The Hunter Becomes the Prey
Kizzel might return at any moment. Since all the wolves were dead, would he come alone? Or would he bring other ferocious beasts with him? Akasa couldn't know for sure, but there was one thing he could surmise: Kizzel wouldn't be returning tonight.
The leg that had throbbed with every step just a short while ago was perfectly fine now.
Urnil had used the power of Essence to heal the wound on Akasa's calf completely.
Gathering his staff, his sword, and the dagger he had taken from Kizzel, Akasa began to walk again.
He returned to the place where he and Hisoral had stayed.
Fortunately, there were still embers that hadn't gone out.
"Please, Urnil."
[Very well.]
With that brief reply, a gust of wind gathered the embers that were threatening to fade. Akasa felt something drain from the bracelet, followed by a sensation of emptiness filling the surroundings. It was the wind.
The wind gathered the embers into a pile, and Akasa added dry twigs to ignite a fire. His eyes stung from the smoke, and tears welled up, but he didn't care.
Akasa spent the night watching the fire with hollow eyes, only rising when the morning sun should have appeared. But the sun did not rise. The day was overcast, and just as Urnil had foreseen, it began to rain. Akasa thought it was the gloomiest day since he had begun staying in the forest.
Keeping the embers alive no longer held any meaning.
Akasa simply walked. Familiar terrain began to appear.
Familiar trees. Shrubs. The undergrowth, clearly trampled by his own feet, welcomed him back.
He reached the blue pine tree.
Akasa bowed his head. The mother and son, sent off by birds that were still unsatisfied, lay there. Akasa bowed deeply before them.
It was different from the etiquette of the National Soul Festival. While they prayed for the king's soul to reside with the gods, Akasa prayed that they would find happiness even in death.
Akasa walked on.
He passed through the valley and walked along the concave path where the forest opened up on both sides. Then, he entered the dark woods. The corpses of large wolves lay scattered about, and among them was what Akasa had been looking for: the brutally torn body of Hisoral.
Akasa approached slowly, his jaw clenched so tightly it trembled faintly.
Yet, how could his face look so peaceful?
Akasa knelt heavily before Hisoral.
A miserable, throat-scraping sob escaped the boy who had been holding back his tears all this time.
Inside the Karmatio, Urnil felt a sense of profound relief.
Tragedy always arrives when it is least expected. Akasa had shown the signs. When Urnil had watched him sitting blankly by the campfire for hours as if he had forgotten how to speak, Urnil had feared that Akasa, having poured out all his rage, had exhausted even the motivation to process his emotions.
From that moment on, all suppressed feelings turn into poison. They pile up, stagnate, and fester into ugly pus that ravages the human heart.
It was a terrifying prospect. That was why Urnil had been so cautious, observing Akasa in silence, afraid to utter a single word.
But Akasa had finally found the catalyst to release his sorrow. He buried his face in Hisoral's cold, stiff hands and wept uncontrollably.
The boy's emotions were shining brilliantly within his heart.
In front of the crudely piled mound of earth, Akasa wiped his forehead and cheeks with his sleeve. Where trees grew, the soil was usually sparse and dense.
'The blue pine was a sign of good fortune even in the forest of the Riso family.'
Remembering those words, Akasa spent several hours digging a pit in front of the pine tree and moving the body. Looking at the grave he had made with his own clumsy hands, he patted the earth down to ensure it would hold them securely.
'To allow the gods to dwell in the land of weak humans and watch over their souls, a sturdy grave is necessary.'
Why did his father's teachings from his childhood come back to him now?
Thinking the grave was sturdy enough, Akasa bowed his waist once more.
A piece of tree bark stood in place of a tombstone. However, the beloved weapon the deceased had carried all his life was not in the grave.
It was wrapped carefully in cloth inside Akasa's robes.
"Is it alright for me to take this?"
It was the question of a boy from Cellabris, where the custom was to bury all of the deceased's belongings with them.
[It's hard to break the rules the first time. The second time is easy. So, don't struggle with it.]
It was the god's reply, implying that he had already escaped the National Soul Festival. Urnil hesitated before adding:
[Besides, it was a sword thrown to protect you. If you use it, the Martial Priest will surely close his eyes in peace.]
"Hisoral. Hisoral Mut. That was the man's name."
[...Yes.]
Akasa looked awkwardly at the bracelet and then up at the sky. He turned away from the grave.
"Where do we go now?"
[Let's cross the river. Since you've repelled the serial killer.]
"Was it right to kill him?"
The words slipped out suddenly. Akasa was taken aback by the fact that he had said such a thing. Urnil answered slowly.
[That is the direction of your life, Akasa. If you are safe... and as a secondary premise, if you do not regret it... then I support it.]
"Is that so."
It was an answer that didn't touch upon morality. Because of that, Akasa felt his heart grow lighter.
The boy did not look back again.
Having left nothing behind, he embraced everything—even his regrets—within his heart.
And so, the boy crossed the Laoras River and entered a new forest.
Kizzel groaned.
"Damn that brat!"
Every place he had been struck radiated intense pain. Because of the agony, Kizzel hadn't been able to sleep properly for days.
Kizzel didn't fully understand it, but that pain wasn't just from broken bones; it was because the attacks had been imbued with Essence.
Power is a flow. It moves without ever stopping, and because of that, it scatters and passes through unless it has a focal point. However, immense power can leave traces of its presence by crushing bones and organs.
And Essence was a special kind of power. Akasa's attacks, imbued with Essence born from the will of the gods, had planted an eternal, agonizing pain in Kizzel's body.
Truly, this was prey with the finest meat.
He couldn't even imagine how ecstatic he would feel if he ate that flesh.
'The meat of a Highsider!'
Kizzel shuddered as he thought of the term for the people of Cellabris. Just imagining getting closer to his target made him tremble with an overwhelming pleasure.
But that pleasure soon turned into rage as the pain flared up again.
After enduring the pain in his forest hideout, Kizzel eventually lost consciousness from sheer exhaustion. For him, it was a fortunate thing.
And when Kizzel opened his eyes again, it was because of pain.
But the pain wasn't from his body; it was because someone had awakened it.
Kizzel groaned as he sat up, realizing that the space before him was dark.
It wasn't that someone was blocking his view; the darkness of night had descended.
'How long did I sleep?'
Kizzel pondered as he looked around. Then, he remembered why he had woken up. Someone had touched him.
'Is it that brat?'
That couldn't be. If that brat had found him, he would have smashed his skull in with his staff.
'Then who...'
"Are you awake? You were sleeping quite soundly for someone who collapsed."
As a familiar voice reached his ears, Kizzel shuddered. It was the voice of a true hunter. Kizzel immediately recognized the owner of the voice. There was no way he could forget it. How could he forget the voice of the one who had given him the five wolves?
Even in the deep darkness of the night, Kizzel could clearly picture his face.
"Srem!"
"What happened? Seeing you convulse the moment I touched you, it seems you were dealt a heavy blow."
The voice called Srem asked. In the darkness, he was staring straight at Kizzel with two eyes that shone brilliantly, catching the faint light. Kizzel sighed and said:
"I failed the hunt. That's all."
"Failed? You?"
The darkness chuckled.
"The human hunter Kizzel failed a hunt?"
"Did you come here to mock me?"
"No. I came to see my children."
At those words, Kizzel's body stiffened. He looked up at the gaze in the darkness with anxious eyes.
"My children, that is. Didn't I entrust them to you? To feed them well and raise them."
"I did."
That had been the promise with Srem. In exchange for Kizzel gaining the prestige of the wolves, he would provide the pursuers chasing him as food. But Kizzel had no affection for the wolves. They were merely tools to aid his hunting.
"So. Where are they?"
"They're dead."
"Dead?"
"I told you I failed the hunt. That's why they died."
"That is a breach of contract."
Srem said flatly. Kizzel turned pale and shouted:
"Damn it! It's not a breach! They were pursuers chasing me. There just happened to be one of the children I was trying to hunt in the process of dealing with them!"
"That is a breach of contract, Kizzel. The conditions I gave you were three. First: Raise the wolves until they are four years old. Second: Only borrow their power when you have pursuers on your tail. Third: Never use the wolves for hunting children."
There was a rustling sound of clothing. Srem had stood up.
"The first one... well, fine. In terms of duration, they were three years old, so if we stretch the truth, it's not entirely unforgivable. But the second and third reasons, in particular, were things that should never have been broken. Reckless hunting only reinforces ferocious wild instincts. If they taste the blood of the young in that state, they will eventually stop listening to you. There is no choice but to cull them. I explained all the reasons to you at the beginning, didn't I?"
"They were destined to die in the process of dealing with the pursuers anyway. It's not my fault!"
Kizzel shouted as if he were screaming in agony. The darkness moved toward Kizzel. Srem shook his head.
"You and I have different views on hunting, Kizzel."
Kizzel groaned as he remembered. That was the very thing he had said to Srem in the past with a sneer. When Srem had said that even if you don't catch the prey, if the process is done in the right way, you are a hunter, Kizzel had replied that catching the prey is what makes a hunter.
"You didn't follow the way of the hunt, and you didn't catch the prey. So now, what are you, Kizzel?"
"I am-."
"A simple serial killer. Hostile even to other Exiles."
It wasn't a question that required an answer. The answer was already decided for Srem.
"The reason I respected you was because you were proving yourself to be a hunter. I thought you might be useful someday. To Him."
Kizzel struggled to move, writhing in pain. But his limbs trembled just from trying to stand. His body was in a complete mess.
"But now, you have denied all your own value yourself. There is no reason to keep you alive."
'Snap!' A sound of fingers clicking echoed in the darkness.
At the same time, the stars of the wild shone in the forest. Several pairs of eyes appeared around Srem, gleaming with growls.
"No. This can't be. I haven't even tasted the meat of that brat yet...!"
"There is no prey left for you to taste. Because you are no longer a hunter. So, quietly..."
Srem lowered his hand. Even in the darkness, the beasts following him could clearly see the silent movement.
"Become food."
With a growling howl, several wolves lunged. The flesh that had been screaming in resistance was mercilessly ravaged by teeth and claws. Blood splattered, and flesh was torn.
"Argh! Ugh! Aaaah...!"
The screams he had been shouting with all his might were buried and faded away under the sound of tearing flesh. Srem watched the wolves greedily devouring the meat for a moment before turning his back.
There was no longer anything there that could hold his interest.