The Garden of the Dead
The backyard was no longer a graveyard. It was something more now,something living, humming, breathing beneath the dust.
where once the ants had crawled mindlessly, now a pattern had emerged.
A pattern Zyris had mapped and slowly bent to his will.
Five thousand souls, maybe more, threaded into jars and trays, flickering out of bodies smaller than his thumbnail.
he didnt count them anymore.
counting felt unnecessary now.
it had grown easier.
easier, because the soul threads responded more fluidly to his attention now, like muscles exercised daily.
harder, because the buzzing inside his chest no longer quieted, even when he wanted it to.
the second pulse never stopped.
the shed had become a second home.
the children didn't come near it.
Mrs. Anya never asked. Zyris told her nothing, and she asked for nothing in return.Her warmth was inconvenient. But it gave him space.
Two weeks had passed since Ramit's death.
Since the hospital.
Since the shift.
It was late morning when the attack came.
He was in the garden.
The light through the orphanage wall slats had a warmth to it, slanting golden and soft over the back tiles. Zyris stood quietly, letting it bake into his skin. His fingers twitched involuntarily,a residual echo of energy moving in the veins beneath the flesh. He had not fed today. The soul-farm would wait.
He was staring at a beetle when it happened. The door to the front of the orphanage exploded inward with the sound of splintering wood and screams.
Shouting.
Gunfire.
and then,nothing.
not silence.
something worse.
that dead thud of terrified breaths held and choked.
He turned.
Seven of them.
Cultists.
Their clothes looked like streetwear,dark jackets, canvas bags. But they moved with too much certainty. Their faces were smooth, unreadable.
they were not tense or panicked,just decided.
he knew this feeling.
He was five when it happened.
One instant, he was drawing on the floor.
The next,glass was shattered, and the world exploded.
he heard people screaming.
he heard gunfire.
There was a flash and Heat.
Then,there was nothing.
The cult had begun in the 700s, in south africa under the command of a warlord whose name history had buried, but whose philosophy had never died.
the Cult of Vivec was not built on control,discipline or justice.
it had been forged in desire.
the desire for vengeance, for domination, for chaos refined into order through hate.
They had spread like spores,africa first, then the Middle East, then parts of Southern Europe.
even australia, which he had only read about.
Moderate cultists lived among the unaware, hiding in plain sight, feigning peace.
But at their core, they hated disbelievers.
Terrorist attacks had spiked across the globe in the last two decades.
Each time, the perpetrators vanished into sympathetic enclaves, protected by ideology and apathy.
Zyris had read their patterns.
he had felt their presence before.
the first bullet hit him in the left shoulder.
the force knocked him back.
the second shot hit his thigh a moment later, causing a cry from his mouth he hadn't meant to release.
He felt blood,heat and dizziness.
But he didn't panic.
He watched.
One cultist, then two.
Their eyes were mechanical, soullessbut,not from lack of soul.
It was from ideology,from being wired.
He reached with his mind.
The way he always did. Soul threads extended but,found nothing.
nothing yielded.
no flicker.
no collapse.
He tried harder.
Still nothing.
It was as if they were immune.
Their willpower. It was the same. It was hardened since childhood. Like steel forged too long and cooled too slow. The soul could not wrap around it. Could not bend it.
Zyris breathed shallowly. He was bleeding badly.
But as the third cultist raised his gun to fire again,he saw it.
he saw the angle,the breath,the stance.
He didnt dodge in time.
The third bullet missed only by luck.
But he memorized the shooter.
The fourth and fifth missed,barely.
By the sixth shot, Zyris was weaving.
He crawled behind a broken cart, lifting a piece of shattered wood as makeshift cover.
His vision swam but,his mind was cold and mathematical.
They always fired in intervals of three.
They always moved after the fifth shot.
They always advanced in a 'V' formation.
They always aimed at the center of mass, unless obstructed.
they are not people.
they are protocols.
and that, he could predict.
He lured two into the garden walkway, where the tiled path narrowed.
The sixth cultist raised his gun, but Zyris shifted low, grabbed a loose stone, and flung it into the man's face.
It caused a half-second of surprise.And that was enough.
Zyris lunged, driving a metal rod,part of the garden's fencing,into the man's gut, twisting it sideways.
Blood soaked the soil.
Another cultist fired but,Zyris dropped and rolled.
He was reading them now.
Their training made them strong. But it made them predictable.
He retrieved a gun from the dead man. It was a standard automatic.
It was too light for range and too noisy for stealth. But good enough.
He spun, took two more shots with extreme precision.
He hit the second cultist in the neck and the third cultist in the chest.
He was still bleeding.
He was slower now But,still weakening.
One cultist aimed at him.
He then ducked, grabbed the man's wrist, and redirected the aim upward.
One shot went wild.
And the second misfired.
Zyris headbutted him, stole the knife from his belt, and slid it across the throat with precision.
He then shot two more cultists in the head.
He slumped behind a wheelbarrow, chest heaving.
There was only one cultist left now.
The last cultist turned and fired three rapid shots.
Zyris leaned left, crouched low, stepped forward.
Each shot missed by an inch.
He wasn't even looking at the gun.
He was watching the cultist's eyes.
Zyris raised his stolen pistol.
He Shot the gun out of the man's hand with a single pop.
There was silence.
The orphanage smelled of cordite, blood, smoke.
Zyris stepped forward.
The cultist stumbled back, hand bleeding, panic breaking through the mask of certainty.
Zyris tilted his head, smiling faintly.
"Scary, isn't it," he said, voice soft, "when your script stops working."
The man said nothing. Zyris knelt in front of him.
"I wonder," he whispered, "do you even know why you were here?"
The cultist spat at his feet.
Zyris's smile widened.
He placed two fingers against the man's temple. Not to draw energy. Just to look at him.
"To think," he said, "you were taught to hate before you were taught to speak."
Then he drove a knifeinto the man's throat.
The cultist gurgled once.
And then died.
The cameras had recorded everything.
Mrs. Anya was found later—wounded but alive, having hidden in the supply room with three younger children. Two of the staff were dead. Eight children too.
The news was everywhere within hours. "Vivec-Linked Terrorists Attack Orphanage in Noida."
Zyris, bleeding and pale, gave one short statement to the arriving officer"I didn't have a choice" trying to put on the most innocent and sad face as he could.
He didn't need to say more. The cameras proved it.
He was taken to the hospital again. But this time, no interrogation followed.
He returned to the orphanage two days later.
He smiled,now knowing for certain how capable he is