"My life is over…."
A low whisper. A long, shuddering sigh. It drifted from the dark corner of the carriage like a physical weight.
"I'm going to die. What should I do? I'm going to die."
The person on the other side chimed in, a perfect, miserable harmony.
The boy let out a quiet breath.
Here we go again.
Perfectly synchronized—as if misery had its own rhyme. Maybe it's coincidence, or maybe people in despair have some built-in alarm that tells them when to vomit their hopelessness into the world.
It's just like in the valley, the boy thought.
He remembered his sheep. They never thought for themselves; they just drifted toward the largest group, chasing the dream of greener grass. Herds always move together. Until something decides to lead instead of follow.
The boy tilted his head, a dry smile hidden behind a blindfold. Watching these people now, he was starting to think the sheep had more dignity.
First things first—where am I?
The wooden floor beneath him rattled with every bump in the road.
Clack—clack.
Each jolt sent the iron shackles biting deeper into his wrists and ankles. A strip of rough cloth covered his eyes.
Sniff. The boy inhaled, letting in the scent of old sweat, rotting wood, and…chicken?
Think, he told himself.
Years of herding had taught him how to be observant, how to notice things others ignored and fortunately his senses were somehow sharp today. He strained his ears, ignoring the groans of his fellow prisoners.
There it was.
A low, heavy strike of claws against the dirt. The faint rustle of feathers brushing against the carriage wood. Meraki, the boy concluded. Giant roosters with talons like meat cleavers. He'd seen them once—it had scattered his flock like a gust of wind through autumn leaves; scaring the shit out of his sheep.
"Am I outside the capital?" The boy asked himself.
Thud.
A sharp prod from a spear butt slammed into his ribs. The air left his lungs in a wheeze.
"Quiet," a guard sitting beside him growled.
"Ugh–where are we going, sir?" The boy muttered under his breath.
He didn't care about the bruises anymore. He'd been framed as a murderer for trying to patch a hole in a dying man's chest. The timing couldn't have been worse—the man breathed his last just as the guards arrived.
"You're lucky we didn't gut you on the spot," the guard snarked.
His voice was as cold as a drawn blade. The guard keeps sending him glare while telling the boy who he messed with.
"Scream for eternity in Angkara."
The guard spat—wet sound hit the floorboards near his feet. The boy wanted to protest, but this time it stuck in his throat upon noticing what the guard said.
Angkara…
The word holds the weight of the world.
A prison for the irredeemable criminals across the Floating Continent, where none ever returns. The place was infamous for detaining those with power beyond human limits. Now those guys make sense, those mindless, hollow chants they keep repeating—it's resignation. They already know where they're headed.
The boy looked down at the back of his hand: A golden sigil with the shape of a sword.
Sura.
It all started because of this.
The boy had heard about it before but he never expected he would be able to absorb Sura: The god's essence manifested in a crystal fragment. It was the reason he was still breathing. It was the reason he was a "High-Blood" murderer in the eyes of the law.
The thought of becoming an Asura—a superhuman—usually made his heart race with excitement. But as the carriage hit another bump, reality settled in.
Angkara was ready to swallow him whole.
Fuck, the boy cursed as memory from yesterday hit him like a physical blow.
*******************************************************************************************
"Where did that lazy bum go?"
The boy hurried downhill through the forest, jacket tied to his waist.
The forest. The sweat-soaked shirt. The missing sheep that couldn't stop eating long enough to save its own life. He had been very annoyed today.
He'd already herded the sheep to the barn—only to realize he was missing one. The same one who always had a knack for sleeping even when it's eating. The sun was dipping low. Wolves would be coming out soon or something worse than that.
He rolled his sleeves and shoved aside the bushes—
STAB.
"What the—!"
The boy shrieked, stumbling back into the bushes. Sharp thorns prickled his skin. Several paces ahead, a man stood draped in shadows and a mask that screamed one word: Assassin. His arm was buried elbow-deep in another man's chest. Blood splattered the leaves.
Snap.
The assassin's head turned. Their eyes met.
Silence—
The assassin clicked his tongue—a sound of pure annoyance.
SPLAT.
He yanked his hand free, earning a wet cough from the man in ornate robes. Without another glance, the assassin turned and vanished into the trees.
Thud.
The boy fell hard onto his backside. His hands shook uncontrollably, sweat pooled along his brow. He was sure the assassin would kill him too. He closed his eyes, waiting for the cold steel to find his throat. For the first time in his pitiful life, he prayed to gods he didn't even believe in.
Silence.
"Hm??" The boy peeked. The assassin was nowhere to be seen. He let out a heavy sigh—
"Cough–cough"
His head snapped toward the sound. The man in the flashy robe lay collapsed in his own blood. One hand was clutching the gaping hole in his chest, the lights going out in his eyes.
"W-wait—someone, someone please help!"
The boy scrambled forward, shrugging his jacket—pressing it against the wound—holding the blood from gushing out, blood soaked through instantly. The man's eyes fluttered open. For a moment, the boy thought he imagined it—but a thin smile tugged at the man's lips. The boy's eyes widened as he mistook it for a resignation.
"Don't give up!" the boy shouted. "Please—just hold on!"
The man slowly raised his right hand, a golden sigil glowed on the back of it, he placed his left hand over the sigil and made a pulling motion.
Shiiing.
A shimmering golden crystal appeared—floating above his palm.
"Is that….Sura?" The boy gasped, then a realization came to his mind. "You are an Asura, right? Then heal yourself!"
The man's lips parted.
"Cough…maybe…. this too…fate…" the man wheezed.
"Stop talking!" The boy snapped. "Heal yourself! I don't know how to use Sura—I'm just a mortal!"
He grabbed the man's hand, trying to force it back toward the wound. He'd seen the high-bloods in the capital perform miracles. He expected a glow. He expected a recovery.
Suddenly—
SLAM.
The man's hand clamped over the boy's with a strength that defied death.
The crystal shattered. Golden dust turned into liquid fire, searing into the his skin.
"WHAT ARE YOU—AGH!"
Intense burning pain like fire exploded in his hand. The boy yanked it back, clutching it to his chest. He stared at the back of his hand.
Shining.
A Sword. A golden sigil with a vertical straight sword pattern engraved on it.
"M-me…an Asura?!"
He rubbed at the mark. He rubbed his eyes.
Then, the man's hand slipped from his. It hit the grass with a final, heavy stillness.
The boy frantically checked the sign of his breath and pulse—he found nothing—the man was dead. A strange ache tightened his chest. He didn't know this man. Didn't even know his name. This is the first time he'd watched someone die.
"W-what should I do…?" The boy panicked.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump—
"Don't move!"
Silver-armored figures dropped from the canopy like falling stars. Swords leveled at his throat.
City guards. Dozens of them.
The boy looked at his blood-stained hands. He looked at the dead official. He looked at the guards. Panicking, the boy could only say the first thing that came to his mind.
"H-hello..." The boy stammered, the only logic left in his brain leaking out. "Do you see any sheep around here, sir?"
*******************************************************************************************
BOUNCE.
The carriage jolted, slamming the boy back into the present.
Nothing given by a dying man comes without a ledger, he thought bitterly. And the debt was due.
A sudden shift in the cart made him stumble against the wooden wall. He caught himself and caught something else—a murmur of voices from a person ahead. His blindfold slipped a fraction. Through the gap, he saw them: two men across the aisle. Their wrists were bound in heavy chains; same fate as him. On the backs of their hands, a twin-dagger sigil pulsed with a faint, dying light.
Asura. Even they looked like broken dogs here.
The carriage jolted again, and the Meraki hissed, a sound halfway between a hawk's cry and the grind of steel. Between the guards and the giant roosters, escape was a fantasy.
The boy slumped. He leaned his head back against the wood. Shackled, blindfolded, framed for murder, and being carted off to a place they called the city of no return.
"STOP!"
The guard's bark slammed the carriage to a halt.
"Identification." The voice came from somewhere ahead, distant but sharp.
"Report—Aetheria cavalry squad four, delivering new prisoners."
"Confirmed. Please proceed with the delivery. May the Light guide your step."
"May the Light guide your step," The guard echoed—the standard doctrine of the Lumen Church, the national religion of the Empire. But to the boy, the words sounded like a death knell.
Deep, grinding groan of chains and stone shifting. The ground shuddered beneath them; something big moving.
"PREPARE TO DROP THE PRISONER, IN 40 SECONDS!"
The carriage lurched forward again, chains above groaning as the gates yawned open. A breath of air hit him—not fresh, not clean, but thick, damp, and sour, like something long dead had been stewing behind those walls.
The guard sitting beside the boy grinned, teeth flashing like he'd just thought of a joke only he found funny. He tapped the side of the carriage with his spear.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
A lazy countdown to their death.
Past the gate, he caught glimpses between the wooden slats—walls that leaned inward as if trying to crush the place they surrounded, and beyond them, stood a colossal stone head, its frozen eyes staring at nothing. Once the gates closed, the boy would stop hearing the outside world.
The air got heavier. Sitting still in this carriage, his hands clenched around the chain. The boy realized; the outside world had already stopped hearing him too.
"My life is over," the man across from him whispered.
"Death to us all," the other replied.
The boy rolled his eyes. The "Sheep Mentality" was infectious.
Should I join their chant now? He wondered.