Chapter 1: The Gathering Storm

The sky pulsed with malevolent energy. There was a storm, angry, unnatural, tearing up the sky. Lightning tree-thick, torn ground, illuminating bruised purple clouds to rolling rampant fury. It was no natural storm, but a storm constructed of something evil, some ancient evil, and a duplicate of the tempest raging inside Mictly.

He wrestled the throttle of his motorcycle, the sound of the engine as he pushed it past its limits. The asphalt blurred under him, a dark ribbon unwinding in his desperate pursuit. Wind screamed in his ears; a mournful cry that mirrored the fear in his heart. His face was one of creased by furrows of fear, set with grim determination. He had to get there. He had to save them.

All that mattered was getting his family back; but his own mind, a war zone, could not give him a break. Memories, unwanted and unforgotten, ripped to the surface, fueled by the storm's primal power.

Chapter 2: The Healer's Gift

He was a baby, abandoned in the midst of carnage. It was myth, spoken in fury and terror, spoken by his adoptive mother with gentle sadness. They said the battlefield was littered with corpses, ripped by an unnatural force, the corpses seem like were struck by lightning. And amidst it all, a baby, crying as the storm was gathering, its ear-shattering thunder echoing back at it.

He was found by Elara, the healer of the Demon Souls. An ironic name indeed, for they were anything but soulful. Fifty mercenaries, hardened into battle by cruelty, greed, and united by their constant bloodlust.

Elara was an outsider among her kind. A slave woman, her life reflecting the brutality of the mercenaries. She had the gift, a mix of scientific know-how and intuitive understanding of the warped machinery of the body that hung balanced on the edge of being the magic. She could mend broken bones, mend bruised tissue, but her own wounds, the invisible scars of her imprisonment, remained untouched.

The night she found him; she was at her breaking point. Despair was a crushing, paralyzing pall which rested on her. She lay under an old tree, silent sentinel of her despair, wondering why things had to have happened the way they did.

Then, the cry. A small, eardrum-shattering cry that lashed through the blackness, resonated in the howling storm. Lightning flashed, illuminating a scene of unspeakable horror. The bodies? they were unlike anything she had seen before, even during the most savage battles of the Demon Souls.

She sprinted towards the sound, her own heartbeat pounding at the raw lip of her ribcage. And there he was. A baby, matted in tattered, red-stained rags-scraped red like blood, his small face contorted into a primal cry.

She was hit with a wave of warmth; one she had not felt in years. Hope. He was a miracle, a sunbeam that in spite of her worst of day, life would go on. She hugged him tight to her, arms wrapped around him, his tears comforting against her shoulder. He was a reason, a reason to live.

Behind her, lurking in the darkness, stood Ragnar, who led the Demon Souls. His face, usually a mask of cruel indifference, was twisted into one of disgust. He had seen the aftermath of the tragedy and glimpsed the anger of the storm. He understood that something unnatural had occurred. He knew that this child was differed from the others.

He stood up and saw Elara disappear into the darkness, baby in her arms, and a chill of fear creep into his heart. This child, would be trouble.

Chapter 3: Forged in Pain

She named him "Mictly," meaning "Dark could" in her own language. She saw in his eyes the power of the storm, a vastness that held both beaty and terrifying power. She knew, as improbable as it seemed, that she had found a son.

She protected the boy from them during the ten years beneath the veil of their Demon Souls' camp, and she instructed him in all that she had learned of the lost world beyond the cruel boundaries of their own. She taught him in humanity, compassion, kindness and justice. She understood it to be a fragile existence, but she was not able to let him become anything else.

Ragnar had other plans.

Mictly was trained from his tenth birthday. Cruel, merciless training that sought to shatter him, to make a weapon for his enjoyment. Ragnar, driven by a mixture of fear and hate, sensed the raw power in the boy, the untapped potential fueled by the storm.

Mictly was forbidden from using weapons. He defended himself with his naked hands against his persecutors. And Ragnar and his men day after day battered him mercilessly. They punched, kicked, pushing him to the brink of death. They jeered in his suffering, wallowed in his misery.

He endured all, fueled by the primal instinct to survive and the unwavering love of his mother. He knew that if he could only endure, just survive the agony, then Elara would be there.

And she always did.

She would show up after the beatings, her own eyes blazing with agony so profound it threatened to shatter him. She would cradle him in her arms, whispering soothing words as she worked her healing abilities on him. Her bruised and calloused hands were balm to his injured flesh. She would mend his broken bones, heal his deep cuts and knit his torn muscles back together.

She healed him a thousand times. Without her he would have perished countless times.

Ten years. Ten years of daily beatings. Ten years of fury. Ten years of seeing pointless cruelty. He became hardened, tougher, harder. Ragnar himself could no longer defeat him alone.

And then, he called his "friends." Four, five, sometimes more mercenaries, who would only be too glad to unleash their fury on the kid. The scheme was always the same: to beat him into submission, until he lay broken, unable to move, clinging to the edge of oblivion.

And every time, Mictly held on. He struggled through. He endured. And he waited for Elara.

Chapter 4: Crimson Rain

The stench of soured ale and soured body odor wafted on the wind, hot smell of their hut life. This evening, however, aside from that with which they were familiar, on the wind there wafted something metallic-tasting: the scent of blood. Young Mictly was on the ground, his body a blue and purple painting being torn in two by men who enjoyed giving pain.

He braced for the next, a shock of pain at the nape of his neck. Each strike was a rebuke to his bruised hope he held onto. His mother, Elara, ever the guardian, was his shield, a soft voice of understanding in a world that did not pity.

This night, however, the battering was of another sort. The men, their brains befuddled by rotgut liquor and their own fury, went to kill him. Mictly whined, a pathetic little cry drowned out by their inebriated jeers.

Then Elara moved.

She had stood idly by while they bullied her boy. Years of impotent passivity finally had worn her down to desperation. In a despairing cry, she sprang between Mictly and his tormentors, her thin body useless barricade against their cruelty.

"Please! Stop! He's done nothing!"

Her interruption had cost her an ugly backhand. She lurched; her eyes wide with fear. Rather of stopping them, her interruption had released a new level of rage. They kicked and punched, now unleashing their inebriated rage on her as well.

Mictly watched in horror, the pain in his own body fading into a numb terror. He tried to reach her, his limbs heavy and unresponsive. He could only listen to her choked sobs, each one a dagger twisting in his heart.

And then, amidst the chaos, she started to whisper: "I'm sorry, Mictly? I'm so sorry?"

She hugged him hard, holding him to her tightly in a desperate attempt. Punches fell on their two bodies, brutal and heavy. The men, with faces twisted into sadistic grins, continued raining blows.

Finally, they slowed down. Not out of mercy, but exhaustion. They fell back, panting and gasping, their faces flushed with drunken exertion.

Silence descended, heavy and oppressive. Mictly drifted in and out of consciousness, his mouth clogged with the detestable taste of blood. Time stretched, in an eternity of pain.

He awoke in the dead of night, the hovel was deserted, the men vanish into the darkness. Elara was still embracing him; her body was a shield from the cold earth. He looked up at her face, pale and covered with blood. Her lips still smiling, as if she had finally found peace in her sacrifice.

"Mama?" he breathed, his own voice a cold whisper.

He shook her slowly. There was nothing. He shook her quickly, his own heart racing with fear. Nothing.

Elara was dead.

A scream ripped from Mictly's throat, a raw, primal, sound filled with grief, of pain, and a burgeoning rage that threatened to consume him. The shout was engulfed by the rising storm, outside.

It was succeeded by a thunderous clap of thunder, which boomed in its volume, and the earth trembled. A tree in the distance was hit by lightning and was on fire. The unruly weather found its equal in the storm of anger that raged inside him.

He tried to sit up, to hold his mother over him, but his legs were broken, useless. His arms, dead weights, would not respond. He lay trapped under her body, as the last dribble of life left his body.

Closing his eyes, he whispered, "Sorry, mom. I couldn't protect you."

His heart stuttered, then slowly stopped. Darkness descended.

And then a flash of blinding light. Colors explode at the back of his eyes, vibrant and intense. "Is this heaven, like Mama said?" he gasped to himself.

The peace did not last. Searing agony cut through him, fire burning every cell of his body. He yelled; the yell was overwhelmed by the sound of the storm. He felt bones pulled back into place, wounds closing, muscle stitching. He was being reconstructed, remade, and he could not stand the pain.

Seconds became eons. And then the agony ceased, leaving him weak and shuddering. He was alive.

And in his mind, one word, a persistent incantation chant: Revenge.

Chapter 5: One Thousand Battles

"One thousand battles," he gasped, the words hollow in the empty halls of his heart. "One thousand battles to be invincible. To become the storm itself."

His first fight had been against pain. He crept off on rolling over the body of his dead mother, its anger smoldering with pain so vile it was crazy. He buried her in a crude grave, hurriedly dug hole in the ground where he laid her in his own naked hands. He took an oath, a choking promise and spoke to the air: he would make them pay for this.

He left the burned hovel, a ghost on the edges of the woods. He stole to survive, rummaging in cans, his anger a bright ember that pushed him forward. A constant fight, an action by the rear guard against his own body.

He fought feral, snarling street dogs. He fought hard, cruel poachers. He fought his own image in the stream water's mud-speckled surface, fighting corrosive fear that gnawed at his belly.

Each struggle was a lesson, a hard school of survival. He learned to expect attack, to use his body as a battering ram, to concentrate his fury into a pinpoint, killing machine.

He learned to hunt, to stalk, to kill. He was a wild creature, an evening stalker. His battered body was reshaped into raw lean muscle, hard-worked in relentless fighting.

Five years passed. He'd forgotten how many fights there'd been in them. But with each triumph, he felt a flicker of satisfaction, a step closer to his goal. He learned, fighting until he was exhausted, enduring the torture that would kill any other man.

He fought men twice his size, fueled by alcohol and arrogance. He fought the beasts with fangs and claws, driven by hunger and instinct. He learned their weaknesses and exploited their vulnerabilities.

He mastered dirty fighting, survival fighting, and winning fighting.

He was a weapon, as well. Not a knife, not a gun, but his fists, his feet, his body, honed to the sharp edge of a razor blade. A tempest of rage, a tempest of nature unleashed.

He was no longer Mictly. Something greater, something darker, something fatal. He was the storm, forged in the fire of suffering and vengeance.

He held onto the recollection of Elara, the gentle curve of her lips his beacon. Her recollection urged him to train, her devotion the flame to never surrender. He would honor her sacrifice, not in tears and mourning, but with the blood to those who had taken her away from him.

He needed to avenge her dead. He needed to stop them before they hurt another innocent person once more. He needed to find the Demon Souls.

Chapter 6: The Lair of the Demon Souls

Stories of the "Demon Souls" were all over. They were mercenaries, infamous for their brutality and their ruthlessness. They trafficked with everything illegal from slaves, to illegal drugs, and they loved torturing the weak.

They were led by three individuals, each one more depraved than the last. Tarum, the chemist, a twisted madman who liked to experiment /on innocent people with cruel glee. Elias, the cyborg, a degenerate man-machine creature, who collected body parts from his victims to create his vile "clone army." And Ragnar, the leader, a sadist who enjoyed torturing and killing with his bare hands.

Mictly knew that they were the responsible for Elara's dead.

He followed the trails of stolen goods and broken bodies; his pursuit was relentless. He learned their routine, their vulnerabilities, their weaknesses. He stalked like a predator, tracking their steps, gathering information, waiting for the right moment to attack.

Outside Pagan City, nested in the thick forest, lay the Demon Souls' camp. A massive aggregate of tents and makeshift shelters, it was a haven for the scum of the earth. The air was tainted with an evil presence, a noxious force composed of cruelty, greed, and desperation.

Mictly watched from the shadows, his eyes narrowed, his body tense. He observed men drink, gamble, abusing prisoners. He saw the leaders, their faces etched with cruelty, enjoying their disgusting power.

He saw the faces of his mother's killers.

Rage ran through him, a torrent that would engulf him. He clenched his fists, his knuckles ivory-colored. He wanted to rush in, to unleash all his fury on them, to tear them apart limb from limb.

But he knew he had to be patient. He had to be strategic. He couldn't afford to fail. He had to avenge his mother.

He waited for the right moment, the moment when the camp was at the most vulnerable, when the guards were too tired to care about their surroundings, that was the time when the storm of wrath within him could finally break free.

Tonight, under the cloak of darkness, he would strike. Tonight, the Demon Souls would know the consequences of their sins. Tonight, Mictly would begin on his final act of vengeance.

Chapter 7: Echoes of Silence

The wind howled, a mournful cry mirroring Mictly's heart. Years had passed, years spend honing his skills, years building his body into a perfect weapon, years fueled by a singular, burning desire for revenge. Tonight, was the end. He had found them. The men responsible for his mother brutal dead, the men who created his personal hell.

The camp stank of cheap liquor and callous laughter. Mercenaries laughed around the edge of a smoldering fire, the muffled screams from the darkened corners of the camp were a macabre soundtrack to their celebration. Mictly's stomach writhed, not from fear, but from the simmering rage threatening to consume him. They would not die easy. They deserved to suffer, to understand the emptiness he had carried for so long.

A storm grew stronger in the distance, a tempest echoing the turmoil within him. The black clouds eclipsed the stars, slashing strokes of lightning and the ear-shattering boom of thunder. The perfect backdrop for the judgment to be passed. Mictly had been a ghost, a sigh on the wind, for years. Now he would be their executioner.

He moved with blur of motion, a shadow among shadows. That infamous hastily erected barbed wire fence, a pathetic attempt at security, offered no resistance. He walked through it as if it did not exist and landing in the middle of a group of mercenaries, their faces flushed with drunken revelry.

The lightning flash showed Mictly's face - a mask of icy determination. He moved with brutal efficiency. A swift strike to the brachial plexus rendered one man unconscious. Another was held down by a shattered kneecap. He avoided lethal blows, focusing on crippling injuries, leaving them in agony, unable to move, unable to escape the consequences of their actions.

This was not justice. It was about retribution. He would break them, physically and mentally, then move on to the next group. Pleading eyes met his cold gaze, desperate cries for mercy were met with silent indifference. He begged for mercy in the past but no one listen.

The storm raged, the wind whipping through the camp, carrying a stench of blood and fear. Thunder masked the cries of the fallen, lightning casting a field of shattered bodies under spinning light. Mictly moved through the carnage, a whirlwind of controlled violence, leaving a trail of shattered limbs and broken lives behind.

They were not men. They were monsters. And tonight, Mictly would show them what it truly meant to be hunted.

Chapter 8: The Architects of Despair

Tarum, Elias, and Ragnar. Names that, to his mind, were a curse. The architects of his despair. They crouched around the smoky fire, their faces illuminated by the leaping flame, their laughter echoing oner the gruesome tableau of mutilated corpses surrounding them. Their light, bloody, cruel sadism was a stinging wound to his conscience.

They were drinking celebrating their barbarity, oblivious to the storm gathering. Then, they saw him. A figure emerging from the shadows, a silhouette of darkness against the ragging storm.

Lightning flared, flash-blinding them for an instant. Vision returned, and they saw a young man standing before them, covered in blood, fists clenched, eyes burning with an incandescent rage.

Tarum, the less imposing of the three, his face scarred and hardened, opened his mouth first, and his tones were thick with snarl of arrogance. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Mictly didn't answer, allowing the weight of his presence to settle upon them, to sow the seed of unease.

Tarum's arrogance wavered. "Do you know who we are? You should leave, or accept your fate."

The wind howled, carrying a whisper of a laugh. Mictly finally spoken, his voice a low, menacing growl. "It has been a while. Don't you remember me? Now, I have come to play with you." His mouth curved into a sadistic smile.

He stepped one step closer, and their expressions shifted. Amusement was replaced by fear, then on to stark, crawling fear.

Tarum's bravado crumbled. "It is impossible. Mictly? you're supposed to be dead."

As Mictly moved forward, the three men retreated, their confidence replaced by primal fear. Ragnar, a cold-eyed gaunt man, grabbed a woman from behind him, a human shield to against the approaching enemy. He held her tightly, his hand clamped around her throat.

"If you step one step further, again, she dies." Ragnar hissed

Mictly Stopped. The woman, young, who was little more than twenty, struggled to breath, her eyes wide with terror. Looked up at Mictly, tears streaming down her face a silent plead for help.

Suddenly, a whisper, soft and insistent, echoing in his mind, a faint memory of his mother gentle spirit. "Save her. Protect her."

He has to save her.

Chapter 9: The Choice

Mictly's voice, cold and commanding, cut through the roaring wind. "Let her go. She has nothing to do with this. This is between you and me."

Ragnar squeezed his grip around the woman's throat. "She is our new healer," he growled. "She is a better than the last one. We paid a high price for this one."

Cold fire ignited within Mictly, burning the vestiges of restrain. He had seen too much violence, too much pain that was unnecessary. This woman, this innocent caught in their depraved game of killing, would not be another victim.

His face twisted in anger, his eyes afire with naked elemental rage. In that instant, lightning flashed, toppling a tree to the left, blinding everyone.

Mictly charged with impossible velocity. All those years of practice, driven by common hatred and retribution, had tempered his flesh into a weapon. Suddenly, he was facing Ragnar, his own fist a blur of movement. He struck Ragnar's elbow with all the anger he could muster, a crunching of motion and sound that broke bone and pulverized flesh.

An explosion of pain ripped its way through Ragnar; his scream was drowned by the howl of the storm. His charred and distorted arm, cut off at the elbow, flew trough the air still clutching the woman around the neck.

Mictly leaped forward, catching the woman as she thrown clear, pulling her away from the fight. He landed heavily, cradling her in his arms, keeping her shielded from Ragnar's flailing stump.

He set her down carefully on the ground, far out for immediate danger, and stood up once more facing his enemies. Ragnar, on his knees withed in agony, holding his shattered wreckage of an arm against his chest. Elias and Tarum; their faces pale with fear ran and went off into the darkness.

A primal roar tore from Mictly's throat. He would not let them escape. He would not give them the right to take their revenge for it.

He chased after them, anger propelling him. But he could only go two paces before the ground under his feet vibrated with a colossal explosion.

He barely had time to react. He threw himself back from it, shielding the woman with his body desperately trying to protect her from the coming onslaught.

The world exploited in a cacophony of fire and noise. A searing pain ripped through him as shrapnel torn his flesh. He was engulfed by the fire of the explosion, the explosion kicking him off the ground and hurling him into space.

His final rational thought was a desperate prayer: Protect her. Like he was protected before. Then darkness claimed him.

Chapter 10: The Weight of Survival

He woke to the acrid flavor of smoke and death. Camp was burned, ripped through the earth with shattered bodies and searing destruction.

He was on his back, fighting to catch his breath, his body a haze of agony. Shrapnel metal embedded in his flesh, each movement causing searing waves of agony to roll over him. He had to stand, had to check on the woman.

He pulled himself up with Herculean strength, his legs trembling under him. He staggered towards in which he had left her, his vision blurring, his body screaming in pain.

He found her where he had left her laying on the ground, miraculously unharmed. She was unconscious but breathing steadily. Relief swept through him, a brief respite from the pain.

He surveyed the scene. The mercenaries he had personally disable now they were a in pieces after the explosion. Tarum, Elias, and Ragnar were nowhere to be found, though. They had escaped.

It struck him in a wham of realization. His revenge was incomplete. He had failed.

He collapsed to his knees; despair filled his heart. He had sacrificed himself to protect this woman and doing so, He let his enemies get away.

He slowly touched the woman's cheek, gently brushing a curl of red hair away from her eyes. She shifted, her eyelids trembling.

He could not remain there. He was wounded, vulnerable. They would return. He had to get her somewhere safe.

With a grunt of exertion, he picked her up in his arms, her weight a strain to his own injured body. He began to walk, stumbling through the debris-strewn landscape, into the breaking of dawn on the horizon.

His journey had only just started. The scars of the past cut too deep, and the road ahead of him was treacherous. But now he had a new mission, a reason to keep fighting. He had to protect her. And he would not stop until he had located his enemies, and at last provided them with justice. The kind of justice they deserve.

Chapter 11: Ashes and Light

He carried her, the young woman, her body limp in his arms. He, Mictly, known more for his brutal strength than gentle care, traveled the perilous road.

He went on, driven by a primal need to escape. Every step he took a victory over the odds, but the further they could go from carnage, a creeping weakness began to ensnare him. At first, he felt a slight dizziness, the ground rolling beneath him. Then cold, wet fear.

He what it was. Blood, he was losing to much blood. He hadn't had the time to assess the damage in his body, at this moment his only concern was to protect the girl. Now, he felt the familiar sting in his side, the throbbing in his arm. Open wounds to remember how close he had come to death.

He stumbled, his knees giving way. He fought to remain on his feet, propelled by the need to protect the helpless life that rested in his arms. His legs would not behave, however. He fell to the ground, shock beginning to send shivers through and down his spine.

Then, a sensation he hadn't felt in years. Warmth wrapped around his battered body. Like a blanket, a soothing embrace through his injured body, a gentle balm that eased the pain. The feeling resonated deep within him, a phantom echo of his mother, her hands glowing as she healed his childhood l cuts and scrapes. Tears poured down in his eyes, blurring his vision.

He looked up at the woman he held. Her green eyes, as green as a forest pond, looked up into his. They held no fear, only a profound calm and surprising kindness. She reached out, her hand surprisingly strong, and gently wiped the tears from his face.

Her voice, soft as a whisper, carried a strange power. "You can rest now, Mictly. I will make sure you are protected."

She spoke his name; he hadn't told her his name. But exhaustion overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes, as he let himself drift to the warmth, to the calming cadence of her voice. He drifted into a darkness that was surprisingly peaceful.

Chapter 12: Awakening

He woke up. Night had descended, the sky a dense mat of points of star. He felt? good. Better than he had in years. Worse than he'd hurt for years. The persistent pain that usually plagued his body was gone. He was well-rested, refreshed, like he'd slept for centuries.

Panic flared. The woman! Where had she gone? He tried to get up but a weight on his chest held him back. He looked down.

The woman was sleeping, her head pillowed on his chest. Her red hair spilled across his skin, a stark contrast against the scars etched there. Her face was peaceful, angelic, under the moon. Something warm and protective vibrated through him, something so new and so bright that it took his breath away.

He couldn't bring himself to wake her. He gazed at her face, at things he had not even seen: the curve of her jaw, so soft, the tiny shape of her lips, the shape of her eyelashes where they lay against her skin.

He lay there, entranced, as first light spread across the horizon.

Chapter 13: The River Song

Mictly woke up suddenly it was late morning. The woman was not there. With wonder, thumping of the heart against his chest, the odd emptiness welling up in his gut. Had she left? Did she abandon him?

He touched his chest, where she had sleep. The warmth remained, and the odd feeling, a spreading tingle in his flesh, a connection he couldn't explain.

He pushed himself to his feet, the grass cool and wet of grass under his feet. His stomach rumbled, a rough reminder of his earthy needs. He was starving. He set the nagging worry about the woman aside and pushed on.

Then he heard it. A sound that tickled the back of his neck, a low buzzing on the wind. Singing?

His survival mechanism, developed over the years, kicked in. Someone was near him. Perhaps a threat. But the singing-so otherworldly and lovely that he knew.

He cautiously approached the sound of sound. The singing became louder with every step he took towards it. It was her. The woman.

He emerged from the trees and stopped, mesmerized. She sitting on a rock by the river bank, washing her hair in the clear flowing water. The morning sun bathed her body in gold, turning her hair into a cascade of liquid fire. She was breathtaking.

He couldn't help but stare at her. A supernatural beaty radiated from her, a loveliness that glowed and shivered around her like a living aura.

She lifted her head, and her green eyes met his. She smiled, a simple, brilliant smile that stole his breath away.

He turned his face away, suddenly embarrassed, ashamed of the rags folded around his body and the grime on his skin.

"I?I apologize," he muttered, his eyes on the ground. "I shouldn't have come in."

He writhed in embarrassment, not sure what to say. Finally, he could not help himself saying, "Are you? are you hungry?"

Her smile deepened. "Yes, I am," she replied, and her voice was as pleasant as her singing.

He cleared his throat for the third time. "I'll? I'll get some fish out of the river," he told her, and added as a thought after the fact, "We should probably head back to town after that."

Chapter 14: The Storm Within

She spotted him later in the morning along the riverbank. He stood in the middle of the rushing water, his muscles rippling as he moved. His back a topography of pain inscribed on his skin: scores of scars, some pale and old, others red and new. She wondered about the existence he had lived, the agony he'd endured, the burden that he carried. And about the reason why he wanted to "hunt" the "Demon Souls."

She sat on a smooth, sun-warmed rock, lost in thought. Who was this man, this Mictly? A warrior, hardened by violence, yet he'd saved her and protect her. How different from those who'd traded with her.

A sudden ruble brough her back to really. She looked up. Dark clouds were gathering overhead, swirling and churning with unnatural speed. A storm was coming.

She opened her mouth to warn Mictly, and she stopped. She looked into him and she could sense the storm that was been channeled through him. He stood perfectly still, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with and intensity that mirrored the storm forming above them. He raised his hand, clenching it into a fist, and violently struck the water.

The world burst in a blinding flash of light. She covered her eyes with her hands and closed them tightly. When she could open them again, the landscape was different.

The clouds were gone. The storm came and went with as rapid a speed as it came in. Mictly stood in front of her, a few fish grasped in his hand. He walked along as if nothing unusual had occurred, extremely calm.

Chapter 15: Sharing the Fire

They stood in front of a burning fire, fried fish smell filling the air. There was a calm but expectant silence.

He spoke to the fire, his voice low and inquiring. "My name is Mictly, but you already know that" he said to the fire. "I move town to town, earning cash fighting and looking for clues about the Demon Souls mercenaries."

He glanced at her, a look of concern crossing his features. "If you would like, I can take you somewhere safe?your family, perhaps? Or any place where you feel safe?" he inquired.

She did not look at him, making designs in the dirt with her fingers. "My name is Rina," she whispered. "My step-parents sold me into slavery. I don't have a place to go."

She looked up, a glow touching her face. "But I could go with you," she told him, a pleading sound in her voice. "I am a healer, you see. I would be able to help."

He looked at her with sad eyes, the flames flickering between them. "I am not a good person, Rina. I travel from town to town, fighting for money, never staying in one place for long. I do not think it will be a life for you."

Her face twisted. She wrapped arms around knees and pulled them up to her, resting her face in the bend of them. She was so exposed, so vulnerable.

Mictly watched her, knot in his chest. What was this? Sympathy? Guilt? A voice he knew, a whisper from the darkest corner of his mind, spoke in his head: "You have to protect her."

He exhaled, shrugged shoulders. He had no idea how he could just leave her to her fate, not after what she had been through.

He said, "I have a little house on the outskirts of town," he grumbled to himself. "You can stay there as long as you'd like. I'm never there and you'll be safe."

Her head snapped up; eyes widened with surprise. A slow smile spread across her face, chasing away the sadness. "Are you sure?" she whispered.

He threw his head back and forth in a funny, uncharacteristic gesture.

She jumped up, an explosion of sheer happiness bursting from her. "Thank you, Mictly!" she exclaimed.

Chapter 16: Pagan City

After they finished eating, they started walking towards Pagan City. Mictly couldn't take his eyes off her. Her long, red hair danced in the air, catching the sunlight like silk gossamer. Her small body twirled around him in a whirlpool of energy, like a little mouse chasing after a piece of cheese. Everything about her was captivating.

Rina was poorly dressed, wearing an old simple white dress, barefoot. She didn't care. She was smiling at him, and around her there was a glow of radiance which appeared to emanate from within.

As they walked, Mictly knew that everything would never be the same again. He, the battle-weary warrior, was now responsible for this fragile creature, this woman who had lighted up the darkness of his life. He had no idea what the future had in store for the world, but of one thing he was sure: he would protect Rina, no matter what. And protecting her, he could, perhaps, find a little redemption for himself.

Chapter 17: The Detour

The grit of the road crunched under Mictly's boots. If felt like he'd been walking for months, years even. His life was a rough outline of shattered highways and transitory friendships, all held together by an overwhelming appetite for revenge that left his mouth dry. He was a fighter, a man shattered by loss, and his only friend was revenge.

They reached the outskirts of town and he led her into a small, humble-looking shop, whose windows had jars of pickles and bunches of dried herbs.

They entered and approached the owner, a stout woman with kind eyes. He looked at Rina. "Grab whatever you need. I'll grab a few things for the house. We'll decide if we need anything else when we get there." he said.

She jumped in front of him, her eyes wide open. "Are you sure?". He nodded, in a rare gesture of agreement.

Tears welled in her eyes, and jumped back startled. He hadn't expected that. He wasn't used to feelings.

"This is the first time in my whole life that someone has offered to buy something for me" she chocked, trembling in her voice.

Then a smile had flashed then upon her mouth, a radiant, breathtaking smile that reached her eyes and warmed him from the inside out. Simple enough to produce, this smile, he couldn't understand how this tiny little creature held a power he couldn't understand.

He shacked his head, feeling a bit embarrassed. "It's not a big deal. Guy what you need. Don't worry about the cost."

And then, poof, she was gone. She was a whirlwind energy, little bunny, hopping from shelf to shelf, examining fabrics, looking at ribbons, her eyes sparkling with a joy he had never witnessed.

He watched her, mesmerized, as she packed a few essentials and a couple of simple sundresses into a small bag. He found himself wanting to protect that joy, that happiness, protect that smile from the harsh reality of the world.

He paid for everything, his head already reeling with the unsettling realization that his carefully constructed walls were beginning to crumble He was attracted to her, to her warmth, to her vulnerability, and he knew, in a heart battered by sorrow, that his need for revenge was about to take an unexpected detour.

Chapter 18: A House Reclaimed

The house was a relic, an ancient remnant of Mictly's past. It just sat on the outskirts of town, weeds pushing through it, windows boarded over, door hinges creaking ominously. He hadn't gone inside for months.

He unlocked the door with an old battered key, and a cloud of dust poured out, as in ghostly welcome.

"Sorry," he apologized, blushing. "I haven't been here for a while."

Rina smiled, not concerned with the condition of the house. "It has good bones," she said to him, a desire in her voice he hadn't expected. "Are you sure I can stay?"

He looked at her, his eyes locked on hers. Her eyes pleaded with him. He knew he should say no. He knew he should be cautious, protect his heart from the pain that came with attachment. But he couldn't.

"Yes," he said to her, the word felt weird in his mouth.

Her smile widened. "All right! You go and get some delicious food for dinner." She gently pushed him out of the door, with infections energy. "Go on! Don't worry about me. I will be fine"

He hesitated for a second, then allowed himself to be pushed out. She closed the door behind him and for the first time in years, he smiled. Not a grimace of satisfaction or imitation of boredom, but a natural, genuine smile.

He walked towards the market; his steps lighter than they had been in years. He felt some intangible sense of anticipation, a yearning that he couldn't place. He found himself buying not only needs, but a few luxuries too - honey, a fresh loaf of bread, a bunch of wildflowers.

He returned a couple of hours later, grocery bags full in his arms, it was already the evening, barely recognized his house. The overgrown vegetation was gone, windows open and sunlight pouring in, and the front door left wide open, a warm welcome to go inside.

Inside, the transformation went deeper. There was no dust and a subtle scent of lemon and herbs. The furniture, dark and shadowy in its former state, had been polished. Warmth and light seemed to fill the air.

And she emerged from one of the back rooms, and he felt his breath caught in his throat. She was wearing the new blue dress, ponytail neat style pulled back behind her. Her smile was wider and warmer than he had remembered.

She jumped into his arms, her touch sending a jolt through him. "Did you get something delicious for dinner?" she asked, her voice bubbly and full of happiness.

He couldn't react for a moment. He was stunned, knocked off his feet by the radiance of her happiness. He had spent so long in the darkness, that he had forgotten the way it felt like to be surrounded by light.

Finally, he could stutter, "I bought meat and vegetables at the market."

She took the bags out of his hands and moved into the kitchen, an improvised space she had added by sheer force of will. "Dinner will be ready in a minute," she called over her shoulder. "Go wash yourself! And I am sorry, I didn't buy soap so I used yours."

He walked to the wash room, he grabbed the soap, suddenly, he blushed, his cheeks red. "Stopped" he commanded himself tightly. "Behave." His mind a whirlwind of emotions. He was drawn to her, yes, but he was afraid. Afraid of being hurt, afraid of losing everything he'd struggled so desperately to keep for himself - his aloneness, his cynicism, his purpose.

Chapter 19: Seeds of Change

They had dinner together, a simple meal, roasted meat and fried vegetables and rice. But it was something more. It was a connection between them, one that had been forged in laughter and conversation.

They spent hours sitting there, trading silly stories and silly jokes. He told him of his adventures, the blood-and-guts part omitted, painting a picture of a wonderer searching for meaning. She told him of her childhood, of her dreams, of struggles suffered with noble dignity.

The hours turned into days, then weeks, and months. Mictly stopped traveling. He was drawn by wholesome routine of home and Rina's quiet life. He helped her with domestic chores, learned to cook, even attempted to grow a small garden.

He saw her heal, not just bodily but even spiritually. He saw her laugh more openly, smile more warmly. He saw her blossom, like a flower reaching to the sunlight.

He himself was changing. The rage that fueled him all these years was gradually fading away, replaced by a sense of calm he has never felt before. He was drawn to the simple pleasures of life - the beauty of sunrise, the warmth of fire, the sound of Rina's laughter.

One evening, side by side on the porch, watching the starts, Rina reached out and held out her hand to him, a glint of moonlight in her eyes. "Why did you give it up?" she asked softly, "Traveling, I mean?"

He hesitated, Unsure of how to explain the change which had occurred in him. "I?found something worth to stay for," he finally said, his words almost a whisper.

She smiled, knowing. "Me?"

He nodded, unable to meet her eyes.

She reached out and took his hand, sending a shiver down his back. "You've changed me, Mictly," she whispered, her voice filled with emotion. "You've given me hope, and I never believed? I could be healed."

He looked at her, his heart overflowing with a feeling he couldn't name. It was not affection; or gratitude. It was something deeper, something more profound.

He bent and kissed her, the kiss hesitant at first, then more passionate, more demanding. It was a kiss that shouted unspoken feeling, of shared experiences, of a love that had blossomed from the most unexpected place.

Their feelings grew day by day. The time passed and years later, and their little family grew.

Chapter 20: Secret Angels

Three lovely daughters were born - Atzi, Tozi, and Xoco. They inherit their mother's loving heart and their own warm spirit. They were wild, lively, and full of energy, and they brought so much joy and laughter to Mictly's life that he had never dreamed possible.

They also inherited something else, something that was handed down a long time ago in Rina's family, something that was kept secret - the ability to heal.

Rina though her daughters how to use their talent, how to harness their innate connection with the world to mend wounds, ease pain, and restore balance. She cautioned them to keep their power hidden, for the world was not always kind to those who were gifted like them.

Mictly, who had always relied on brute force and physical strength. He soon witnesses their power in person, he observed his daughters mend an injured animal, heal from sickness, and even mend his broken heart.

He learned to accept their abilities, to protect them and to admire the gentle inner strength they possessed. He realized that true power was not in attack or revenge but healing and compassion.

Twenty years went by. Twenty years of transformation for Mictly, from a man driven by revenge and hate to a man who lived to protect his most precious treasure - his family. They left the old house and built a new one further into the forest, deeper into the countryside.

He traded combat scars for blisters on his palms. The fighting man turn himself in to a farmer, seeding grounds and breeding cattle to feed his family. Peaceful days arrived to their lives, filled with blue skies and sunshine.

He watched his daughters grow up to be strong independent women, each forging her own path while honoring their shared gift. The oldest of the three sisters, Atzi, became a skilled herbalist using her knowledge to create remedies for the sick. The second sister, Tozi, possessed a natural talent for music, and her melodies weaving spells of comfort and healing. Xoco was the youngest sister, was a gifted artist, she painted over glass creating magical images that heal the heart and soul.

They were a reserved, contemplative family, their nights and days spent in laughter, hard work, and plain enjoyment of domestic life.

Mictly knew, however, that their peace would not last forever. Beyond their secluded home, the world outside was beautiful and cruel. And he had no doubt that his daughters, with their divine gifts, would eventually be drawn into the conflict.

He had to teach them, to train them in the ways of defending themselves, defending their gift, and learning how to utilize their power for the benefit of humanity. He had to teach them how to be healers and protectors, how to navigate the complex rules of a nasty but fantastic world.

He knew that path ahead would be full of challenges. But he was sure that with Rina by his side, they could overcome any challenge life offered them, hand in hand.

He had found peace, he had found love, and he had found a purpose beyond his selfish desires. He was no longer just a fighter. He was a guardian, a father, a husband. And he would lay down his life for his family.

Chapter 21: Crimson Harvest

The sun beat down Mictly's back, baking the sweat in to the fabric of his worn shirt. Another good day, he though, standing up, muscles complaining but pleased. Corn rustled in the breeze, ocean of green promising a good harvest. He looked up to a blue unbroken sky, and his face furrowed in smile. "Time to go home."

Those word were barely out when the world exploded.

A tearing sound, growing louder and ferocious, ripped through the air. Birds screamed in terror. A searing pain tore the side of Mictly, a burning inferno blooming outward. He looked down at it, his face numbed with shock. Red flared on his shirt, coloring the earth in a crimson color.

He crumpled to his knees, the world titling. He heard the voice of voices approaching, icy and merciless, and stunningly familiar. Voices that plagued his nightmares.

"Hello, Mictly? did you forget us?" The speaker's tone, laced with cruel amusement scraped against his ears.

"We are here to take back what is ours," the second one snarled, a promise of pain and retribution hanging in the air.

"Please don't die, we have a lot of fun planned for you and you little family," the third voice mocked, chillingly playful tone that made his blood run cold.

Tarum, Elias and Ragnar. Leaders of the demon souls, terror of the valleys, devils he had been fighting to rid himself of for years. He tried to sit up, to fight back, but his legs won't obey.

Ragnar's boot crashed into his face, and burning fire sliced through his skull. "We know about you and the slave, and that your children can heal like their mother." The words were drenched in malice, the horrifying distorted face of Ragnar changed into a grotesque parody of a smile. "They'll have to be trained like we did with the slave, but we have time for that and more." He heard laughing from the other two behind him. "You, on the other hand, just enjoy to see the show. So please don't die? yet."

Elias and Tarum grabbed him from his legs pulling him across the field, his flesh ripping on rocky ground. A crimson smear trailed behind him like a deformed banner. The world swam in and out of focus. Then, they stopped abruptly.

The rasp of metal on old wood was the first sound he registered. Pain pounded in his head, a banging drumbeat that mirrored the boom of his heartbeat. He blinked, forcing himself to see, to understand what was happening.

His hands?. his hands were pinned to the wood, rusted iron nails pierce his flesh, splintering through bone. Searing, serrated pain tore through him.

Ragnar began to strike him; each blow felt like a hammer against his weakening body. Tarum and Elias slowly walked inside the house. He heard the chaos thruoght the haze of pain: furniture crashing, Rina's desperate screams of horror, her pleas for mercy echoing in his ears. "Please! Leave my children! I beg you, please!" His daughters, Atzi, Tozi, and Xoco, screaming with terror, their voices shrill with fear.

They were dragged out, his precious family, bound by their necks like animals. They were forced to their knees in front of him, their faces twisted in pain and terror. He saw Rina's bruised, battered face, tears streaming down her cheeks. His daughters trembled behind her, screaming a shriek of terror, begging mercy on behalf of their father.

Ragnar yanked Rina's hair and shoved her face into Mictly's. "Here is your hero," he growled, his warm, dirty breath against her lips. "Look at him. Remember his pathetic face. This is the last time you will see him alive." And with a brutal shove, he threw her onto the ground once more.

Ragnar turn his attention back to Mictly, yanking his head up by the hair. "Look at them," he growled. "This will be your last memory of them. And remember". Ragnar getting closer to Mictly's face. "They will be slaves for the remainder of their lives." There was a wild laughter in Ragnar's throat.

Elias stepped closer, the gun shining in sunlight. He pressed it against Mictly's temple, cold metal to searing agony inside. The hammer was drawn back.

"Shoot him in the stomach," Tarum croaked, his voice low with wicked glee. "The pain will be worse."

Elias smiled and fired. The bullet tore through Mictly's abdomen, another searing agony contorting his body. The blood spouted from the wound and staining the already red ground. His family screamed begging them to stop, their pleas tearing his heart.

They continued the torment. Elias shot him several more times the bullets tore through his body. Ragnar stroke him with all his might each blow making his hold on life tighter.

Finally, they grew tired of their game. They left Mictly nailed to the post, a grotesque effigy of suffering, dragging his family away. Elias and Ragnar were left with his family, leaving Tarum to clean up the mess in the house.

Mictly tried to scream, tried beg, to plead Rina and his daughters to be release. He would give them anything, everything, if they would just leave them in peace. But his voice wouldn't come. The pain was too overwhelming, his body too broken, to even breathe. He fainted, drifted away, into darkness.

In the moment that he was shrouded in oblivion, he remembered seeing them dragged away, tied and humiliated. Rina's face contorted in a grimace of agony. Atzi, Tozi, and Xoco, holding onto their mother, shaking in fear. He closed his eyes, the image burned in his memory, and though, "In the end, once more I could not protect them." Desperate tears came out his eyes.

Darkness fell around him. Sounds were pushed away, and they became a nearly crushing silence. Then a voice. A quiet voice, warm memories from his past rush into his mind.

"Not yet, Mictly. You must save them. You must protect them."

Chapter 22: One more time

A deep sigh escape from his lips, steam leaving his mouth, searing down his parched throat. He wrestled against the bonds, rusty nails cutting deeper into his bruised arms. He had to escape. He had to survive. He had to?

A scream ripped from his throat; a guttural roar that seemed ripped up out of the very bottom of his soul. It was no longer the sound of a man. It was the howl of something primal, something ancient and monstrous.

A cloud appeared in the horizon, a dark stain against the blinding blue. It grew with astonishing speed, advancing like a festering wound. The wind increased to a howl that rose to a maddened scream, tearing Mictly's ragged clothes.

The change was nearly imperceptible at first, a subtle shift in the air, a tingling on his skin. But the cloud expanded, covering the sky, the air vibrated with potency nearly palpable. Lightning illuminated the skies, illuminating the scene in stark, with unforgiving light, followed by the deafening clap of thunder that vibrated though his bones.

This was not a storm. This was a reckoning.

Thunder boomed once more, louder this time, a scream within the skies that echoed to the harmony of his suffering. It was not thunder; it was a mirror reflecting the tempest raging within Mictly's heart.

He struggled against nails, his muscles screaming in agony. Metal tore harder, tearing tissue around wounds. Blood flew outward, staining wood reddish brown. He had to get free. He had to?

He fell, supports cut.

He felt himself falling, the support gone, his body hitting the dry ground. Every part of his body screaming in protest. He lay there, broken and bleeding, he was not going to die. He had to survive.

The storm continued with even greater fury.

Strength ran through him with each flash of the lightning. The pain, though, still excruciating. A burning, searing fire, but intertwined with strange, almost intoxicating power.

With each rumble of thunder, his shattered bones were stretched into spasm. He felt the splinters of bone crashing together to mend, the broken pieces smashed and remolding, grown stronger now.

Then came the rain, freezing, suffocating rain, the healing process started. The water cleansed his battered body of blood and grime, washing out pain. It soaked into wounds, not with gentle coolness, but with burning, renewed life.

Chapter 23: The Awakening

Rain pounded the earth, a relentless assault, obliterating the world in a curtain of grey. Mictly lay in the mud, his body twitching, convulsing as the healing process took hold.

He could feel his bones knitting, growing, healing themselves at ghastly speed. The splintered ribs smoothing the rough edges, the shattered limbs and arms un-breaking and reforming stronger than they had originally been. The torn-up flesh sewing itself together again, the cuts closing up, contracting, flattening into scars.

His senses were alive, sharpened. He could smell the ozone in the air, the damp earth below him, the fear that had rooted in the wood of the cross upon which he had been fastened. He could hear the howl of the wind, the rumble of the thunder, and the faintest whisperers sound of leaves.

He opened his eyes.

They were no longer soft Mictly's hazel eyes. They were pools of burning gold now, afire with inner flame, a mirror to the tempest that stormed within him. They sliced the world with clean brightness, new understanding.

He stood, slowly, deliberately, his body trembling with power. He was taller, broader, more gigantic, his muscles rippling under his skin.

The storm was not just a regular storm. It was a catalyst. It had ripped the face of humanity, revealing the monster beneath.

Chapter 24: Fanning the Flames

Tarum whistled a tuneless melody as mounted the last of the improvised bombs. Pulling back to look, a smug of satisfaction spreading across his face. A network of accelerant- soaked rags snaked through the floorboards, leading back to a meticulously wired fuse box.

"An electric fire, that'll do," he muttered to himself, the words drowned out by the din of the corridor. "Everyone dies, no clues, no witnesses."

He planned perfectly. The storm brewing outside, a violent tempest gathering strength with each passing second, was the icing on the cake. It would cover the sound, the smell, everything.

"Maybe I'll just sit here until the storm is gone," he grumbled to himself, irritated for the moment. The wind was picking up, howling like a banshee. He felt a prickle of unease, a sensation he quickly dismissed as nerves.

Suddenly, the wind, fueled by unseen forces, pulled the front door off its hinges with a deafening crack. Tarum jumped, his chest pounding. He cursed, then he cautiously approached the gaping doorway.

A jagged bolt of lightning illuminated the scene, etching the world in stark white against an impenetrable black. He glanced across at the pole where Mictly's body had lain. It was empty.

His face paled. His eyes widened. Disbelief warring with a rising wave of fear. "Where was the body? Something must have dragged it away." The thought was absurd, yet he clung to it, desperate to rationalize the impossible.

A thunder crash, so violent that it felt like the earth itself was slitting, shook the house to its foundations. Tarum instinctively covered his ears, his breath catching in his throat. The lights flickered and then plunged him into absolutely darkness.

Cold sweat dripped on his skin. Darkness was suffocating him, strangling him. He felt like a prey, stalked by an unseen predator. A low guttural growl rumble from behind him.

He spun around, his eyes straining in the darkness. Nothing.

The lights blazed. again, bathing the room in greasy yellow light. Tarum gasped, burning in lungs. It was just his imagination, he said to himself, a trick of the darkness and the fear.

He turned back towards the open door, ready to close it, and froze.

Standing in front of him, impossible close was a hulking figure. Tarum strained his neck, locked heart stiff in horror, and looked up? and up? until he saw the face.

"...Mictly," he whispered.

He reacted on instinct, grabbing a small bag of specially prepared powder he kept tucked inside his coat. He threw it in Mictly's face.

Mictly covered his face with both hands. "This is one of my best works," Tarum said, his voice heavy with bravado, "a poison that consumes flesh and skin like fire. You will be dead in full agony." Laughter came out his mouth.

But Mictly did not flinch. Hi did not move. He did not make a sound.

Tarum waited, seething with anger as Mictly slowly unfolded his hands in front of his face. He could anticipate the beating, the screaming.

But what the saw instead transformed his face of victory to unadulterated terror.

Mictly's face blazed with fire, his flesh bubbling and peeling, but the damage was actively, repairing itself, literally, in seconds, before his very eyes. His face healed entire in seconds, unbroken, unmarred.

Tarum knew, with chilling certainty, that Mictly possessed something his mind was not prepared to deal with. He scrambled back, fear gave him a fleeting surge of berserker strength, and tried to run away. But a hand, a big hand for his size, wrapped around his throat. He dangled there for a moment, choking, his eyes bulging. And then he was flung across the room and pounded up against the wall with a sickening thud. He crumpled to the floor, a broken heap, his head spinning.

His own face distorted into a face of terror. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't get away.

Mictly walked toward him, his pace deliberately slow, every step echoing into Tarum's already frayed nerves. He stopped, towering over him, Mictly got closer inches from his face. Tarum could sense the heat radiating from Mictly, heat that had nothing to do with the poison.

Mictly's voice was low, guttural growl, a sound dredged from the depths of hell itself. "Where did they take my family."

Chapter 25: The Cost of Lies

Tarum stuttered, words jumbling over one another in hopeless bid to appease the beast in front of him. "Wait, I don't know! I didn't do anything! I was?"

He never got to say anything else.

Mictly struck. The blow was so fast, so brutal, that Tarum never felt himself getting hit. His arm was there; then it wasn't.

There was no pain, only a numb shock that quickly gave way to an agonizing, searing fire. He screamed, a a primal sound of pure unadulterated torment. He looked down at the ragged stump where his arm used to be, at the gruesome spray of blood and bone splattered across the wall.

He couldn't believe his eyes. His arm? was gone.

Mictly grabbed him by the throat once more, vise-like hold, and threatened again, syllables drawn out, menacing. "Where? did? they? take? my? family?"

Tarum's eyes widened in terror. He saw death in Mictly's eyes, a cold, implacable death that promised no escape. He squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the next blow.

He choked out his denial, desperate to stave off the inevitable. "Wait! Wait! I don't know, I swear I don't?"

Another explosion of pain. This time in his leg. He looked down to see another truncated stump, another spout of disgusting blood.

The screams tore from his throat, raw and piercing. He writhed on the floor, his body convulsing in agony.

Mictly's fist clenched once more, his own face contorted in naked rage. He aimed his fist to Tarum's chest.

" WAIT!!" Tarum screamed, his voice breaking. "I don't know! Elias told me he was going back to Dust Devil town, and Ragnar told me he was going back to Pagan City! That is all I know!" The words were barely above a whisper, a desperate plea flung into the teeth of the storm.

Mictly glared at him with flames of anger burning deep in his eyes. Outside, the storm raged and lashed about, a mirror of the hurricane that churning in his heart.

A slow terrifying smile spread across Mictly's face. It was a feral grin, devoid from warmth or compassion. A promise of pain and destruction.

"You know," Mictly declared, his voice too smooth, "I am not a good person. I have taken the lives of so many, their souls have turned into demons that live inside me."

He paused at the midpoint of a sentence, looking at Tarum's terrified eyes.

"My family? they the angels who keep those demons in check. You, took, my angels," he leaned forward grabbing Tarum's face, the words dropping away to a snarling growl, "and now, those demons are free again."

The storm outside intensified. Lightning lit up a tree outside and blew it to splinters. Thunder shook beneath the house.

With each flash of lightning, Mictly's fist slammed Tarum's corpse on the ground. Every thunder boom, Tarum's pleas for mercy were swallowed by the storm, vanishing into the wind like dust. The house, once an intended as a tomb, had become a stage of the ultimate punishment for a wicked man. The storm raged on, a witness to the unleashed fury of a man, a fury sleep for more than twenty years.

Chapter 26: The Echo of Violence

The air hung thick and heavy, saturated with the metallic tang of blood. Red was the dominant color in the room, not the vibrant hue of life, but the dull congealed shade of death. It painted the walls, a grotesque mural of violence, clinging to the faded floral wallpaper like a macabre vine. Tarum lay on the floor, a pulped pile of bone and meat. He was less than a human being now, he looked more like discarded experiment, a failed attempt at recreating the form he once held. Standing over the carnage, Mictly breathed thin and ragged. His fist, clenched tight, dripped crimson onto the worn wooden planks. His arms, once a canvas o bare skin, were now slick and stained, betraying the brutal symphony he had conducted. But his face, was the most unsettling paradox. It was calm, untouched by the frenzy that had just consumed him. There was no wildness, no rage, no visible sign of the monster that had reside within him moments ago. It was as if the storm had passed, leaving only a strange, unnerving tranquility in its wake.

He walked away, slowly and calm. In the hallway, a worn leather jacket hung on the coat rack, a familiar comfort in a world turned upside down. He slipped it on, the scent of aged leather a small, fleeting solace. Then he grabbed the motorcycle gear - the helmet, the gloves, the reinforced boots - each piece a layer of protection, a shield against the world, I shield that he though he won't need anymore.

The back of the house was shrouded in shadows, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked scene he left behind. Under a thick, oil-stained tarp, a machine slumbered. A motorcycle, but not just a motorcycle. It was a best of black steel and wild power, stripped down and modify for speed and agility. A war machine from past times.

He pulled the tarp off, the heavy canvas vibrating softly. The bike gleamed under the dim light, a predator waiting to be unleashed. He kicked his leg around the seat, cold metal under his leg. The engine screamed to life in guttural growl, jerking through his skeleton, promise of freedom.

He sped down the driveway wide open, rain pouring down, large, heavy drops splattering on his visor. Through the rearview he could see behind them, their house on fire, a black sky with a burning explosion screaming their silence down.

His jaw was clenched, his teeth gritted. "An electric fire," he muttered to himself, and his words were drowned out by the thunder of the engine. "Everyone dies, no clues, no witnesses."

Chapter 27: Into the Storm

In the horizon. A malevolent tower of darkness was forming, bruising the sky. Lightning, not the playful flash of summer, but blinding, angry unchecked blast of unadulterated fury, clawed down, scarring the earth. It was a storm born not from nature but pure and absolute wrath.

At the base of this furious sky, a single point of defiance cut through the growing gloom. A motorcycle, roaring like an angry beast, consumed miles of asphalt. The highway blurred beneath him, a dark ribbon unwinding in his desperate pursuit. The wind howled in his ears, a mournful cry that mirrored the fear clutching in his heart. His contorted face set in rigid determination. He had to get there. He had to save them. He needed to protect his family.