his name. Now, their corpses would serve as a warning.

He worked methodically, arranging each body in a radial pattern, limbs splayed like broken compass needles. Three jagged lines were carved into the nearest tree, the symbol of his wrath. It was crude, a mockery of the sigils his mother had once drawn in the dirt to ward off evil. Let them see what evil truly looks like.

When he finished, he stepped back, breathing hard. The reeds trembled in the wind, already sticky with drying blood. A crow landed nearby, cocking its head at the carnage. Leonardo didn't shoo it away. Let the scavengers feast. Let the message spread.

Hours later, another massacre. Another lake.

This time, Leonardo varied the pattern. The bodies lay in precise alignment with the stars—Orion's Belt, a constellation his father had taught him to track by. The symbol changed to four lines, deeper, angrier. He'd left a survivor deliberately, a young boy cowering in the underbrush. Let him run. Let him tell the tale.

But as he sheathed his blade, something caught his eye: a footprint, half-submerged in algae. Too small for a villager's boot. Too fresh. His pulse quickened. Someone's watching.

He scanned the treeline, but the forest was silent, ancient pines clawing at the dusk. The air smelled of pine resin and old blood. Who are you?

The third lake was smaller, choked with rot. Leonardo's blade moved swiftly, efficiently. Seven bodies this time—his number, a private joke. The symbol carved into a birch tree glared back at him: five lines now, the pattern escalating.

But the mound of stones stopped him cold. A pile of stones, carefully balanced near the water's edge. A marker. Someone's been here before. His stomach twisted. This wasn't a villager's doing. This was deliberate, analytical.

That night, the whispers started—or maybe they'd always been there. Faint, insistent, like a voice just beyond hearing. Find the source. Run. Remember. Leonardo woke drenched in sweat, a name on his lips he hadn't spoken frequently these past few days.

Bittu.

The clearing was a mirror of the others—blood, bodies, the six-lined sigil—but the air hummed with tension. Leonardo's dagger felt heavier than usual. He'd come to the heart of the forest, the place where the trees grew twisted and the shadows pooled like ink.

A twig snapped.

He lunged.

The figure froze—a silhouette against the crimson-stained lake. Leonardo's blade halted inches from the stranger's throat. Moonlight caught the man's face, and the dagger slipped from his grasp.

"Bittu."

The name, was it a curse, a prayer, he did not know. Looking at the face that he had seen in those moments, Memories surged: a stormy ocean, a war, the fire that consumed everything. The blood. The why.

Now, he could finally get answers… Answers that could calm his soul.

However, as he focused on the man before him, he sensed something wrong. Was he in fear? How could he be in fear? That should be impossible. How could someone…. someone that could strike terror in those creatures… those calamities, be in fear of him, of someone as insignificant as him?

He must have sensed it wrong. However, no matter how many times he checked, he still found it same. Confusion, bounded with wrath began to overcome his brain. Was this a joke? was it funny? Was he being played with?

His nerves began to tighten as his breath became rapid, he was about to attack when he sensed an attack, directed at this heart. He was shocked. He quickly jumped back as he hid in the shadows. For him to not even notice until he was attacked….

Leonardo sucked in a deep breath and was getting ready for an intense battle when suddenly a green screen flickered before his eyes.

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