The village was small—little more than sandstone homes clustered around a dry well. Cecilus walked straight through its dusty streets, drawing glares from nearly every demon in sight. Humans often traveled these parts. Elves did not.
He ignored the stares. Why would he care?
He entered the nearest clothing shop. The air smelled of old linen and sun-dried dyes. Cecilus grabbed several shirts—light, breathable fabric better suited for the desert—and tried them on without waiting for permission. The shopkeeper looked him over with undisguised disgust.
"I'll take all of these," Cecilus said, dropping the clothes onto the counter alongside a red scarf.
"That'll be five silver."
"Three," Cecilus replied. "I checked the prices."
The shopkeeper snorted. "Tourist fee. Anyone can tell you're not from here. Dragging your filth around is reason enough to charge extra."
Cecilus drew his sword in a single motion.
The shopkeeper stiffened but forced a smirk. "Brandishing a weapon raises the price to seven silv—"
Cecilus's blade flashed downward.
The man's scream tore through the shop as his fingers hit the floor.
"Guards! Guards!"
Two men burst in a heartbeat later. They found Cecilus standing calmly, sword dripping, the shopkeeper on the ground clutching his maimed hand.
"Halt! You are under arrest!" one shouted, voice wavering.
Cecilus glanced at them.
"You two are half the village's protection, aren't you? They really assigned all this attention just for me?"
They hesitated. His voice was too steady—too casual.
"If you submit peacefully," one said, "we won't harm you."
Cecilus stepped forward, grabbed the shopkeeper by the hair, and drove his blade through the man's throat.
He let the body fall.
"Little shit tried to scam me," Cecilus muttered. "I don't have time for childish games. This village has forty people at most. I can deal with clothing and souls together. I just need to kill you all."
The guards reacted instantly. They charged, blades crossing as they tried to pin him between them.
Cecilus laughed.
Like I'm going to wait for you.
He dashed toward the left guard, blade arcing as if to strike. The man lifted his sword to block, and his ally shifted to cover him—
—but Cecilus had feinted. His real strike cut across the second guard's chest, slicing through flesh and bone.
The man collapsed. His partner roared and rushed forward, but Cecilus slipped past him, twisted his wrist, and tore the sword from his hand. The kill was quick—a thrust straight to the heart.
"Two down…"
A sly voice echoed through his mind.
Wow. Your old self would be so proud. Exactly how he'd handle it.
"Was that sarcasm," Cecilus murmured, "or do you just sound like a liar?"
Silence.
He walked out of the shop and headed for the nearest house. He knocked.
An older woman opened the door. Behind her, three children sat at a table, and a man looked up from a bowl of stew.
"What do you want?" she snapped. She couldn't see his face under the scarf—but his ears gave him away.
Cecilus answered with steel.
The blade pierced her chest, and she collapsed as he rushed inside. The children screamed. Their father lurched forward, but Cecilus was already upon them.
A child's head hit the floor before the man even processed what was happening.
"What th—"
He never finished. Cecilus impaled him, then swung toward the last child.
The village erupted as shouts rose outside. Armed men gathered, forming a rough defensive line. Cecilus ignored them, rifling through drawers and cabinets for valuables.
When he stepped back outside, the entire surviving male population stood waiting for him.
One stepped forward. "You filthy elf! Do you have no conscience?"
Cecilus didn't answer. He flicked his wrist.
Xena materialized behind the man and clamped her jaws onto his neck. Blood sprayed as he collapsed.
The others charged.
Cecilus slipped among them effortlessly, using Xena as a mobile barrier. He felt each blow she took—sharp, hot spikes of pain—but he endured, cutting through the villagers one by one. Their numbers shrank. Panic set in.
Minutes later, the last man fell clutching his stomach.
The rest was simple. Cecilus cleared every house, killing women and children methodically.
Forty-three souls.
With what I had before, that makes sixty-two. Almost halfway there.
That's great, and I have enough funds for a while. If I made this much ruckus in a major city, it would have been chaos, but by the time someone finds out the state of a village like this, I'll be long gone.
He sheathed his sword and began walking down the road. Xena was still recovering in his soul world—the damage she'd taken required time to mend.
"White Devil," Cecilus muttered, "what's the point of getting stronger on this journey if I can just gather souls like this?"
It's part of the contract with your past life, the devil said, voice floating lazily around him. I need to make you strong enough.
"Did my past self trust you?"
Silence.
***
Hours passed before Xena fully recovered. Cecilus summoned her and continued toward the nearest major city—until the white devil suddenly halted in the air.
"Wait! Look!"
It pointed with a tiny claw toward a towering funnel of sand swirling in the distance.
"A tornado! Perfect. Dust elementals nest inside those."
Cecilus narrowed his eyes. "How can you even see that without eyes?"
The devil ignored him. "When night comes, the tornado will weaken. That's when you strike."
"Will a sword even work?"
"A dust elemental's armor is weak. The tornado is its only real defense. When it rests, it cannot maintain the storm."
"Easy enough, then."
He approached carefully, staying just outside the tornado's reach. As night fell, the swirling winds thinned, slowed, and dissolved.
There—blended against sandstone—was a shape made of glowing clay and drifting grains. It was nearly invisible unless one was searching for it.
Contracting it was trivial.
One stab in its midpoint. A single pulse of resistance. Then submission.
It vanished into his soul world.
"Why didn't it fight back?" Cecilus asked.
The white devil floated beside him, tail curling lazily.
"A dust elemental lives for thousands of years. A half-elf like you lives maybe five hundred. To it, your contract is temporary. Like a human choosing to give up ten years to live instead of dying now."
"Oh. That makes sense." Cecilus paused. "Also… I'm a half-elf?"
"You didn't know?"
"I assumed I was a regular elf. The ears seemed right. And elves didn't look that different from me."
"Half-elves have one big difference—lower mana capacity. Not that it matters for you. Summoning souls barely uses mana. Only forming contracts does, and even then, it's minimal."
"So I'm basically just an elf," Cecilus said.
"And you don't live a thousand years. Whether that's a blessing or curse is subjective."
"You're talkative for a creature that looks like it eats children."
"These past months have been refreshing," the devil said softly. "Better than the solitude before."
"Why's that?"
The devil faded again.
Silence.
Cecilus frowned.
If it keeps ignoring my questions, I might actually try to kill it…