It was nighttime. A red-colored moon hung in the sky. In the jungle, huge trees swayed with the wind. A black shadow was speeding among the trees, from one branch to another; it was sprinting very fast.
After sprinting as fast as he could, Omen stopped on a branch thick with leaves and tried to hide himself among them.
His breathing was ragged, his face worn with exhaustion, and he looked fatigued—there was a hint of panic as well. A faint hum of qi leaked from his body; he forced it still, afraid even the air might hear him.
On the ground near the tree where Omen was hiding, eighteen shadows appeared one by one. The shadows cast by the red moonlight looked big and enormous. The light painted them like beasts; the forest held its breath.
Right under the tree that Omen was hiding in, a powerful voice sounded:
"Divide into three teams, six men each, and go in different directions and search."
They coordinated well even in the dark night, made three teams, and went in different directions. Coincidentally, they did not check the tree Omen was hiding in.
Omen trembled slightly and held his breath as much as he could to not get caught. After sensing his pursuers had gone far, he felt a little relieved. The curse inside him quieted, but the pulse of unstable qi still echoed under his ribs.
A few hours ago—
In a cramped cell, a man in his late teens or early twenties sat quietly. His face was pale, his dull red eyes lifeless, and his short black hair disheveled. He wore nothing but a pair of shorts, and his body was covered in scars from head to toe. His left arm hung limp, leaving him to rely solely on his right hand for basic tasks, like drinking water.
This was his new cell. From what Omen could recall, this was his life: killing for his family, being locked in the prisons they built, then being released to kill again. Afterward, the family physician would perform surgery and experiments on him for reasons he never understood. And then, more killing. He was sick of it.
"I've got another job for you."
A powerful voice sounded beside the only candle in the damp cell, and a man's silhouette could be seen sitting near the candle.
"Grandfather, can I not do this?" Omen, who was inside the cell, approached the man and made a request.
"Don't call me grandfather, hmmph. The mere fact that I have bestowed upon you the name Ashenroot does not imply that you are eligible to be my grandson. It is important to remember that you are a mixed-blood." The old man's voice sounded angry.
"I understand, so why? Why did you give me this name? Just to have me in shackles? Or to cut me open anytime you want?" Omen's voice sounded frustrated and tired.
The man in question stood up and approached Omen. He looked handsome, even though he was old, with golden-colored hair that shone in the flickering candlelight. He stood as tall as Omen, six feet five inches, and met his glowing silver-colored eyes with Omen's dull red ones. In a measured yet commanding tone, he said,
"You were born from my son, so you're one of us. Your mixed blood makes you nothing more than a slave to us. Do you understand, boy? You're like a free slave I don't even need to buy."
Omen gritted his teeth in anger, and his dull red eyes started to glow like flickering, dying embers. A thin ripple of blood-qi crawled under his skin, begging to burst out.
"Humph." The old man was unimpressed.
Omen, who was beginning to transform, was stopped by this sound and was thrown flying far into the corner. His eyes returned to the dull shade of red. Blood was visible at the corner of his mouth. The air itself had crushed hi pressing down without mercy.
"I will forgive you, not because this is your curse—no. Because I have a mission only you can accomplish." The old man's authoritative voice sounded once again.
"This is the last time I am killing someone for you. You are going to set me free after this," Omen said while wiping the blood stains from the corner of his mouth. Determination could be seen in his eyes.
"Free? Very well, it's a deal." The old man, his cunning eyes gleaming, smiled as he solemnly promised Omen freedom.
"These are the details. We are very close to the location. I specifically positioned this cell closer to your target; don't you feel grateful?" With pride, the old man spoke and handed Omen a piece of paper.
Omen just took the paper from the old man and sat down on the damp floor. The candle flickered low, the shadows stretching long across the walls like hands.
The old man vanished into thin air after delivering the paper. He appeared outside the room, in front of its door.
A huge person who was guarding the door was startled by the sudden arrival. Upon seeing the old man, he kneeled in front of him and said, "Your holiness."
Nodding his head, the old man said, "Release him when he wants to," then vanished again.
The old man reappeared in front of a huge tree. A cave entrance could be seen in the background. Now that he was outside, the old man was wearing a purple robe and a small silver crown on his head. He was in a jungle. After waiting for a while and glancing to the left, he said,
"Took you a bloody long time."
Eighteen shadows appeared, all of them huge, standing on a tree branch. The leader among them said, "We are sorry, Grand Vindicator. You know how this jungle is—we were fifty as you instructed, but only eighteen remain."
"I only need eighteen men for this job. Take care of that mixed-blooded brat after he kills the bitch," Grand Vindicator stated.
Hmm, the old man thought, I thought seventeen would make it inside alive. They sent a good team.
Then he proceeded to walk slowly, deeper into the jungle.
There were eighteen huge shadow-like beings wearing black drapes scattered around the cave, waiting for the right moment to follow Omen.
Omen, who was inside the cave in a cell, was preparing for the mission he was given—to kill a woman who was living deep in the jungle. He didn't know who she was, nor did he have any interest. He just wanted to be free from this hellish life.