The village was quiet, but not peaceful.
At dawn, smoke still rose from the ruined houses, and the cries of children echoed like faint wounds refusing to close. Men repaired broken fences, women gathered herbs for poultices, yet their eyes always drifted toward Kael—never lingering too long, always flinching when he moved too suddenly.
Kael felt their fear wrapping around him like invisible chains. Every whisper behind his back tightened them.
---
He tried to help.
When he lifted heavy beams to repair the blacksmith's roof, the man muttered thanks but avoided his gaze. When he carried buckets of water for the healer, she dropped them as soon as he turned away, as if his touch had tainted them. Even the boy he had rescued clung to Serenya instead, hiding whenever Kael passed too close.
It wasn't just mistrust. It was rejection.
And each rejection carved deeper into him.
---
That night, Kael sat alone by the fire pit outside the village wall. His cleaver rested beside him, its surface nicked and dark with dried blood. He stared at the flames until they blurred, thinking of the lives he had ended and the many times he had ended his own.
Every death made him stronger. Faster. Sharper. The System rewarded his suffering with new skills, new instincts. Yet each time he returned, something felt wrong. His reflection in the water no longer looked like the boy who once dreamed of a blacksmith's forge. His eyes burned too brightly. His smile lingered too long.
[Soul Strain: 12%]
"You are evolving."
The whisper in his mind was smooth, persuasive.
"They fear you because they are weak. Let them. Fear is proof of power."
Kael pressed his hands against his ears, though it did nothing. "Shut up," he hissed.
But the whisper only chuckled, low and knowing.
---
Serenya found him there. She always did, as if some part of her refused to let him drift too far. She didn't speak at first, just lowered herself to sit opposite him, the fire casting shadows across her face.
"You're restless," she finally said.
Kael snorted. "I'm not the only one."
Her eyes narrowed. "You hear it, don't you? The voice."
His head snapped up. "How—"
"I've seen it before," she interrupted. "Not the same power, not the same curse. But I've seen men fight with whispers in their ears, promises in their veins. They all thought they could control it. None of them could."
Kael's throat went dry. "And what happened to them?"
Her gaze was steady, cold. "They stopped being men."
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of fire.
Kael clenched his fists. "You think I'll end the same way."
"I think," Serenya said softly, "that you're still fighting. And that's the only reason you're sitting here instead of hunting me through the trees."
The firelight flickered in her eyes—fierce, unyielding. But beneath it, Kael thought he saw something else. Fear, yes. But also hope.
---
The next day, Eldran summoned Kael to his hut. The air inside was thick with the smell of burnt sage and crushed herbs, and the walls were covered with faded runes.
The old mage studied Kael in silence, his eyes sharp as ever. Then he placed a crystal sphere on the table between them.
"Touch it," Eldran commanded.
Kael hesitated, then laid his palm on the surface. The crystal pulsed faintly, a soft glow spreading beneath his skin. For a moment, he felt warmth. Then, darkness. The glow blackened, threads of shadow crawling inside the crystal like veins.
Eldran's face hardened.
"What does it mean?" Kael asked, his voice hoarse.
"It means the whispers are not just in your head," Eldran said. "They have roots. And those roots are growing."
Kael's stomach twisted. "Can you cut them out?"
Eldran shook his head. "I can only slow them, not remove them. This… system you bear—it is no gift. It is a bargain. And bargains always demand payment."
Kael gritted his teeth. "Then tell me what I have to pay."
The old mage's eyes met his. "Your humanity."
---
That night, Kael dreamed.
He stood in a vast, empty plain of ash. Black towers rose in the distance, crumbling as shadows crawled across their surfaces. At the center of the plain stood a figure—tall, draped in rags, its face hidden behind a mask of bone.
Kael's feet moved on their own, carrying him closer. The figure raised its hand, and chains of black iron burst from the ground, wrapping around Kael's limbs.
He struggled, but the chains pulled tighter, searing into his flesh.
The figure leaned close. Its voice was the same whisper he always heard, but louder, clearer.
"Stop fighting. Stop clinging to their fear, their hate. Accept me, and you will never suffer again."
Kael's breath hitched. The chains bit deeper. He wanted to scream, but the sound died in his throat.
Then another voice cut through the darkness—sharp, commanding.
"Kael!"
He turned. Serenya stood at the edge of the plain, bow in hand, her arrow glowing like fire. She loosed it, and the arrow struck the chains, shattering them into shards of shadow.
The figure hissed and withdrew into the ash, but its laughter lingered.
"Next time, she won't be there to save you."
Kael jolted awake, drenched in sweat, the taste of ash still on his tongue. Serenya was not beside him. Only the dark. Only the whispering silence.
---
The next morning, Kael walked through the village square. Children played in the dirt, their laughter shrill, their mothers watching with guarded eyes. Men sharpened spears, but always kept one hand free to grip them if Kael drew near.
He realized then: it wasn't chains of iron binding him. It was their doubt. Their fear. Their refusal to see him as anything more than a monster in waiting.
And chains like that could strangle a man just as surely as any blade.
---