Blood fell first, before Debil Jones Moreyen did.
It dripped from his arm, warm and thick, kissing the foreign soil of Domhan before his knee touched it. The ground absorbed the blood without reaction, no pulsing, no glow, no rejection. As if human blood was an ordinary thing here. As if this land had drunk it too many times already.
Debil staggered, one step behind his own body. His sword almost slipped from his grip. Almost. He tightened his fingers, nails cracking, iron creaking softly.
The sword was heavy.
Not because of the steel.
Because of an arm that had gone too long without healing.
He stood, or something close to standing. His back was hunched. His breathing was short. Every inhale felt like scraping his lungs with wet stone.
There was no cheer.
There were no witnesses.
There was no reason he was still alive.
Debil spat blood to the side. It tasted metallic. Old. He did not wipe it away. There was no point in being clean when he would be filthy again soon.
He looked around.
A sparse forest. Black trunks like burned bones. The leaves were small, pale, rustling as if whispering to one another. The wind was not cold, yet it made the skin feel abandoned.
"Domhan," he muttered.
The name did not answer.
He did not know when he crossed over. There was no gate. No light. No sound. Just one step, and then the world changed, like a breath swallowed too deeply.
Debil walked again.
Every step sent messages of pain through his body. His left heel was numb. His right shoulder felt as if it were being pulled backward by an unseen hand. But stopping meant falling. And falling meant not getting back up again.
He had learned that already.
The sword shifted in his hand. Debil growled and adjusted his grip. The steel was dented, full of old scratches. Not beautiful. Not legendary. Just a tool that had not broken yet.
"Still," he murmured softly.
Still usable.
The ground changed beneath his feet, softer. Mud mixed with something sticky. He looked down.
Blood again. Not his.
Footprints led forward. Not hurried. Heavy. Like someone, or something, that knew there was no need to be fast.
Debil stopped.
Silence pressed against his ears. Even insects made no sound. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
He raised his sword.
Not heroically. Out of habit.
From behind a thin fog, a shape moved. Tall. Broad. There was a wet glint at the tip of something long and curved.
Debil exhaled.
"Of course," he said quietly. His voice cracked. "Of course now."
The shape stepped forward.
Its body was massive, flesh hanging as if sliced but never finished. Its left hand was empty. Its right hand gripped a great scythe, its curve blackened by dried and fresh blood at once. The smell of iron and entrails followed it.
Giall na Corrán.
It did not run. It did not need to.
Debil felt his knees tremble. Not from fear. From exhaustion. The kind of exhaustion that had lived too long inside his body.
"Kneel, wanderer," the voice was low and hoarse, like iron dragged across wet stone. "Your spine is next."
Debil spat. Blood and saliva fell together.
"Come take it," he said. Not loudly. Not with rage. Just a fact. "You reaping bastard."
Giall na Corrán smiled. The skin of its face pulled strangely, as if it had forgotten the shape of a human smile.
The scythe rose.
Debil moved.
Slow. Too slow. His sword struck the shaft of the scythe, small sparks flying. The vibration ran up his arm, tearing open old wounds again. He swallowed a scream, teeth grinding.
The scythe spun, cutting the air. Debil dodged half a step. Its tip ripped the side of his clothing, his skin opening with it. Warm. Wet.
He struck back, a short slash, not clean. It bit into flesh. A rotten stench burst out.
Giall na Corrán did not scream.
It laughed.
The fight was not long. Not epic. Not balanced.
Debil fell to a sitting position when the scythe slammed into the ground beside his head. Mud and blood splashed across his face. He rolled, gasping, rose on what little strength remained, then drove his sword into the creature's belly.
Flesh tore. Black. Sticky.
Giall na Corrán staggered. Its scythe fell. The massive body stepped back, then collapsed to the ground, like meat finally surrendering to its own weight.
Silence returned.
Debil stood unsteadily. His sword was still embedded. He pulled it free with effort. Blood, whose it was no longer mattered, dripped from the tip.
He stared at the corpse for a long time.
There was no satisfaction.
There was no relief.
Only one brief thought:
There will be more.
He wiped his face with his trembling arm. Blood smeared everything.
"Mo Thiarna," he whispered. Not a long prayer. Not a plea. Just a name spoken because his mouth needed to say something.
There was no answer.
Only a strange warmth, just for a moment, in his chest. Like the memory of something that had once been good.
Then it was gone.
Debil took a breath, straightened his sword, and began to walk again.
Blood marked every step he took on the soil of Domhan.
And the world remained silent.