He just... left. Dissolved into the shadows as if he'd never been there. We were left standing in that sea of corpses, in a tomb-like silence that was even more terrifying than the recent din of battle.
I couldn't move. A lump was stuck in my throat, and my fingers were numb, still gripping the katana's hilt. Grandfather and father hadn't lowered their weapons; their backs were tense, their eyes darting across the edge of the forest, searching for a new threat. But there was no threat. There was only snow, wind, and this... feeling.
He saved us. He single-handedly cut down an entire horde as if it weren't a battle but a... stroll. Casual, easy, even boring for him. And after that, he just told us to leave. As if we were flies that had annoyed him with our buzzing.
*"The noise was bothering me."* His words echoed in my head. There was no pride, no malice, no desire for a reward in them. Just a cold, indifferent statement of fact. That made it even scarier. Who is he? What is he?
I looked at my grandfather. His face, usually as impassive as a rock, was twisted with deep anxiety. He'd seen all sorts of things over the decades, but this... this he didn't understand. His authority, the Clan's power—all of it shattered against that teenager's calm gaze. *"Then you should guard them better."* That phrase was worse than any insult. It was the truth.
And then... then that strange creature. That fox. It growled at us, protecting him. It sensed the danger emanating from us before we even fully realized it ourselves. There was a connection between them. Some deep, nonverbal connection.
I can still feel the icy prick of his gaze when he looked at me for the last time. There was no interest in me as a girl, as the Clan's heir. There was... analysis. An assessment of an object. As if he saw right through me, saw all my fears, all my exhaustion, and my pathetic relief at being alive.
And now we're returning home. Victorious. The Rift is closed. But this victory doesn't feel like a victory. It tastes of bitterness and humiliation. We were supposed to handle it ourselves. We are the Crimsons. The strongest. And we were saved by some drifter with a wild fox who didn't even bother to give his name.
Grandfather has been silent the whole way. He stares into the distance, but I know—his mind is working at a furious pace. He's searching through memory archives, old reports, trying to find anything that could explain the appearance of such a... phenomenon. Father is angry. Silently, in a manly way. He clenches and unclenches his fist, and I know he feels helpless. His strength, his fury, were useless against something that doesn't even acknowledge us.
And me? I don't know what I feel. Fear? Yes. Curiosity? Absolutely. But there's something else too. Something aching and strange. He was terrifyingly strong. But his strength held no malice. No desire to kill for killing's sake. He just... removed an obstacle.
Who are you, stranger with eyes the color of dark chocolate and hands that craft death? And will you appear again? The next time your path crosses ours... who will we be to you? Allies? An obstacle? Or just background noise to be ignored?
I don't know. And for the first time in a long time, this unknown makes my heart beat faster not just from fear.
***
The door creaked, letting him inside. The air in the cabin was stale and cold, but after the icy wind, it felt almost warm. Azrael stepped over the threshold; the Kitsune darted in after him, immediately sniffing the corners, checking the territory.
He looked around. Everything was the same as when Viktor was here. Poor, utilitarian, but a roof over his head was a real treasure.
***
Sometime later, after stoking the stove and reheating the leftover wolf meat, Azrael sat at the table. He drank hot, almost scalding tea and ate, mechanically chewing the tough meat. The Kitsune, curled up at his feet, dozed, finally warm.
— Hmm, what now? — he asked himself quietly, watching the fire in the stove.
The initial thrill of the fight and escape had faded, replaced by the usual boredom and uncertainty. He'd completed the quest. Survived. So what's next?
— Status.
**System:**
**Name:** Azrael
**Age:** 17
**Vitality:** 98/150
**Skills:**
* Swordsmanship: 64%
* Assassin's Skill: [ACTIVATED]
* [UNAVAILABLE]
Vitality was gradually recovering. The swordsmanship percentage had jumped significantly—apparently from that slaughter. But the most interesting part remained a mystery.
He closed the status window and mentally called up the next tab.
**Quest:**
**Objective:** Save a person.
**Reward:** A gift.
**Punishment:** A week without the System.
**Status:** COMPLETED. REWARD READY.
A large virtual button glowed at the bottom: **[CLAIM]**.
His heart skipped a beat in anticipation. A legendary item? A new skill? Invulnerability? He mentally pressed the button.
No flash of light, no sound notification. Nothing fell from the ceiling or materialized on the table. Absolutely nothing happened.
— What the fuck? — he muttered aloud, looking around. — Maybe it's a skill? System, status!
The window with his stats appeared before him again. He peered at the skills list.
**Skills:**
* Swordsmanship: 64%
* Assassin's Skill: [ACTIVATED]
* **Skill: Youthful Body** [ACTIVATED]
* [UNAVAILABLE]
A new line. "Youthful Body." Azrael stared at it, trying to understand.
— Youthful Body? — he snorted. — I'm already seventeen, what's the gift in that? Is this a joke? So I won't complain about back pain?
He was expecting something epic, and he got... this. He felt cheated. The disappointment was bitter and sour, like unfinished tea.
He was about to mentally curse the System with his last words when his gaze fell on the vitality numbers. **98/150**.
He had been sitting still for only a couple of minutes. But the number had already changed. It had risen to **99/150**, and a moment later—to **100/150**. And it kept growing. **105/150**. **110/150**.
A light scratch on his arm, left from the recent skirmish, which he hadn't even noticed, began to heal rapidly until only a pink spot remained, and then it too disappeared.
The fatigue that had built up in his muscles after the long trek and battle vanished. He felt a surge of energy, as if he'd just woken up from ten hours of sleep. His body felt light, obedient, full of energy.
— Oh... — he exhaled.
"Young Body." It wasn't just a status. It was a constant, passive ability for incredibly fast regeneration and stamina recovery. His body would now always be in peak condition, instantly healing wounds and ignoring fatigue.
The corners of his mouth turned up. It wasn't a fireball or teleportation. But this... this was damn cool. It was the most valuable ability for survival in this world.
— Heh heh... — he laughed quietly, looking at his clean, whole hands. — Okay, System, I forgive you. This gift is just right.
The Kitsune, awakened by his laughter, raised its head and looked at him with its intelligent eyes, as if asking, "Are you on about your weirdness again?"
— It's alright, — he reassured her, stretching and feeling his muscles play under his skin. — Everything is just perfect. Now... now we can make plans.