FLAMES OF THE VILLAGE PART 2

Flames danced across the rooftops of the wooden huts, sending thick, acrid smoke spiraling into the morning sky.

The village, once a peaceful retreat far from the capital, had turned into a scene of utter chaos. Screams echoed through the air, mingling with the crackling of fire and the harsh shouts of bandits.

The bandits charged through the streets, their boots thudding against the cobblestones, sacks of stolen grain and livestock slung over their shoulders.

Some burst through doors with sheer force, while others ransacked stalls, sending baskets of vegetables and fruits tumbling into the dirt. Women clutched their terrified children, darting through alleyways, only to be met by the cruel laughter of raiders.

“Get moving, you worthless scum! Or you’ll wish you had!” one shouted, swinging at a villager who tried to shield a cart of flour.

The man fell to the ground, coughing and clutching his bleeding arm, as the bandit grabbed the goods.

In the square, a group of marauders trapped a family of four, their torches casting long, ominous shadows.

The father raised a rough wooden staff in a desperate attempt to protect his home, while the children huddled behind their mother.

The bandits shoved the man aside with a grunt and began rummaging through their meager belongings.

A small fire erupted from an overturned cart, quickly devouring bundles of straw, while sparks danced across the rooftops of nearby huts.

In the distance, the frantic cries of livestock—chickens, goats, and even a few cows—could be heard as they were herded into wagons, destined for plunder.

Chaos reigned everywhere. Villagers who dared to resist faced the sharp edge of steel; those who complied were roughly shoved aside, trembling in fear.

Some bandits ignited fires on purpose, cackling as the orange flames swallowed homes and shops, leaving nothing but ashes. Others callously snatched away the youngest children, grinning at the despair etched on their parents' faces.

A group of raiders zeroed in on the village well, tossing buckets of water and pushing away anyone who tried to defend it.

The very lifeblood of the village the source of water for everyone was being desecrated, a cruel twist amidst the devastation.

In one corner, an elderly villager clutched a small chest of family heirlooms, begging for mercy. A bandit kicked it aside, sending coins and jewelry spilling into the mud, laughing heartlessly.

The old man fell to his knees, sobbing, as the bandits moved on to the next house.

Smoke thickened in the air, and the heat bore down on anyone still trying to escape. Children cried out for parents who had been taken or struck down.

Women screamed, their voices raw with panic, calling for husbands or brothers who were nowhere to be found. Even the animals felt the fear, bleating and clattering wildly, adding to the overwhelming noise of terror.

From a distance, Ei’sen’s eyes swept over the devastation, his jaw clenched and muscles tense with a controlled fury.

His hand rested on the hilt of his katana, calm yet ready to unleash chaos as he prepared to dive into the turmoil.

Beside him, Shu’en gripped his wooden practice blade tightly, his gray eyes darting from one scene of destruction to another, absorbing every movement, every threat, every possible angle.

The village’s meager defenses, whatever they were, crumbled against the relentless onslaught of the raiders.

Doors splintered, carts were overturned, fires spread, and the air was thick with smoke, screams, and the metallic scent of blood.

This remote village, once overlooked by maps, kings, and history, now burned brightly as a stark reminder of the world’s cruelty.

Everywhere, the bandits reveled in their power, laughing, shouting, and striking without mercy. The line between chaos and survival blurred, and those who could only watch from the shadows felt the crushing weight of despair pressing down on them.

And in the heart of this storm, a father and son stood ready to change the course of fate—or die trying.

The flames raced through the village, faster than anyone could hope to control. Roofs came crashing down with a deafening roar, sparks shooting up into the night sky, while cries of despair echoed from every corner.

The bandits showed no mercy, laughing as they cut down farmers who dared to defend their homes, dragging women away, and snatching up anything of value they could get their hands on.

Amidst the chaos, a horn blared. Ei’sen stood at the forefront of a small group of villagers, his sword shimmering in the flickering firelight. Their armor was little more than scraps, and their weapons were dull from neglect, but the fire of determination burned brightly in their eyes.

“Hold the line!” Ei’sen bellowed, raising his blade high.

They charged forward, colliding with the raiders in a whirlwind of steel and screams. A farmer’s son swung his axe with desperation, taking down one bandit before another plunged a spear into his chest.

An elderly hunter managed to take down two foes with his bow before he was overwhelmed and trampled. Blood sprayed across the muddy ground, making it slick beneath their feet.

Ei’sen moved through the enemy ranks like a tempest. His strikes were sharp and precise, cutting down raider after raider. With each villager that fell, his anger only grew. Yet, he was painfully aware of their dwindling numbers—the bandits pressed on, their cruelty relentless.

Behind him, Shu’en struggled to keep pace, his grip on his weapon shaking. But when a raider lunged at him, the boy instinctively parried and struck back, his blade finding its target. For the first time, he felt the weight of true battle—the fear, the blood, and the way life could vanish in an instant.

All around them, chaos reigned: villagers fighting fiercely, some pushing the bandits back with a bravery they never knew they possessed, while others fell helplessly beneath the steel. The night had transformed into a battlefield where survival was the only rule.

The clash of steel gradually faded into silence. The smoke stung their eyes, and the heavy scent of blood and ash hung thick in the air.

Ei’sen stood tall yet weary, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. Around him, only a few villagers remained, their weapons trembling in exhausted hands.

Shu’en leaned heavily on his blade, arms quaking, his face pale from both fear and the adrenaline of survival.

Then, it felt as if the battlefield itself had paused. The crackle of fire and the groans of the dying were swallowed by the sound of steady, deliberate footsteps.

From the smoke, a figure emerged, cloaked in dark leathers, a massive cloak trailing behind him. His face was marked by cruel scars, and his eyes sparkled with a twisted calm.

He surveyed the devastation without flinching, only stopping when he noticed the bodies of his fallen men.

“So…” the man said, his voice low yet resonant, “you’ve managed to take down some of my brothers.”

He halted a few paces from Ei’sen, raising one hand lazily, as if the battle were already beneath him. A faint smile played on his lips.

“I am Yalemul,” he announced, his tone almost courteous. “And for what’s about to unfold… I truly regret what’s coming for this village. But we had no choice.”

Ei’sen tightened his grip on his sword, his eyes narrowing. “No choice? You call slaughtering the innocent a necessity?”

Yalemul paid him no mind. His hand rose higher, one finger extended. A strange energy crackled to life—an eerie glow twisting around his fingertip, warping the very air around it.

Then, with a sharp snap—like time folding in on itself—the battlefield trembled.

“Lingis,” Yalemul intoned.

A blinding surge of energy ripped through the lifeless bodies. One by one, the eyes of the fallen bandits flew open, their wounds knitting together, and they gasped for breath as if reborn.

But with their revival came a grim price each villager who had slain them convulsed violently, their bodies snapping like puppets with severed strings, collapsing in a heap on the ground.

Shu’en’s eyes widened in terror, his shaking blade almost slipping from his fingers. Ei’sen stood frozen in disbelief as friends who had fought valiantly by his side just moments before fell lifeless, their killers rising once more.

Yalemul lowered his hand, the glow dimming as if nothing had transpired. “The balance must always be maintained,” he whispered, almost like a priest reciting a sacred text. “A life for a life.”

Ei’sen’s chest heaved as he took in the devastating scene left by Yalemul’s power. His fellow villagers—friends, allies, those who had fought valiantly—lay lifeless once more, their eyes vacant and staring blankly at the sky. His hands shook, gripping his sword with a white-knuckled intensity.

“What… what just happened?!” Ei’sen’s voice cracked as he shouted, a mix of rage and grief spilling out in a raw, anguished howl. “Answer me, Yalemul!”

At first, Yalemul didn’t budge, merely tilting his head with a curious look. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he raised one hand to his ear and pretended to clean it.

“Ouch… my ear,” he drawled, almost theatrically. He paused, then his sharp gaze swept over Ei’sen. “I’m… surprised you don’t know about Zinken.”

Ei’sen froze mid-breath, his eyes widening in shock, the words hitting him like a blow to the chest. “Zinken…?” he whispered, disbelief lacing his tone.

Shu’en, standing behind his father, furrowed his brow, confusion knitting his small features. He had heard the term before—a strange, powerful force—but he hadn’t grasped its full significance. Something stirred within him, a faint recognition, but it felt hazy and incomplete.

Ei’sen tightened his grip on his sword, a roar building in his chest. “You—YOU DARE!” His voice rang out over the battlefield, filled with raw fury and desperation. “If you dare touch another one of my people—”

He charged forward, sword raised, ready to intervene, to revive or defend his fallen friends.

But before he could reach them, Yalemul’s hand shot up again. A snap, precise and deadly, echoed through the clearing—and in an instant, Ei’sen’s head was gone, cleanly severed, his body crumpling to the ground. The wind carried the chilling finality of the act, freezing the very air.

“What an… annoying noise,” Yalemul murmured, tilting his head slightly as if Ei’sen’s scream had been nothing more than a bothersome insect buzzing past his ear.

Shu’en stumbled backward, his heart racing. His father… gone. The villagers… gone. And there stood Yalemul, this monstrous force, right in the middle of the devastation, completely untouched, eerily calm, and chillingly indifferent.

A cold realization began to creep into Shu’en’s chest, a horrifying thought that made his skin crawl. This wasn’t just any bandit leader. No, this was something far beyond anything he could have ever imagined.

With weak knees, Shu’en stumbled forward, inching closer to his father’s fallen body. His small hands hovered over Ei’sen, trembling as he faced the unthinkable truth.

He’s… gone.

His pale blue eyes darted around the battlefield, and what he saw was worse than any nightmare he could conjure. Villagers lay scattered across the scorched earth, their lifeless eyes reflecting the dying light of the burning homes. Smoke twisted into the sky, carrying the acrid stench of charred wood, blood, and despair. The once peaceful village was now unrecognizable.

Then, Shu’en’s gaze snapped to the path leading to his own home. Bandits—some who had survived, others bolstered by Yalemul’s unnatural revival—were charging toward it. His chest tightened, a wave of raw, uncontrollable rage boiling within him.

“NO!” he screamed, his voice cracking with a mix of fury and grief. “Leave my home alone!”

He sprinted forward, each step fueled by pure anger. The world around him blurred, the screams and chaos fading into the background. He focused solely on the intruders threatening the last sanctuary he had left.

And then, a flicker of memory hit him—an echo from a past life buried deep within him.

Structure… the technique. A slash so precise, so devastating, it could slice through even planets.

The memories of that technique, hidden in dreams and flashes of previous lifetimes, surged into focus. He recalled the stance, the flow of energy, the perfect arc of the blade. His hands moved instinctively, gripping his sword as if guided by the wisdom of ages.

“Structure…” he muttered under his breath, teeth clenched.

The energy around him shifted dramatically. The air thickened as Zinken’s sheer force—or whatever hidden power was stirring within him—radiated outward. He executed the motion flawlessly, letting out a scream that was part roar, part defiance, as he swung the blade.

The weapon sliced through the air with an impossible speed, striking Yalemul with a force that felt like it could tear worlds apart. The ground itself seemed to crack under the impact. Yalemul’s body was torn apart, flung halfway across the planet, as if the very earth was lamenting the blow.

For a brief moment, there was silence.

But that silence was soon shattered by the screams echoing from his home.

Shu’en’s heart plummeted. He turned just in time to see the last of the bandits rushing through the doorway. And there, amidst the smoke and flames, lay Moanna—his mother—motionless, her clothes stained with blood. A faint, shallow breath barely escaped her lips.

“No… Mother!” Shu’en gasped, horror and despair twisting painfully in his chest.

Then came the headache.

It crashed over him like a tidal wave, tearing through his skull with a ferocity that was beyond comprehension. His hands flew to his head, clutching his temples as the pain escalated to an unbearable level.

“Argh… my head… it’s—” he screamed, teeth clenched, eyes wide, his body shaking uncontrollably.

And then… everything froze.

In an instant of unimaginable agony, his head… exploded.

The force was beyond belief, a horrifying burst of energy that left the battlefield in stunned silence. Smoke and dust billowed from where Shu’en had stood just moments before, the air vibrating with the lingering shockwave.

And amidst the chaos, Moanna’s faint, pained whimper cut through the noise—the only thread connecting Shu’en to the remnants of his shattered world.