Burn the Beast: Eldritch God rehabilitated to a beast tamer

Julian wasn't so charitable.

He'd made El Ritch sleep in the food storage cellar beneath the cabin. The walls were formed of tightly packed wheat bales, barely keeping out the biting wind that slipped through the cracks. A fire pit burned at the center, its warmth fighting a losing battle against the chill that seemed to seep into El Ritch's bones. It was cold—bitterly, unforgivingly cold.

But El Ritch had made sure that his passion did not end well in ashes.

Before freezing to death, he resolved, he would at least perfect Julian's technique. If the winter took him, so be it—better that than the shame of failing to gain admission to the academy.

In the meager warmth of the firelight, he gripped his wooden sword and took his stance. His feet shifted carefully across the rough stone floor as he prepared to execute the sequence again.

First movement: a horizontal arc, the sword cutting through the air like a scythe.

Second movement: his left foot stepped forward, firm and deliberate, anchoring him for the next strike.

Third movement: the sword thrust forward in a clean, precise motion, aiming for an imaginary enemy.

And then it all fell apart.

As the third movement ended, his balance wavered. His body faltered, the sequence unraveling like a thread pulled loose. He stumbled, his foot slipping dangerously close to the fire pit. The sudden heat against his leg snapped him back into awareness, and he recoiled just in time, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

"Why?... Why?! WHY? WHY? WHY?!"

His roar of frustration echoed through the storage room as he hurled the wooden sword across the space. It struck a stack of wheat bales in the far corner and fell to the ground with a hollow clatter. His chest heaved, his fists clenched.

Why couldn't he do it? Why didn't his body flow like Julian's? The movements were so fluid, so natural for him, and yet for El Ritch, they felt clumsy, forced.

The fire crackled softly, its embers glowing faintly in the dim cellar. The only sound was the low whistle of the wind seeping through the walls. After a moment, El Ritch sighed, his anger ebbing into something quieter—an ache of determination.

He trudged across the room and picked up the wooden sword, his hands trembling slightly as he tightened his grip. He turned back to the fire pit, the flickering light casting long shadows across his small frame.

Taking his position again, he planted his feet firmly on the ground. Eight days remained. That was all the time he had left to prove himself. What good would come from complaining to himself now?

[He tried. 

He failed. 

He tried. 

He failed.

He tried.

He failed.] 

Over and over, he swung the wooden sword, his arms burning from the effort, his legs trembling with every misstep. And each time, the failure stung worse than the last. 

"What the hell is wrong with me?!" El Ritch screeched, his voice echoing through the cold, empty cellar. In a fit of fury, he hurled the wooden sword once more, his frustration spilling over like a flood that could no longer be dammed. 

The sword clattered against a wooden beam, bouncing off with an unpredictable arc. It struck the fire pit, knocking a log loose, which rolled perilously close to the dry wheat bales that formed the walls. El Ritch's heart leapt into his throat as he scrambled forward, kicking the log away with all the force he could muster. 

For a moment, his panic eased. But the kick extinguished the fire, plunging the storage room into an icy, suffocating darkness. 

The cold swept in immediately, unrelenting and merciless. The pale, biting wind clawed its way through the cracks in the walls, gnawing at his skin. El Ritch stood frozen, his breath misting before him as the realization sank in. He was in trouble. 

Without a second thought, he bolted for the stairs. His legs carried him faster than his mind could process, his body acting on pure instinct. He burst out of the storage cellar and into Julian's house, the door slamming against the wall with a resounding crash. 

"Julian!" he cried, his voice cracking as he pounded on the door to Julian's quarters. His small fists hammered against the wood with every ounce of strength he had left. "Julian! Please!" 

The silence that followed was colder than the wind outside. 

He pounded harder, his knuckles stinging with each strike. "Julian!" he screamed again, his voice raw and desperate. But the house gave no reply, as if it too had turned its back on him. 

El Ritch froze, his breath catching in his throat. He pressed his ear to the door, hoping for the faintest sound of movement, a sign that he wasn't alone. But there was nothing. No footsteps, no creak of the floorboards. 

Julian wasn't there. 

The realization dawned on him slowly, cruel and unforgiving, like a blade dragging across his chest. No one was coming. 

He turned and fled. 

---

The village was a ghost of itself under the midnight sky. Snow piled high, creeping over the pathways like a slow, inevitable death. The braziers had long since burned out, their warmth nothing but a memory. El Ritch ran, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his feet slipping on the icy ground. 

The snow was deep now, reaching past his knees with every step, and the biting cold numbed his legs. His lungs burned as he gulped in the freezing air, the effort leaving him lightheaded and stumbling. Dark pits surrounded him where the firelight once flickered, and he knew in his heart there was no one awake, no one who would answer his cries. 

Still, he ran, desperation driving him forward. He darted from house to house, searching for even the faintest flicker of warmth, of light. But there was nothing. Every window was dark, every hearth cold. His teeth chattered violently, his body shivering harder now, but the cold had found its way deeper still. His muscles began to contract, stiffening his arms and fingers until they felt useless. His body gave up the final heat from the contracting muscles and shivering.

The wind howled through the village, carrying whispers of death. 

I'm going to die here. 

The thought hit him with a brutal finality. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, his breath growing steadier despite the panic in his mind. Some instinct buried deep within him took over. He slowed, drawing in a long, deliberate breath, holding it, then exhaling. His body protested, but he continued, breathing rhythmically as he forced himself to move forward. 

A faint chink of light caught his eye—a flicker in the distance, barely visible through the storm. El Ritch's heart leapt as he stumbled toward it, the snow dragging at his legs with every step. The light grew brighter, closer, until he could see the source: a hut, its door cracked open just enough for firelight to spill through. 

Summoning the last of his strength, he reached the door and pounded on it with both hands. His fists bled against the rough wood, but he didn't care. "Please!" he shouted, his voice raw. "Please!" 

He pounded on the door with everything he had left. His fists struck the wood until they bled, but he didn't stop. The cold was inside him now, digging into his chest, pulling him under. He felt his wrist snap with a sickening jolt, but the pain barely registered.

The door finally gave way under his weight, splintering inward as he collapsed into the room.

It was a storage space, small and cramped, but none of that mattered. His eyes fixed on the single torch burning on the wall, its warm glow a lifeline in the dark.

He closed the door and used every leather to shut the chinks around it too.

He stumbled toward it, his trembling hands reaching out.

The heat stung his frozen skin, but he didn't care. If the flame hadn't burned him, he would have embraced it entirely.