Rise of the Faceless Demon

The Oesterian dirt petrified.

Ice refused to embrace corpses. Kaelen slammed his rusted shovel tip into the dirt. Sparks flew sluggishly as blunt metal clashed with frozen mud. A thumb-sized crack formed on the hard surface.

Kaelen coughed.

Thick slime mixed with blood dripped from between his lips, falling and staining the filthy snow at the tip of his holed shoes. His arm muscles trembled, enduring exhaustion. Frostbite gnawed at his joints.

Three shallow dirt mounds finished digging. Their shapes were pathetic. The ribs of a child dead from starvation consumed little space.

Kaelen's calloused hands pushed the final ice fragments, covering the dull burlap mats wrapping those gaunt corpses. They were without wooden coffins. Wood was a luxury for hearths, or loot for the wheels of Ulric's war carriages.

The giant Ash tree in the church courtyard died rotting.

Its bark peeled in long strips, exposing the pale wood behind it to the weather. The tree branches were gaunt and rigid, pointing straight to the red sky as if demanding a god's retribution.

The Crimson Hour descended.

The Red Ring submerged Oesteria's snow, turning the ice expanse into a rusted red puddle. The scent of copper blew, slapping the face. The wind carried sharp ice particles that slit the cheeks.

Footsteps creaked rough. Snow shattered.

Five people stood at the boundary of the ruined stone fence. Three men. Two women. Their clothes merely burlap sacks coated in dry mud.

Their faces were living skulls.

Cheekbones pierced deathly pale skin. Their eyes sunken dark jutting inward. Their stomachs flat clinging to their spines.

Hunger.

The frontmost man stepped limping. His fingers blackened. Frostbite ruined his nails. His jaw trembled lacking control. His yellow teeth ground rough creating a sickening noise. Blood seeped from between his swollen gums.

"You buried them," his voice creaked. Sounding like the friction of broken bones.

Kaelen embedded his shovel into the dirt. His left hand reached into his worn robe folds. He pulled a wooden rosary. Rubbing his thumb over the worn beads. His right eye stared calm.

The man spat. His spit froze before touching the ice. "They needed wheat."

The woman behind him stepped forward. Her hands trembled hard. White foam piled at the corners of her dry lips.

"Ulric's tax kills us! Your prayers are trash!"

Kaelen looked down. He did not argue.

A limestone rock shot fast. Striking Kaelen's temple.

Crack.

Skin tore. Fresh blood dripped heavy. Soaking his filthy robe collar. Kaelen staggered backward.

The scrawny man charged forward.

His gaunt body crashed into Kaelen, pushing the old priest hard against the Ash tree trunk. Remaining snow from the branches fell on their backs.

"This church has a basement," the man growled.

Foul breath mixed with bile hit Kaelen's face. The man's filthy hands crushed Kaelen's neck, his grip tightening ferally.

The man's black nails embedded into the wrinkled neck. His arm muscles spasmed, enduring hunger. His eyes darted wildly, searching for food that never existed. His body moved purely driven by a hunger that ruined reason.

Kaelen did not thrash. He shut his right eye.

His lips moved faintly, muttering. Broken prayers slipped, halted by the blood pooling in his throat. He let his breath be strangled. He accepted death if it could soothe them from starvation.

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The gaunt woman pulled the man's shoulder rough.

"His bones cannot be boiled. Leave him."

The grip released. Kaelen slumped falling onto the mud.

The five living skulls turned around. Dragging their feet away piercing the storm. Awaiting a creeping death in their respective shacks.

Kaelen crawled up. His old joints crunched. The blood on his temple froze blown by the wind.

He walked limping entering the church building.

The church roof bore a massive hole. The wind roared free carrying ice particles. Stained glass shattered scattering on the stone floor. Angel painting fragments crushed underfoot.

The oak altar rotted full of dry moss. Atop it, the statue of Angel Sachiel stood. Its face flat eroded by weather. Staring blank at the suffering beneath its feet.

Kaelen dropped both knees.

The stone floor froze his bones. He cupped his hands. The wooden rosary rubbed faint.

"The world rots."

His voice bounced off the cracked walls.

"Soldiers extort blood. Tyrants sit upon bones. They forgot how to breathe."

The wind slapped his back from behind.

"Lower Your hand." Kaelen's voice broke. Blood dripped again from his wound. "Stop this. Give us a root-cleaving sword."

Silent.

The statue was mute. The red sky from the roof gap did not answer his broken prayer. Oesteria was left to manage its own death.

_____

Far south of the stone church.

Two silhouettes walked cleaving the blizzard. Boots crushed ice puddles.

Luka stepped straight ahead. His breaths roared. White vapor spewed steady from his bandage gaps. His right arm throbbed hot. The scaled red flesh behind the coarse cloth wrap twitched. The red veins on his arm still thrashed wild, as if smelling the remaining blood of the tax soldiers he just slaughtered.

"Do not look back, My Lord."

Rhea's voice cut the wind. The maid walked maintaining distance behind him. Her gray wool dress moved constant piercing the storm.

Luka did not respond. His gaze locked onto the horizon.

The wheat fields on the left of the road were ruined. The dirt cracked split. Broken fences scattered. Traditional houses stood like mass graves. Thatched roofs holed. Windows nailed shut. Devoid of life. Only trails of extortion.

This was his land. His kingdom. Ulric squeezed it all.

The prince's ego in Luka's head locked onto one name. His uncle had to be decapitated.

Yet, slaughtering guard dogs on the street would not reclaim the throne. That tyrant hid behind armored forces. He needed a longsword. Mercenary forces. Killer dogs as filthy as this world.

The Red Ring's light dimmed. The rusted dusk swallowed by the hill's shadow.

Night descended.

The Dark Sapphire Moon crawled up. A gloomy blue light suppressed the blood color on the snow. The red expanse turned into a pale blue sea strangling breaths. The temperature plummeted drastic.

Luka and Rhea arrived at the valley floor.

A black stone mountain stood blocking the clouds. Its peak jagged sharp. Resembling a feral wolf's jaw looking up threatening the dark blue sky.

The main headquarters of The Hollow Syndicate.

A place where lives were bought with copper coins. A group of the most lethal assassins in Oesteria. Moving without a sound. Tearing necks lacking a trace. Silas led them with a merchant's principle. Caring not who was king, as long as the payment matched.

Luka did not come to negotiate. Feral wolves bowed not to gold offers. They bowed to a predator capable of snapping their necks.

Luka's boots kicked the packed snow on the slope. Climbing toward the jagged peak. The wind roared rough striking his black cloak. The air grew thinner. The scent of sulfur replaced the smell of dirt.

A vertical cliff wall stretched.

Luka halted his steps. A giant cave mouth gaped before him, a darkness immediately swallowing his vision. The sapphire moonlight refused to enter the stone tunnel.

The wind blew out from the cave, bringing the scent of rusted metal—the metallic tang of old blood purposely covered by moss.

Rhea stood two paces behind.

The lily scent banished the cave's foul stench. The woman folded her hands in front of her stomach. She stayed silent. The task of guiding the executioner's fangs was over.

Luka raised his left hand, pulling his cloak hood back.

His head was exposed. The night wind hit his limp blonde hair. Medical gauze wrapped half his face, stained with dried blood. The thick stitches on his neck bulged ferally.

His right hand twitched.

The red scales behind the thick cloth rubbed. His monster flesh smelled a threat. The heart at his solar plexus pumped boiling blood. Rejecting the freezing temperature.

He needed no disguise before a group of slaughterers.

Luka stepped forward. His boots stepped on limestone.

One step inside past the cave mouth. Darkness immediately swallowed his body. The air temperature turned suffocating pressing his chest cavity.

His killing instinct exploded in an instant. His neck veins tensed hard. Killing intent existed from the stalactite gaps above him.

Fwiiittt.

The sound of a bamboo whistle shrieked.

Shattering the mountain's silence. Piercing sharp tearing the eardrums. His first step had triggered a trap.

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