"How is that possible?!" Hood's voice was a blade of panic. "You were so sure of it! You've done this a hundred times!"
Cook didn't look up. He stared at his own trembling hands. "I... I've been doing this for years. I cooked the herbs along with the stems… so why, " he stuttered, his voice sounding thin and hollow. "It should have been fine."
"Then how?!" Hood roared, his gas mask dangling from his belt as he stepped over the convulsing body on the ground. "Did the boy do something? Did you let him near the pot?"
Vega was no longer laughing. He was huddled on his knees, clutching a silver and crystal pendant of the Great Light, his lips moving in a frantic, silent prayer.
The sight of it, the sheer, pathetic terror of the men who had spent days treating him like a dog hit Ryckel in all the right spots.
The satisfaction was a cold, dense weight in his chest. It was so absolute that he didn't even feel the need to smile. His face remained stone-cold, a mask of mud and indifference.
He cocked his head, watching the light die in the dying man's eyes. "It serves you right," Ryckel said quietly.
The prayer stopped. Vega looked up, his eyes bloodshot and wide, staring at Ryckel as if a corpse had just spoken. He lunged forward, his drunken movements fueled by a spike of adrenaline, grabbing Ryckel by the shoulders.
"You did this," Vega hissed, his breath smelling of sour wine and rot. "You did this!"
Ryckel didn't flinch. He didn't move a single muscle.
"You see?" Vega screamed, turning his head toward Hood. "I told you! He's a bad omen! A corrupted one! This is the Great Light's retribution for bringing a monster into our circle!"
Ryckel reached up, his fingers like iron as he peeled Vega's hands off his shoulders.
"Why are you pretending, Vega?" Ryckel asked, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. "You're already a goner. Why waste your last breaths screaming at me?"
Vega's face contorted. He let out a guttural growl, pulling back a fist. Ryckel watched the muscles in Vega's shoulder tense. He had spent days studying how Vega moved, how he favored his right side, how he telegraphed his swings when he was angry.
That's when Ryckel focused on activating the [Threads of Intent] Mark.
Tiny white lines broke out of Vega and then a single white one extended from his right hand and right at Ryckel's face.
What… is.. this the direction of the attack?
As Vega swung, Ryckel didn't scramble away. He weaved inside the arc of the punch, the movement fluid and precise.
He visualized the energy in his gut, pushing the heat into his knuckles. He drove his fist upward, sinking it deep into the soft gap of Vega's ribs where the leather chest plate ended.
It was the direction of the attack! The [Thread of Intent] doesn't read minds like he had thought.
It's the direction of the attack towards him!
Vega's air left him in a wet spray of saliva. He doubled over, gasping, but the desperation of a dying man gave him strength. He tackled Ryckel, pinning him into the mud and the spreading pool of the first man's blood.
They thrashed in the filth, a scramble of limbs and teeth. Ryckel took hits to the face, the taste of blood filling his mouth, but he gave back twice as much.
He kicked at Vega's knees, punched at his throat, until he found the opening he needed.
Ryckel flipped the momentum, pinning Vega beneath him. He slammed his palm against Vega's face, holding his head down into the dirt.
"Here's a thank you," Ryckel whispered. "For everything."
He felt a sickening surge in his stomach. He forced Vega's chin up as the rest just watched. The bastard's eyes bulged as Ryckel leaned in close and heaved.
Ryckel vomited on Vega.
Vega gasped, the liquid rushing into his nose and open mouth. He began to convulse instantly. The poison of the Half Shade had kicked in. Blood began to gush from Vega's eyes and ears, mixing with the vomit in a horrific, bubbling slurry.
Ryckel stood up, huffing, his chest heaving as he stared down at Vega's cooling corpse. A strange sensation washed over him. He felt as if his pupils had been replaced by tiny, flickering flames.
Anyone who interferes with my family is nothing.
He thought.
Why should I feel something for nothing?
"No... it's my fault..."Cook muttered, collapsing into a heap.
Hood's shadows thickened, swirling around his feet like predatory eels. "What do you mean, your fault? Answer me!"
Hood turned his gaze to Ryckel, his mask finally pulled over his face. "Why aren't you affected? You drank first. You should have been the first to drop."
Ryckel didn't answer. He gathered the energy into his limbs, feeling the energy dancing under his skin.
"My daughter..." the Cook wailed, tears carving tracks through the grime on his face, tears that quickly turned to streams of blood. "When I was cutting the herbs... I saw the stems were already split. The antidote... the natural sap that neutralizes the toxin... it had been drained. I was too drunk to care. I thought... I thought it wouldn't matter..."
Exactly. I removed them you bastard.
Stored them in my mouth and drank them right before Hood gave me the soup.
Ryckel smirked.
Cook's head snapped back, a sprout of blood erupting from his throat. He fell face-forward into the dirt and didn't move again.
Hood stood alone among the corpses of his men.
The first tendrils of the Red Mist began to roll over the ruins.
"You brat," Hood growled, his voice muffled by the filters.
Ryckel simply bent down and picked up Vega's gas mask, wearing it as his own.
With the click of his breath in it. Hood dashed forward, a shadow-cloaked silhouette against the red horizon.
The Bleeding Hour was finally here.
Ryckel could feel the effects of [Mist Walker] already active.
He had seen this speed before. He sidestepped the lunge with a calm that terrified even himself, reaching out and planting a palm-strike into the center of Hood's back.
Hood stumbled, coughing blood into his mask. He spun around, his hand outstretched.
The darkness on the ground rose up, wrapping around Ryckel's ankles and wrists like oily chains.
Not again!
Ryckel snarled, pulling against the restraints.
---The End of Chapter 15---