Azrael dashed through the thicket, his lungs burning like fire, his thighs feeling as though they were made of lead. The relentless sprint was a test of both his physical and mental limits. Thanks to the grueling training he had imposed on himself, he could cover long distances without collapsing.


    "Almost there. Just past the thick oak to the right, and I should reach the dirt road," he muttered breathlessly, his thoughts a constant mantra to drown out the searing exhaustion. His sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, ever watchful for any signs of danger pursuing him.


    He came to an abrupt halt at the entrance to his house, his heart pounding as his chest rose and fell in quick, labored movements. Casting a hurried glance over his shoulder, he sighed in relief when he saw no trace of the monster. "Just as expected," he murmured with satisfaction, pushing open the door to the despised house, which, for once, felt oddly welcoming.


    His gaze froze on the bodies before him. They couldn’t have been much older than he was.


    His short, raven-black hair was a tangled mess, matted into small clumps from his frantic pace. His face, streaked with dirt and dust, bore an expression of grim determination. It was etched into his sharp, gray-blue eyes, their piercing gaze betraying a depth of seriousness that stood in stark contrast to his young age.


    He was of slender build, but his movements carried an agile grace. Two light scimitars hung across his back, their blades glimmering faintly in the dim light of the room, casting jagged patterns on the floor. The hilts were worn, bearing the marks of countless trials. His clothing—a tattered tunic and sturdy trousers—was frayed and stained from frequent use in the field.


    The boy moved with a confident ease that spoke of practiced training, yet his face betrayed a profound despair. "Why are more and more people losing control?" he murmured, his gaze fixed on the disturbing scene before him.


    The sharp lines of his face conveyed a mix of determination and helplessness. "I have to hurry. If only I knew the cause, I might still be able to help." His thoughts were consumed by an urgent resolve—to uncover the source of this horror and prevent more innocents from falling victim to its grip.


    "Let me think—I could probably take the creature down. The real issue is the source of this mess. As much as it disgusts me, I''ll have to tell those bastards." With resolute steps, Azrael entered the house.


    The oppressive atmosphere of the entryway pressed down on him. The shadows cast by creaking furniture and the acrid smell of old wood and burnt fat served as a constant reminder of the weight of his predicament


    Madame Lorena and Bard sat at the dining table, dimly illuminated by a flickering lamp. The two were engrossed in a hushed conversation that ceased the moment he stepped inside. Bard, a burly man with a stern expression, scrutinized him with sharp eyes, while Madame Lorena, a woman with piercing features and a cutting gaze, arched her eyebrows in a mixture of curiosity and disdain.


    "Scared of the dark, are we?" Bard greeted him with a sneering grin that accentuated his rough, angular features. Madame Lorena''s gaze sliced through him like a dagger, her thin lips curling into a sardonic smile.


    Azrael ignored their taunts, raising his hand as if to ask permission to speak. He wasn’t in the mood for another slap.


    "Oh, you''re actually learning," Madame Lorena remarked, her voice saccharine but laced with a satisfaction that felt anything but warm. Her eyes bore into him, sharp and unrelenting, like knives against his defiant expression. "Well then, go ahead. What brings you here?"


    "I understand. I was attacked," he began, his voice steady, though a current of tension simmered just beneath the surface.


    "Don''t lie, boy." Bard''s booming laughter cut through the air. "No one''s going to believe your little horror story here." His tone was dripping with mockery, his voice laced with scorn and derision. "I know every kid your age. There''s no Leon, no Franz, no Friedrich. Did you make it all up? Your trauma must have spiraled into some deep nightmares. Poor kid." He punctuated his words with a bored snort before returning his attention to his meal.


    Madame Lorena and Bard resumed eating, as though Azrael’s words held no significance whatsoever. Their indifference echoed painfully in his mind, lingering in the cold, heavy air of the room.


    Azrael stood rooted to the spot. What kind of reaction was that? As if I’d been dreaming. Nonsense.


    Knock, knock.


    Someone was at the door.


    "Ah, that must be Amandine. Boy, go open the door!"


    Without protest, Azrael moved toward the door, his thoughts still tangled. The hinges creaked softly as he pulled it open.


    A woman with jet-black hair stepped into view. His calm demeanor shifted into a mix of shock and tension. Though he tried to maintain his composure, the figure before him clearly unsettled him.


    "Hello, my boy. You must be Azrael. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you..."


    Before she could finish her sentence, Azrael leapt backward. The woman standing before him was the same one he had seen by the river. Yet, one crucial detail was missing—the blood that had haunted his visions. Her eyes now shone clearer, devoid of the wild, fiery glow etched into his memory.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "Damn it, she followed me even here," he muttered under his breath.


    Instinctively, his hands moved into position. His left hand guarded his face, while his right hovered lower, poised for a counterattack. Despite his effort to maintain a composed exterior, he couldn’t fully suppress the rising tension in his chest. His gaze locked onto the woman, studying her every movement with sharp focus.


    She stood there smiling, unfazed by his defensive stance. Her calm and composed demeanor only made Azrael’s pulse quicken, though he fought to appear outwardly steady.


    "You poor boy," she said softly, her tone dripping with an unsettling mixture of warmth and pity. "Your trauma must still weigh heavily on you. Don’t worry. I mean you no harm." Slowly, she reached into her bag, her movements deliberate as if trying not to alarm him.


    From her bag emerged... his underwear.


    "You must have forgotten these," she said, her smile unwavering. "I just wanted to return them to you."


    Azrael’s eyes widened in disbelief. His fingertips twitched with the tension coiled within him, his mind struggling to process the surreal turn of events.


    "Something is seriously wrong here. She remembers everything. How can she hide such madness so well? What the hell is going on?"


    Hesitantly, he forced himself to step closer to her. Slowly, he extended his arm, but the haunting images of her blood-smeared lips made him flinch. Every movement, every flicker in her eyes, was scrutinized by his sharp gaze. Every muscle in his body was taut, like a drawn bowstring, ready to spring into action.


    He grabbed the clothes, his fingers brushing against the fabric. Without incident, they were back in his possession.


    "Well, that’s all," she said casually, her tone disarmingly nonchalant. "I won’t trouble you any further." Turning her back to him with an almost playful indifference, she began to walk away.


    "Should I attack her? I could kill her right now," Azrael thought, his mind racing. "But that would cause so many problems. My wonderful relatives would tear me apart for it."


    Reluctantly, he closed the old door behind her. The tension in his body began to ease, but only slightly.


    Late at night, as he lay in his bed, his thoughts were a storm of determination and dread.


    "I have to kill her. The sooner, the better. She knows where I live now. I have to be ready for an attack at any moment. Tomorrow, I need to prepare for the hunt."


    Slowly, his mind began to drift, the weight of his thoughts pulling him toward sleep. But suddenly, he jolted upright, his heart racing. His face was marked with worry and tension as though he could sense danger closing in.


    "How did Madame Lorena know she was coming? They didn’t seem to have arranged it beforehand. Normally, she’d be at the door to greet Amandine."


    Azrael began pacing the length of his room, his mind churning with suspicion. "The problem seems bigger than I thought. Maybe Bard and Madame Lorena are also affected by the anomaly. Who’s to say she’s the only one? I need to watch closely. Who knows how many others might be involved?"


    Before returning to bed, he crept quietly into the kitchen. From a shelf, he took a small clay jug filled with water. He also grabbed two kitchen knives.


    Back in his room, he placed one knife parallel to the door and balanced the tilted jug precariously atop it. If the door were to open, the jug would tip over, spilling its contents—a rudimentary alarm. The second knife he tucked under his pillow, close to hand.


    His night was restless, plagued by the same unease as before. This time, however, the scenes in his dreams were bloodier than usual.


    Children were playing soccer with human heads. Mothers were grilling their children over open flames. Amandine sat serenely in a rocking chair, sipping a red liquid from Franz''s skull.


    She was served by two lifeless corpses—one belonged to Leon, the other to Friedrich.


    Irritated, Azrael woke early in the morning. The sun was barely visible.


    “These dreams are really starting to annoy me. All I want to do is sleep. Well, whatever. Let’s start with the morning training.”


    He turned toward the door leisurely, but then his body froze. His mind was completely empty, not a single thought. Never before had he felt so hollow. Panic began to rise in him.


    The entire jug was empty, not a single drop of water remained. The knife was also gone. Frantically, he reached under his pillow.


    “Gone.”


    For a moment, he stood there, frozen. No reaction. He didn’t know what to do next.


    “What’s going on here? How could this happen? What should I do?”


    Louder and louder, the questions echoed in his mind, but there were no answers.


    Gradually, he regained some composure.


    “There are two possibilities. It couldn’t kill me… or it didn’t want to kill me. Which of these possibilities is true? The madness I saw in Amandine points to the first, but it’s not certain. Such madness can’t be understood by a normal person. More importantly, how did it get into my room? My window was tightly shut.” No solution came to him.


    “Let’s put that question aside for now. What should I do now? Is it safer here, or somewhere else? Damn it, damn it, damn it.” Desperately, he clutched his head. So many questions, with no clear answers.


    In the end, Azrael decided to stay in his room. Since he was still alive, it seemed like the wisest decision.


    After his morning training and a refreshing bath, Azrael made his way into the city. The road leading to the city was lined with dense, bustling market stalls. The noise of the townsfolk, the calls of the vendors, and the murmurs of conversations reached his ears, growing louder the closer he got to the heart of the market.


    "My main goal is to earn money. The quickest way would be theft. The problem is the potential consequences. I could get caught, and my relatives might become suspicious if I suddenly come into large sums of money. The chance of getting caught isn’t that high, but the risks outweigh the reward. So I’ll just walk through the stalls and ask around."


    The wide street was paved with cobblestones, the uneven surface crunching beneath the boots of the passersby. On both sides of the street, the market stalls stretched out in a colorful jumble: fresh vegetables and fruit piled high here, vibrant fabrics and handcrafted jewelry hung there.


    The smell of roasted meat, freshly baked bread, and spices mixed in the air, creating a nearly tangible atmosphere of market hustle and bustle.


    The first stall Azrael approached was a food stand, its wooden frame glinting in the sunlight. The vendor, a bearded man with a sweaty brow, busily handled various types of vegetables. The scent of herbs and fresh produce filled the air.


    "Excuse me, mister, is there a way for me to earn some money here?"


    The vendor shot him a sharp look and seemed to pause for a moment. He scanned Azrael from head to toe, and a flicker of recognition flashed in his eyes before he shook his head.


    "Sorry, boy. You''re still too young to really help me."


    Azrael nodded understandingly and moved on to the next stall. This one offered fresh pastries. The air around it was filled with the tempting aroma of freshly baked rolls and sweet jams. A middle-aged woman, her hair tied in a firm bun, stood behind the table, smiling kindly.


    He asked the same question, but she too seemed to recognize him and shook her head gently, but firmly.


    So Azrael continued his search. He passed by a pub, where the loud conversations of the guests and the clinking of glasses formed a constant background noise. Even the small eatery, with its windows adorned with colorful curtains, and the other food stalls, where vendors busily arranged their goods, offered him no hope.


    Each attempt ended with the same response: "Sorry, but we don''t need anyone right now."


    The mix of desperation and frustration pushed him to reconsider theft. The thought of the potential risks and consequences seemed, at that moment, less daunting than the prospect of continuing to search unsuccessfully for an honest opportunity.