“When I say go, you kick a tree. Got it?” Sorina asks.


    “No.”


    “Great! Go.”


    I groan and hop of a meandering Umbrahorn, clicking off the harness. He’s been slow-moving due to his recovery, so Sorina and I have only made it halfway through the Red Forest by the afternoon. She travels on her Golden-Mist cloud spirit — a fact that Umbrahorn also doesn’t like.


    I go to the thinnest oak near me and pump my foot up, slicing it down across the tree’s length. Pain. I wince and hop on one foot while Umbrahorn hoots.


    “Turn your kick over more!” Sorina yells. “And step out! Don’t snap your kick: it''s an axe swinging down. It’s not meant for speed, but for power. And keep your chin down! And —”


    I tune her out. I can only take in so much information at once. Turn my kick over more? I’ll do that much at least.


    I hop back to my mount, only for Sorina to mercilessly say, “go” once more. She only deigned to say it when I got nice and comfortable too.


    Whereas Eternal Spring was an art focused 90% on technique and 10% on conditioning, speed, and other factors, Iron Winter is more 30% technique, 70% everything else. That means constant pain, irrevocable soreness, and of course, unending teasing.


    After about my hundredth kick, we spot something on the road. A thin, gangly man limping his way down the path, dragging some sack behind him.


    “I’ll take a look,” I tell Sorina.


    “Careful,” she says, tugging my sleeve. “It could be a plague-bearer.”


    “Then I just can’t let him touch me, right?”


    “Right. Just… Remember, Lucian said some of them undergo ‘transformations’. When I pressed him about it, he told me it was just some vague rumors but —”


    “I’ll be careful. Trust me,” I say. With that, I head up the road while Sorina and Umbrahorn hang back. As I near the man, I see that he’s not infected thankfully — at least not from his looks. No sores. No rot.


    He is quite injured though. And lost. His eyes are downcast and darkened by something deeper.


    “Hello friend,” I say waving to him. “Are you alright?” He looks up at me slowly. Blinks a few times, taking me in.


    Then, he hisses: “What more do ya want from me? Leave me be. You’ve taken everything already you bastard.”


    “Uh, are you sure you’re not mistaking me for someone else —”


    “Not you, ya fool! The spirits! The Celestials! They take and take and take and they keep on taking until I don’ got nothing left except me pride. And that they’ll take too.”


    He’s mad. The sack gives off an awful stench.


    “Do you… need any help or —”


    “Don’t touch me!” he yells, staggering back. He stumbles over himself and trips, letting go of the sack. From its contents spills out some rotting meat. Flies eat spoiled flesh. My eyes widen.


    I see small fingers wrapped around a larger hand. It is a dead child. And more.


    “Ah, now look at what you’ve done you rat bastard!” The man yells, standing up now. He spits. I deftly dodge the spittle, now unsure whether the man is infected or not. I get my answer when he starts collecting the body parts and putting them back in the sack. “Oh my poor babies, rest now, papa’s got ye, papa’s got ye.”


    It is a very sad scene. One that I back away from in shame. The man looks at me and his madness seems to clear for a second.


    “They cut my babies up…told me to burn the bodies.”


    “I understand,” I say, covering my nose.


    “No you don’t,” he sneers. “No one would ever understand. I will bury them now, where they deserve to be buried. Keep away if you know what’s good for ye.” Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    I nod and step back. Then, I motion for Umbrahorn and Sorina to clear the road.


    The man limps off with his sack, rambling madly to himself. I suppose he is the epitome of how the plague travels.


    Marching on, endlessly Southward, dragging with it a bag of bodies and madness.


    …


    “How does one even fight a plague?” I ask no one in particular. The canopy of the red forest falls away, leaving the upward rocky trek to Clan Adachi towards the North, a bending road following a creek to the East, and a darker wooden path Westward.


    “You don’t. You contain it and wait it out in most cases,” Sorina says. “At least, that’s what my father taught me back in Catolica.”


    “That doesn’t apply here,” Umbrahorn mutters, a serious edge to his tone for once. “This is a witch’s doing,” he spits.


    “You dislike witches then?” I ask.


    “Witches, warlocks, and most users of darker arts outside of normal magicks, yes. Hold for a second,” Umbrahorn orders, sniffing the air, digging his nose in the dirt, and then, giving us a wide grin. “She’s closer. East.”


    So we follow the creek, which ripples through a wooded brush and sparkles as the sun goes down.


    Umbrahorn moves somewhat faster now, allowing us to cut the distance easy. I hang on my cord while Sorina follows from behind us, flying slightly above ground-level to avoid the dirt and earth Umbrahorn kicks up.


    “By the way, how did you leave the village so easily? You’re mayor aren’t you? Is it not your responsibility to watch over the people through this crisis?” I ask. The plague-bearing man has spooked me. I now regret allowing Sorina to come along, so I’ve been pestering her with insinuating questions.


    She doesn''t seem to mind them, unfortunately: “I’m not in good-standing with the villagers right now, mostly because of last night’s meeting. I left Lucian and the militia leader in charge during my absence. I wanted to go off and find the witch as well — I only found you by happenstance. Plus, Umbrahorn’s trail is easy to spot.”


    “Right,” I mutter. My legs nearly slip and my feet grip the chinks of Umbrahorn’s wood tighter; the shins are soring from the tree-kicking. But, thanks to my regenerating body, the pain lessens gradually and I can feel a significant difference — the muscles come back stronger, more durable.


    While we bend around the Adachi ranges, I can’t help but wonder how the Thunder Tower is doing. Is it decaying in my absence? Or does it stand tall and sentinel over the lands I’ve abandoned? ‘I hold the binding to this land,’ Hikaru had said in relation to my curse. ‘Daichi holds one half of the Immortality, Renji the other half, Kai and Masaru hold the other parts related to the spirit of the Tower itself’ So… what happens when I kill Kai and Masaru?


    What is the spirit of the Tower?


    When we clear the ranges and the creek ends, the road diverges and slopes up into hillier country; greener pastures and hotter days. Night begins to beckon so Sorina and I make camp on one of those hills.


    “We have been heading towards Havenmarch for a while now,” Sorina mutters. “I suppose that is where the Witch is near.”


    I shrug as I throw more leaves to feed the campfire. “Makes sense, right? I mean, that’s the first village that got the plague.”


    “And failed to contain it,” Sorina replies. She hands me some dried meat and I chew on it gratefully. It''s not one of Alya’s feasts, but I used to survive on much less than this. Still, once you get used to something good, it''s hard to do without it.


    Umbrahorn is already fast asleep underground. Apparently, even spirits like him need some rest, albeit much less than humans: something along the lines of four hours for him.


    The fire crackles between Sorina and me. The night brings a nice chill. Stars gape out the folds of grey clouds. The moon is hidden somewhere in the gloom.


    “I’m still mad at you, by the way,” Sorina says, though she doesn’t sound so mad. She sounds quiet and timid, like a little girl.


    “Sorry,” is all I can manage to say.


    “I mean, how could you abandon me like that? Not a word or anything.”


    “Sorry.”


    She looks up at me. “You’re the only friend I’ve had in a long time.”


    “I figured.”


    “And — wait, what do you mean ‘I figured?’”


    “Who would want to be friends with such a messy person?” I say with a smile.


    She throws a stick at me. It bounces off my shoulder.


    “You ass,” she says with a smile of her own.


    We both have a light chuckle at that.


    After a while without either of us sleeping, I ask, “Any luck finding your wind spirits? Their names are… Greta and, uh —”


    “Berteca.”


    “Right. Sorry.”


    “It''s fine, it''s been a while since I’ve mentioned them. And no, I haven’t had any luck — despite my best efforts,” she sighs, poking at the fire with another stick. Some of the flaming sticks shift and send up fiery embers flying towards the night-sky. “To be honest, that’s also another reason I ventured out: I wanted to see if I could sense them on the road.”


    “Let’s find you a new lute while we hunt the witch. That might bring them back,” I offer.


    She shrugs. “Maybe.”


    “We’ll find them. Don’t worry,” I say, though I know that’s a lie. I’m a pessimist through and through. I fear the spirits have been gone for a while now. But I inject enough optimism in my voice to belay Sorina’s fears.


    “You’re right. I’ll get them back. Eventually.”


    I pat her shoulder across the fire. “Get some rest. I’ll take first watch.”


    She looks as though she might argue, but then she thinks better of it and curls into her blanket. I watch her slumbering form for a while before standing and stretching. Damn it, me and my chivalry. I haven’t had a proper sleep in a while.


    Some time passes. My eyes are drooping. I take some water from my leather skin and drip it over my face. The coolness wakes me up nice and quick.


    Once I wipe my face with my shirt, I notice torchlights peering out the distant treeline. Squinting, I see a band of men with swords and daggers, crossbows and spears.


    And they are heading directly for us.