Icariel's instincts snapped awake.
She will kill me. She will kill me. I will die like them. No… I refuse to die!
"Voice! How can I survive? How can I escape? Tell me, please!"
His plea cracked in the rawness of his throat, breath catching on each word. His ribs ached from the strain of hanging too long, the bruises painting his skin purple-black, like rot blooming beneath his flesh.
The voice answered—quiet, ancient, without hesitation.
[Dislocate your smallest fingers. Force your wrists through the slack. Do not scream. Then run.]
He didn't think.
He grabbed his left pinky.
Crunch.
The sound was wet, ugly, like marrow splitting open. He clenched his jaw so hard his gums bled, his eyes bulging from the pressure. The second finger twisted sideways—crack—a jagged sound sharp enough to cut through bone and sanity alike.
Agony howled through him, blistering and pure. But not a sound escaped him. No gasp. No scream. Not even a breath too loud.
Silence. Silence or death.
In front of him, Elektra's back was turned. She stood just a few paces away, watching the Crimson Bears feast on what remained of the villagers. Her white hair shimmered like moonlight over snow, stained by the flickering flames of ruin.
One knife lay on the ground—bloodied, glinting, as if dropped by fate itself.
It whispered to him.
Avenge. Take it. End her.
But Icariel didn't spare it a glance.
He turned away—and ran.
His feet hit the dirt with the fury of a drumbeat. Each step was a scream from his nerves, each breath a knifepoint against his lungs. "Escape. Get away. Run. Run. RUN!" That was all that remained. The mantra of a boy with no gods left to pray to.
Behind him, Elektra watched without moving. Her smile curled, slow and obscene.
"What a little fucker," she whispered. "I left that knife on purpose to see what kind of brat he really is. And he chose to run… not even a flicker of revenge?"
She bent and picked up the blade, dragging her finger along its edge until blood beaded.
Then she licked it.
"I like him."
She started walking.
No rush. No need.
Like a wolf enjoying the chase before the kill.
Icariel didn't look back.
He followed the narrow trail down the mountain, breath ragged, each step fighting against the screaming protests of his torn muscles. The wound from Galien's sacrifice pulsed fire in his leg, but pain meant nothing now.
Only distance mattered.
Only survival.
[Left. Now.]
The voice again. He obeyed instantly.
No thoughts.
No hesitation.
Only instinct.
His body had become a machine of escape—shattered, bleeding, but moving. The wind lashed his face. Branches sliced his cheeks. Roots grabbed his ankles like skeletal hands. Still he ran.
Still he lived.
Time dissolved. The forest blurred.
Only breath.
Only heartbeat.
Only survival.
Then—
The world slowed.
His knees gave way, hitting the dirt. His lungs heaved like bellows in a forge. For a moment, just one moment, the night felt quiet. Like the calm between two thunderclaps.
Maybe she gave up.
Maybe she was just playing.
Maybe I'm safe.
Then a whisper slid like ice into his ear.
"What fast legs you have."
Terror tore through him. His head twisted—and there she was. Elektra. Close enough for her breath to chill his spine.
"Ahhh!" he shrieked, scrambling to his feet, his body igniting with raw, animal panic.
She chuckled behind him. "Run. Run. I'll give you time."
He didn't listen.
He couldn't.
There was no room for thought anymore.
Just motion.
Just fear.
Just the primal howl in his veins: Live!
Branches shredded his arms. Thorns ripped skin from bone. His vision blurred. His legs moved like broken pistons—erratic, desperate.
"I'm going to die."
The thought clawed at his chest, ice-cold and certain.
But still he ran.
[Run forward. No matter what. Do not stop.]
And so he did.
Until the trees vanished.
Until the forest opened into an empty field—and then…
An edge.
No more ground.
Before him, the Zogonio River roared below, a vast vein of silver, violent and wild beneath the moonlight.
He skidded to a stop, gasping, staring into the black maw of the river.
"Why… why did you bring me here? The Zogonio—"
Before the voice could answer, she arrived.
Elektra.
And with her, a Crimson Bear.
She tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. "So this is where it ends. This is how far your little legs carried you."
He was trapped.
Behind him, her sword.
Before him, the abyss.
"No, no, no…" he whispered, heart crumbling in his chest.
Her voice licked at his fear. "It's been fun, watching you scurry. Leaving everyone behind to save yourself. So selfish."
Her cruel smile deepened. "But I don't blame you. It's not your fault… not really."
She stepped closer, forcing him toward the cliff.
"Voice... please..."
Silence.
His breath caught. Despair clawed up his throat.
Then—
[Leap. Into the river. It's the only path left.]
His mind stopped.
"What?" he whispered.
Elektra frowned. "You've finally snapped, haven't you? Who are you talking to?"
He stared at the river. The Zogonio—where the village never dared to fish. Where even monsters turned away. A place wrapped in whispers, fear, and legends.
Even demons feared its depths.
Even time forgot what slept within it.
Chief Helos had once laughed about it over soup: "Our only enemy is boredom, not beasts. This place is cursed… in a good way."
Now, Icariel stood at the edge of that myth.
Jumping meant death.
Staying meant certainty.
"You've always been with me," he muttered to the voice. "You already know what that river means."
Elektra raised an eyebrow. "You're seriously going to jump?"
[One percent if you jump. None if you stay.]
She summoned her sword. Twin-edged. Humming with cruel, red light. "It's over."
Icariel laughed, broken and wild. "1% is way more than 0%, you crazy bitch."
And then—
He jumped.
Backward. Arms open. Not in surrender.
In defiance.
In belief that dying alone in darkness was better than feeding her bloodlust.
"FUCK YOU!" he roared as the wind ripped the scream from his lungs. "I HOPE YOU ROT IN THE BELLY OF SOMETHING WORSE THAN HELL!"
Elektra blinked.
For the first time… she didn't smile.
He'd denied her vengeance.
Denied her closure.
Denied her pride.
She stared at the edge, seething.
Her fingers trembled.
"AHHHHHHH!" Her scream shattered the stillness. The Crimson Bear flinched.
She had won.
But she felt like she'd lost.
Not to power.
Not to strength.
But to end the boy with her blade, but he had ended her pride instead.
[End of Chapter 6]