Date: August 21, 542 After the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable
Kazai emerged from the cave, and the sunlight struck his face, making him squint for an instant. The birds, startled by his appearance, fell silent for a second, but then almost immediately resumed their song—their ringing, joyful voices merging into a single, polyphonic symphony.
He still held the dagger in his hand—the blade glinted dully in the sunlight, and dark, almost black blood had dried in the groove near the hilt. Kazai looked at his palm—the wound had already closed, leaving only a thin pink scar. His regeneration, enhanced by the Herald rank, was doing its work.
He sheathed the dagger and stepped forward, intending to head back toward the portal. But at that moment, the forest exploded with sounds.
Shouts. Not one—several. Young, frightened, they came from somewhere to the left, beyond the thick hazel thickets. And with them—the clash of metal, dull thuds, the cracking of branches. Someone was fighting. Someone was dying.
Kazai froze, listening. His hand went to his sword hilt again. He didn't know who was there, beyond the trees. Didn't know if he should interfere. In this place, so green and alive, anything could be lurking—guardians, spirits, traps. But there was no other path to the portal, and the cries were growing louder, more desperate.
*Six months,* he thought. *At least six months I'll have to wait before I can return here. I have time. And a curiosity that needs satisfying.*
He veered off the path and headed toward the sound. Branches lashed at his face, snagged his cloak, but he paid them no mind. His steps were silent—it was hard to catch someone off guard who had grown up in the Dead Swamp.
The forest opened up, and Kazai saw a clearing.
It was small, surrounded by old, sprawling oaks. The grass here was trampled, littered with broken branches and tufts of fur. And in the center, their backs pressed against a large boulder, stood a group of teenagers.
There were about twenty of them. Boys and girls, fourteen or fifteen years old, in simple, worn clothing that had plainly seen better days. Their faces were pale, twisted with fear, and in their eyes was frozen that very expression Kazai had seen on thousands of faces—the look of a victim preparing for death. They were all Warriors. Weak, inexperienced, trembling.
Before them, his back to the boulder, stood a man. About thirty, stocky, with broad shoulders and a face seamed with old scars. He gripped a sword—straight, long, with a blade covered in nicks. His armor, once probably sturdy, was now torn in several places, and blood seeped through the rents. He was a Pillar. Not among the weak, but not among the strong either—Kazai assessed his aura in a split second.
And around them, closing in, circled the Bezuki.
Kazai recognized them instantly. He had seen these creatures only once, many years ago, but it was impossible to forget them. Bodies resembling a cross between an ape and an insect, covered in a chitinous carapace of a dirty-milk color. Long, thin, multi-jointed limbs ending in sharp, sickle-shaped claws. And heads—hairless, with huge, black faceted eyes and constantly clicking chelicerae from which a sticky, greenish saliva dripped.
Kazai froze at the edge of the clearing, hidden by the shadow of an old oak. A memory, vivid, surged up from the depths of his mind.
---
He had been seven years old. Maybe eight. The village where he lived and trained with Hlis stood on the edge of the Dead Swamp—still as inhospitable as ever.
He heard a commotion around a bend and, driven by childish curiosity, crept closer. Bezuki—about a dozen—were tearing through the forest, snapping branches, kicking up mud. They were fleeing from something. From someone. Their black eyes were wide with terror, and in their clicking, in that panicked, staccato rhythm, Kazai heard something he had never heard in the voices of beasts—fear.
The Bezuki ran past without even noticing him. And a few seconds later, a predator emerged from the thicket. Kazai didn't remember it—only the enormous claws and the heavy, oppressive aura that made his head spin. The predator passed by without dignifying the boy with a glance and disappeared into the brush.
The next day, Kazai found the Bezuki. They lay in a ravine, every last one of them, their bodies mangled, torn apart, already beginning to rot. Something—or someone—had gotten to them.
"Pitiful creatures," Kazai had whispered then, looking at the bloodied remains. "They escaped the predator from without, but what prowls these lands turned out to be far more dangerous. They realized it themselves. But too late."
---
The memory faded. Kazai looked at the clearing, and his lips curled in a cold, contemptuous smirk.
There were about three dozen Bezuki here. Mostly Warriors, but several Pillars led the pack. They attacked with coordination, without unnecessary noise, their movements honed to near-automatism. The Pillar-man was defending himself with the last of his strength—his sword moved slower and slower, and fresh wounds were opening across his body.
The teenagers stood behind him. They weren't fighting—they just stared, and in their eyes was such animal, primal terror that Kazai was momentarily taken aback.
*How is it possible to fear such pitiful creatures?* he thought.
He himself, at seven, had not feared the Bezuki. He had hidden, but not because he was afraid—because he didn't want unnecessary problems. But these… these trembled like aspen leaves, and seemed to have lost even the ability to think.
The Bezuki tightened their ring. The three largest, the Pillars, lunged forward, their claws, long, curved, almost like daggers, sinking into the man's shoulder and side. He stayed on his feet, but his sword fell from his weakening hand. One more blow, and he collapsed to his knees.
"No!" one of the girls screamed, but her voice was drowned in the clicking of the Bezuki.
Kazai sighed. He didn't know these people. They were strangers. Their deaths meant nothing to him—tiny, insignificant grains of sand on his path. But this place… this green, living miracle… he didn't want it desecrated by these creatures.
He stepped out of the shadows.
"Get out," he said. His voice was quiet, but there was steel in it, and the Bezuki, those pitiful, ever-fleeing creatures, froze.
At first, they didn't understand who was before them. Their black faceted eyes fixed on Kazai, and there was nothing in them but animal hunger. But their leader—a large, scar-covered male—suddenly went rigid. His antennae trembled, and he emitted a sound Kazai had never heard before. Not a click, not a screech. It was fear.
The Herald's aura, heavy and oppressive, spread over the clearing, and the Bezuki, feeling it, began to retreat. Not immediately—instincts warred with the alpha's command. But the leader, his body wracked by violent shudders, took a step back. Then another. And, emitting a short, staccato click, he spun around and bolted into the forest.
The rest followed. Within seconds, the clearing was empty, and only the trampled grass and the bloodstains reminded anyone that a battle had just taken place.
Kazai stood motionless, watching the fleeing creatures. His face was calm, and only a cold, satisfied fire burned in his eyes. He hadn't killed a single one of them. He hadn't needed to.
*Pathetic insects,* he thought. *Even their instincts are tuned to flight.*
The Pillar-man, swaying, got to his feet. His face was pale, blood oozed from his many wounds, but he looked at Kazai with an expression that could only be described as reverence. The teenagers were silent. Some were crying. Others just stared with wide eyes at the one who had scattered a pack of predators with his mere presence.
"Who… who are you?" the man managed, his voice hoarse and strange.