The roads out of the town were quiet at first light, shrouded in mist and the faint scent of woodsmoke. I walked alone, Voraciel sheathed on my back, cheap sword at my side. The town slept—or at least the part that mattered, the ordinary citizens unaware of the shadow that had passed among them. Observation remains paramount. Patience endures. Every movement, every detail, every flaw in human behavior is a tool waiting to be exploited.
The whisper pressed faintly at the edge of my mind: "…kill." Not a command. Not a demand. Just presence. Patient. Alive. Waiting. I ignored it. Observation comes first. Calculation sharpens intent. Patience is sharper than any blade.
The surrounding villages were smaller than the town I had claimed. Cobblestone streets gave way to dirt paths, small clusters of houses scattered near fields of grain. Guards were fewer, less trained, often relying on rumor and appearances rather than skill or vigilance. Ordinary mistakes stacked like kindling. Observation is always cheaper than interference.
I moved through the first village silently, noting patterns: when merchants closed shops, when soldiers patrolled, which children wandered unsupervised, which doors were thin and weak. Even the wind seemed predictable, carrying scents of bread and smoke to the same corners each morning. Ordinary. Predictable. Safe. For now.
The whisper came again: "…kill." Voraciel pulsed faintly, warmth spreading into my arm, a response not to rage or anger but to intent. Not now. Not yet. Patience first. Observation always.
By midday, I had mapped the village entirely. Supply paths, water sources, weak guard rotations, alleys and rooftops, even small secret routes that led into barns or abandoned houses. Every flaw in the village's routine could be exploited. Knowledge is power. Observation is preparation. Patience hones intent.
The village remained ordinary, unaware, confident in their safety. Guards strutted through streets, merchants shouted prices, children ran in puddles, believing the world was a simple, safe place. Ordinary mistakes everywhere. Observation pays dividends.
I crouched in the shadows near the central square, noting three men carrying grain sacks from a warehouse to a cart. Guards ignored them, too focused on trivial inspections. Ordinary mistakes. Ordinary people. Predictable.
"…kill—Crimson Tide."
The whisper sharpened at the edge of my mind. I responded, lightly brushing Voraciel's hilt. The sword pulsed, alive, subtle warmth spreading through my arm. Shadows shifted, guided by intent. The first man faltered, staggering slightly, disoriented. His companions froze, hesitation marking them. Controlled. Precise. Efficient. Bloodlust, refined.
I stepped forward, silent, deliberate, every motion measured. By the time the last man fell unconscious, the alley was still. My breathing slow, measured, the faint pulse of Voraciel guiding me like a heartbeat beneath my skin. Observation remains paramount. Patience endures. No one had noticed. Ordinary. Predictable. Safe. For now.
I withdrew into the shadows, moving through the village unseen. Merchants closed shops, soldiers whispered among themselves, children whispered from windows. Ordinary mistakes everywhere, patterns I had memorized. Observation always precedes action.
I climbed to a rooftop overlooking the central square. From here, the village unfolded like a map. The supply stores, the tavern, guard barracks, minor alleyways—every route and routine laid bare. Shadows pooled unnaturally in corners, distorted by lantern light. Voraciel hummed faintly, alive, patient, responding to the pulse of intent in my mind. The whisper returned: "…kill."
Not yet. Patience. Observation. Calculation. Intent.
By evening, I had consolidated control over the village. Guards were distracted, supplies subtly redirected, streets monitored indirectly. Ordinary citizens remained unaware. Their routines continued, oblivious to the subtle changes in their environment. Patterns shifted, but not enough for them to notice. Knowledge is power. Observation is preparation. Patience sharpens intent.
I tested Voraciel further, lightly brushing the hilt, feeling warmth spread into my arm as I imagined the effects of bloodlust against multiple targets. The whisper sharpened faintly: "…kill." Not a command. Not a demand. Just potential, waiting for intent.
That night, I explored the surrounding areas. Three more villages lay within a day's travel, all connected by minor roads and trails. Soldiers were few, mercenaries hired at exorbitant cost, each one predictable in their overconfidence and routines. Ordinary mistakes everywhere, waiting to be exploited. Observation always pays.
From a hidden ridge, I watched the first village settle into sleep. Lanterns flickered, windows shut, the river carried its dull scent through the streets. Voraciel hummed faintly. The whisper was patient, almost approving: "…wait." Not now. Not yet.
The whisper sharpened in anticipation of the next village, next targets, next mistakes. Bloodlust grows strongest when refined, controlled, deliberate. The first technique is mastered, yet I know there is more. Intent is everything.
I descended into the first village at midnight, unseen. Minor adjustments: a supply crate here, a minor guard rotation there. Patterns shifted subtly. Ordinary people remained unaware. Observation is always cheaper than interference. Patience endures. Knowledge is power.
The whisper returned faintly: "…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience first. Observation always. Calculation guides intent. Voraciel pulsed faintly, responding to the growing plan in my mind: a web of influence across multiple villages, small, careful, unnoticed.
By dawn, the first wave of influence was complete. Roads subtly controlled, guards distracted, villagers unaware. Ordinary mistakes everywhere. Predictable. Safe. For now.
I returned to my room at the edge of the first town I had claimed, cheap sword at my side, Voraciel sheathed. Bread purchased. Coins counted. Routine maintained. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Invisible. Yet the thrill lingered, sharp and precise. The whisper had acknowledged my intent, confirming Voraciel's approval: alive, patient, watching.
The first step toward regional dominance had begun. Villages were predictable. People were ordinary. Mistakes were everywhere. Shadows could stretch over towns and roads, invisible, untouchable, guiding the world toward my intent.
"…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience first. Observation always. Calculation. Intent.
I smiled faintly. The first wave of influence had been established. Bloodlust was awakening. The world had not noticed. And I am just beginning.