When I wake up, my head is a fog. A bog, a swamp, a river to cross — I groan out of my futon and rip it off me, heading to the eternal flame. It cooks from the hollow center of the pillar, raised on a dais of old magic. Dead magic to be sure — no elder nor clan has been able to reproduce it. My rations dwindle. I am nearly out of soot-tea. I pour some into the pot above the flame, along with lukewarm water, and begin to stir. The wall is fixed now — no signs of my battle with Hui from yesterday. I expected that much: the tower has this tendency to heal its own wounds. More old magic.


    I try not to think. It doesn’t work. As soon as I take one sip of the tea, my mind clears slightly and, burdened with the memories of yesterday, I seek the wind. I go outside, to the antlered precipice of my tower and dangle my legs from its edge as the frigid air hits.


    It is early dawn.


    The sun, a great celestial spirit that our world orbits near, rises quickly on this day.


    I hold my head and listen to the sound of my own breathing.


    What now?


    I chuckle. The sound of my own voice is far too familiar to me, for it echoes slightly off the walls of my abode. “I don’t know. It''s been so long since I’ve had… nothing. Not a goal to look forward to, not an interaction to think of.”


    You idiot? You’ve always had nothing. You’ve created something from that nothing. Hope. Rage. Now… well what’s next?


    I take a sip of the soot tea and it feels bitter upon my tongue. A familiar bitterness.


    Familiar.


    I want something unfamiliar. Something new. New faces, new lands, new names. I —


    “I don’t want to be a slave any longer.”


    But, I guess that all depends on what Hui Long does next.


    ‘I’ll fix it, Raiten,’ she had said. Well, for my sake, I hope she does. She owes me that much.


    The wind howls. And I do what I’ve grown so used to doing.


    I wait.


    …


    Monsters peer over the valley. I spot them midday and my stomach turns. I have no more amulets — no more avenues of fighting. I’ve been in this situation thrice before. Both times, I experienced immense pain before finally killing my foes. The thought of that pain frightens me — no one likes watching their guts being ripped open.


    But that is the curse of immortality.


    As they near, the sun comes down. The air stifles, becomes stale.


    Their eyes glow in the gloom. 4 pairs of red eyes.


    I shiver. Eldritch wolves. Of all the things — it had to be them.


    I head inside my tower and put some water to boil. With the rapid efficiency that only comes from panic, I chop up some garlic and my remaining ginger, mixing them into a bowl and pouring hot water to create a smelly paste.


    The torch stump is my only weapon. I take it, smother it in ginger-garlic paste, and light it aflame with the eternal fire. The scent is putrid. The ginger-garlic doesn’t do much but discomfort them. Still, I need every advantage I can get.


    The flame sputters and dances. I toss the torch from hand to hand and stand back outside, watching the wolves as they sniff my tower.


    Antlers cover them like armor, magically imbued with powers of eldritch forests. They must feel some connection with the tower — the last time I faced them, they did the same thing. Most of the foes I faced tried venturing past the tower, into clan lands. I was curse-bound to stop those, forced to venture out of his tower, break an amulet, and smite their lot. The wolves always came to me though — no thanks to the old magicks of this cursed Thunder Tower.


    And now they begin to climb.


    “Come on you bastards,” I say, trying to give myself some modicum of strength. “Come kill me. I have nothing this time, but I’ll still burn the lot of you.”


    They tear the distance between us, red eyes nearing, claws puncturing into the tower to scale it.


    The first one is finally close enough for my fire to illuminate: two antlers from its head curl back, three upon its hide, two for each side of its body. This one is elegant — its antlers look purposeful, even artful. It is a dangerously fascinating creature. Most of them are not made like this — their antlers sprout from their bodies like arrows from the bloated corpse of a battlefield. This must’ve been a lucky one. Good genetics.


    It snarls low, speaking in the runic language of the eldritch. I do not understand it.


    I get the gist though.


    So, I turn and run into my abode, setting the torch momentarily back in its wall stand.


    The wolf gives chase, climbing onto the orange-antlered precipice of my tower. When it leaps through the small entrance of my home, it is met with searing, boiling water. It howls as I throw the pot of water at it. Fur scorching. Then, as it backs into the wall, I heave the pot’s ends with my burn-scarred hands and throw it at the wolf. The pot hits slow and strong, chipping one of its antlers. It stumbles, still not dead. Screaming something in eldritch. I wince – the sound is grating. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    The torch is my last weapon. I take it back now and kick the wolf over with great effort, for despite its pain it is a heavy creature and it resists even now.


    So I burn it.


    With my foot upon the thing, I drive the torch into its face and, though the gray fur does not catch, the sound of searing is enough consolation. It whimpers and squirms. Its flesh blackens. I press the torch harder, into its eyes, against the antlers, down its snarling maw and into its throat. The scent of burning flesh fills the room.


    It dies with great effort.


    I am already tired. I pick up one of its broken off antlers and set it aflame, holding it like a dagger.


    Three more wolves snarl at my door, spouting more eldritch, no doubt raging.


    But their rage cannot compare to mine. Theirs is the rage of moments, fleeting putrid moments.


    Mine is the rage of years.


    …


    The next three don’t die so easily. They actually get the chance to fight, spitting green fire and uttering curses in runic Eldritch so that even the wood of my tower turns against me temporarily, shifting and striking out at me. I am stabbed by the walls, cut by the ceiling, and my legs are entrapped by the floor’s twisting bone-wood for the wolves to gnaw at me.


    I find that laughing helps me ignore the pain at times. So, I do that as the wolves feast on me. One takes a liking to my face. It rips red, strippy chunks of flesh from my ear and cheek.


    I hate this. I hate all of this.


    I want to be numb. I want to die.


    I want to be free. Hui. Hui I hope to everything in this universe that you actually make well on your promise. I hope you don’t abandon me this time.


    I hate that I think about her. I never used to rely on her. Not in my fifteen years here — nothing’s changed. With that realization, I go back to laughing. Because I know something the wolves don’t — the tower has only temporarily turned against me. When it heals itself, as it does every dozen minutes, it heals all curses placed upon it.


    So, I endure thirty more seconds of pain. My body confounds the wolves, for it too heals itself. My cheek regrows. My left eye reforms. My guts are reborn.


    My hand goes out. I finally manage to clutch the broken antler that fell from my grasp earlier, thanks to the tower loosening its grip on my legs.


    I strike out at the wolf eating my face. It doesn’t expect the blow — so when the antler goes through the side of its neck with a wet crunch, it keeps chewing for a few seconds. Then, its mouth hardens on my face — a death grip. I scream and the tower finally lets go of me fully.


    The two other wolves stop eating once the wood of the tower retreats from my legs, leaving them free. That momentary hesitation grants me the opportunity to kick one wolf away and tear away from the other, dead wolf.


    I roll and twist —spring forward, pouncing on the two other wolves, antler in hand.


    I have never had a formal education in combat: never was I taught the Adachi Clan’s warrior style of sword arts and spear styles. I learned my combat from beasts and monsters. So I fight on all fours and I grapple and growl and strike out like a mountain lion.


    It is a brutal and twisted battle. The wolves try again and again to re-utter their eldritch curse — to make the tower turn against me once more. I don’t give them the chance, striking at them each time before they can do so.


    In the end, it is fatigue that kills them. They simply aren’t able to keep up with my pace.


    One slows to dodge. I stick the antler between its eyes. The other spits a weak, slow ball of green flame at me. I roll to dodge and my hands snatch the fur of the wolf. With a great effort I pick it up, carrying it over my head with a roar. It writhes and thrashes, jaw snapping, claws slashing air. If it was smart, it would’ve espoused the runic curse upon the tower once more. But I can feel its visceral panic. Especially once I walk towards to the antlered edge of my tower.


    It roars and howls, thrashing more violently. My bloodied grip on its fur tightens and I bear some of its weight on my shoulder, pushing forward. Then, with a strong heave, I fling the wolf off into the darkness of night. It howls all the way down. Then, it stops as the ground meets the creature with a low thump. The creature spasms and twitches. I watch its last moments with mild interest, breath heavy and frosting in the cold air.


    There is little satisfaction in this victory.


    I stumble back into the tower.


    I don’t cry much anymore. I used to a lot in the first few years. Then, as I got settled into my position, as I accepted my circumstances, I stopped.


    Today I cry. I am tired. I am weak. Pain slithers through my body like a virus.


    I weep because I hate this now. I cannot get the vision of freedom out of my head — it is pervasive. Sickening. This is the first time I have hoped so and I hate that it is Hui who has given me this hope.


    Yet, still, for some reason, some deeper part of me believes in her. It believes that she will save me this time.


    My body has re-healed itself too much in this battle. Now the healing will come slower. So, I must use the chipped antlers of the wolves to cut into their fur and wrap their outer skin around my wounds, to help them close faster. I can’t sleep thanks to the pain. So I take the pot back to the eternal flame. Then, I cut the leg off one of the wolves and set it boiling. The tears dry eventually. I am left staring at my pot, waiting for the meat to warm. It tastes like wood and bark and old chicken. Depressingly, I had fought through the night. The sun rises above my tower. I try to sleep as the wounds heal.


    But then I hear voices from the outside of my tower. I check, and from the open windows, I see two figures walking back from clan territory. No… three figures. Squinting, I make out Hui, her lover, and an old man with a rope around his mouth.


    I smile ever-so slightly.


    She did make good on her promise.


    The smile vanishes as I think about how much I’m supposed to hate her again.


    Still, for once in my life, freedom can be attained.


    For once, I no longer have to live with this hell.


    Well, that’s if she frees me. I think, somewhat bitterly. After all, this is the woman who left you in the claws of the clan for 15 years. Who is to say she’s not angry after our battle?


    Who’s to say she’s not here to gloat?


    So, my fingers curl into a fist as I wait for the group to slowly approach my bloodied abode.