The moon hung low over the hills, its pale light spilling across the winding roads that connected the villages I had quietly claimed. Each settlement was ordinary, predictable, and unaware that the shadow of a new power had begun to stretch across the land. I walked these roads alone, cheap sword at my side, Voraciel sheathed on my back. The whisper brushed at my mind faintly: "…kill." Not a command. Not a demand. Patient. Alive. Waiting. Observation first. Patience always.
The villages were small, their defenses minimal. Guards were few and poorly trained, relying on routine rather than vigilance. Merchants trusted in luck and rumor. Children ran carelessly through streets, oblivious to danger. Ordinary mistakes stacked like kindling. Observation is always cheaper than interference.
I had mapped every village's patterns—the movement of guards, the timing of patrols, the placement of supplies, even the sleeping habits of those who mattered most. Every flaw was noted, cataloged, and stored in my mind for later exploitation. Knowledge is power. Observation precedes action. Patience sharpens intent.
By midday, I had reached the outskirts of the second village. Lanterns flickered faintly as the morning sun rose. Farmers worked the fields, merchants arranged goods, soldiers strolled through streets with overconfidence. Predictable. Ordinary. Mistakes everywhere.
I crouched in the shadows, noting guard rotations and alleyways that could funnel movement, mapping escape routes and high points, even noting which rooftops were loose enough to support weight without noise. Voraciel pulsed faintly against my back. The whisper pressed again: "…kill."
Not yet. Patience. Observation. Calculation. Intent.
Evening came, stretching long shadows across streets. Lanterns flickered, casting irregular patterns on cobblestones. I positioned myself on a rooftop overlooking the main square. Three mercenaries patrolled the central road, slightly out of formation, arrogance visible in their movements. Their intentions were clear—they sought control, unaware that their plans were being dissected silently from above.
"…kill—Crimson Tide."
The sword pulsed beneath my grip, responding instantly. Shadows shifted subtly, guided by intent. The first man stumbled, a faint wave of force disrupting balance. His companions froze, hesitation cracking their rhythm. Controlled. Precise. Efficient. Bloodlust, refined by calculation.
By the time the last mercenary fell unconscious, the alley was still. My breathing slow, measured. Voraciel hummed faintly, patient and alive. Observation remains paramount. Patience endures. No one had noticed. Ordinary. Predictable. Safe. For now.
I withdrew into the shadows of the town, unseen. Merchants closed shops, guards returned to barracks, children whispered indoors. Ordinary mistakes everywhere, patterns I had memorized. Observation always precedes action.
From a rooftop, I mapped supply routes, guard patrols, and minor alleys connecting to surrounding settlements. Each village was a node in a larger web, their routines predictable, their weaknesses exposed. Shadows bent to my intent. Voraciel hummed faintly, responding to the pulse of calculation in my mind. The whisper returned: "…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience first. Observation always.
By midnight, subtle adjustments had been made. Supply crates were shifted, guard rotations slightly altered, minor patrols redirected. The villagers remained unaware. Ordinary. Predictable. Safe. For now.
I tested Voraciel further, feeling the faint pulse of intent. Shadows shifted, stretching subtly along walls and streets, guided by thought. Bloodlust grows strongest when refined, controlled, deliberate. The first technique is mastered, yet there is more. Each village, each mistake, is a step toward understanding power. Intent is everything.
I returned to my room at the edge of the first village. Cheap sword at my side, Voraciel sheathed. Bread purchased. Coins counted. Routine maintained. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Invisible. Yet the thrill lingered. The whisper had acknowledged my presence, confirming Voraciel's approval. Alive. Patient. Watching.
The first step toward regional control had been established. Villages are predictable if one knows how to read them. People are ordinary, their mistakes everywhere. Shadows stretch over towns, roads, and fields, guiding patterns toward my intent.
"…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience first. Observation always. Calculation. Intent.
The world sleeps, unaware. And I am just beginning.