On the Hills of Eden

The golden gleam of the sky overhead shone down on the tired and torn trees of the Minervan Outskirts. This was not the first day they'd beheld this light, nor would it be the last. They had seen no shortage of battles, sacrifices, heroics and atrocities under all banners, at the hands of the lowest of soldiers to the mightiest of Kings. They had seen it all; wars, skirmishes and raids; the shifting of borders and the dynamo of power that showed mercy no man. Countless bodies fell where these trees stood, and countless more would fall- a cyclical performance, an unending samsara. Even still, Man would choose to play along, to struggle against the sickly game of life in their futile fight for a peace that could not exist. For even if the droning of Death knew no ending, they would dance along to it all the same.

Or so Shabil was told. Seeing the blazing inferno before him where the Minervan house once stood, though, sure convinced him otherwise.

“Anything yet, Sergeant?”

“Nah,” the man replied, slamming the battered door shut behind him to mask the last gargled cries of the family within. “But we’re close, I can tell.”

“What happens if the Soteira isn’t here?”

The Sergeant looked at Shabil as he sat against the ash-coated fountain, its waters stained by soot from the fires that engulfed the circle of houses that huddled about it.

“Then we just continue,” he replied, shrugging as he rolled his eyes slightly, wiping the blood off of his hunting knife using the black veil that draped over his shoulders. “Is Nadia done with hers yet?”

“No, surprisingly,” Shabil responded, turning to one of the two remaining houses whose thatched roofs and wooden walls had yet to be set ablaze.

“What? It’s been two minutes already.”

“Maybe the ones she has are just really good at hiding.”

“Sure,” the Sergeant responded, circling the fountain towards the house their comrade had entered. “You didn’t think to check on her?”

“She’s fine, Sergeant,” Shabil responded, lifting a leg up and resting it on the fountain lip as he turned to face him. “They’re just Minervans.”

“Right, yeah. What the hell has the Academy been feeding you youngins?” the Sergeant said, turning his back to Shabil as he rested his hand against the partially ajar door. “One day you’re going to regret underestimating your enemy, kid.”

“They don’t even have a Technique of their own, Sergeant.”

“And since when did that change anything? Do you know nothing about history?” the Sergeant said, turning back to glare at Shabil. Slowly, he creaked the door open, the amber hue of the outside slowly spilling into the dark recesses of the house’s interior. “How the ‘people without their own Technique’ fought and won four wars for their freedom in just the last century?”

Shabil kissed his teeth, rolling his eyes as he hunched back over and turned away from the Sergeant.

“Do I know anything about history,” he spat to himself quietly. “Old fart-”

The air was suddenly split by a fierce cracking, as if a thousand whips had just torn through the space not too far behind Shabil’s head. He felt a brisk breeze whisk past his short hair, followed almost immediately by a string of expletives from the Sergeant’s mouth.

He turned back just in time to see the house the Sergeant was in suddenly erupt into a crimson bloom, fiery petals bursting from its openings as the Sergeant stumbled back and fell onto his behind- smoke and ash trailing from his palms.

And blood dripping from his stomach.

“Sergeant!” Shabil yelled, scrambling onto his feet as he raced around the fountain. “What happened?”

“Gun,” the man replied, placing a hand to the gaping wound in his abdomen. “Goddang gun.”

“Did you get them?”

“Yeah, roasted the buggers. But they got Nadia.”

"Crap," Shabil mouthed, looking back in desperation at the fire that slowly grew to engorge itself upon the rest of the house.

“You need me to get a Collector?”

The Sergeant nodded, gritting his teeth.

Not wasting a moment, Shabil leapt atop the rooftop of the last surviving house, standing as tall as he could to survey the landscape before him.

For hundreds of metres in all directions, houses burned. Their pillars of smoke and ash towering above the individual Hashashiyyin that darted in between them. The entire town had been subsumed by a sinister amber glow, the pure light of the noon sky overhead blotted out by the same soot that reflected the searing heat of the fires back onto the hellscape.

He squinted his eyes, trying to make out any figures that moved through the ruination. And when he spotted one not too far away, he waved it down as frantically as he could to draw its attention as it bolted away hurriedly from the fringes of the town.

Receiving confirmation that he’d gotten the Collector’s attention, he slipped back off the roof and joined the Sergeant back down on the ground- its dirt browns stained by the blood of both him and of those that once called the town of Minlos their home.

“One’s on the way, Sergeant.”

“Good,” he managed. “You go clear out the last house while I’m still here.”

“He’s not that far away, though, Sergeant.”

“Just do it, Shabil. It’s the last one. You can manage.”

“Alright,” Shabil assented. “But what if they have a gun on them too?”

“You’ll be fine,” the Sergeant responded. “I just let my guard down. Besides, we’d be jeopardising the whole operation if we leave even one house unchecked.”

“...Okay then.”

And so, Shabil did as good soldiers do, forcing open the door to the last remaining house, slinking into the darkness of its interior.

Now alone, the Sergeant tried relaxing himself. The screaming pain of the bullet hole raged against his entire body, forcing him to use every bit of discipline he had to not groan in pain. Breathing slowly and methodically, as gently as he could to not further aggravate the agony, he steadied himself and calmed the redness of the battle fervour that pounded through his skull, gradually bringing his body back to normality.

Feeling the warmth of the fountain’s stones against his back as his muscles stopped tensing up, he took a good look at the wholesale destruction that completely surrounded him. All those homes, and hundreds more from different parts of the town, slated to be burnt to the ground. Their belongings thrown to the infernal furnace of their purge, any traces of the generations that had lived there cleaned entirely off the face of the Phian continent. He could even see the lifeless corpses of their inhabitants left lying within them, sizzling against boiling hot window glass and baking under the heat of the fires.

Some of them even reminded him of friends he once knew back in Burkannar.

But he held little remorse.

He knew what his duty was as a Sergeant and a member of the Hashashiyyin Order. And he knew that any failure on his end to execute what was expected of him would do nothing but harm to the family and friends he had left back home. So he would continue to serve his people, to burn and pillage and purge as many homes and as many families as it took to exterminate the threat posed by the 3rd Soteiran. And to finally bring an end to the unceasing circle of strife.

He heard a sound above him, that of boots meeting thatch and of the whooshing of controlled, purposeful flames.

“Sergeant!”

The Sergeant looked up as the Collector slipped off of the roof and descended onto the soil beside him.

“About time.”

“What the hell happened?”

“One of the buggers had a gun on them- blew a hole straight through me,” the Sergeant managed. “Took out one of my subordinates, too, but she’s long gone.”

The Collector hissed under his breath.

“It’s almost like they planned a defensive,” he said, hoisting the Sergeant up onto his back and fastening a rope about the both of their waists. “Hold on.”

He leapt from the ground, flames shooting from the soles of his feet as he rose to meet the rooftop of the unrazed home. As he did so, though, he instead kept a low profile, keeping his hands to the thatch as he craned his head around in search of an escape route.

“How so? There was only one gun in that entire group we just cleared, I’d hardly count that as ‘preparation’.”

“Quiet,” the Collector replied, hushing the Sergeant. “I meant that it's as if they’ve planned to weaken our forces as much as possible.”

“For what?”

“There’s a battle further out east, by the forest’s edge. And it’s doing a number on whatever free forces we have left,” he replied. “I imagine that is what they’re weakening us up for.”

“What? By who?”

“I don’t know!” the Collector whispered back. “A Kitsunite, apparently. With access to Xiafan Techniques.”

He had to have been joking. The Kitsunites lived out east, on the literal other side of the continent from the Shafraturriyahn Mountains- the birthplace of the Xiafan wind-based techniques and the Chitite race that created them.

Maybe he just mistook them. Kitsunites and Chitites do both look extremely similar, given their fox-like and cat-like attributes respectively.

“Sorry, Sergeant, lost my cool there,” the Collector said. “You ready to go?”

Somehow, though, that description seemed to ring a bell within him. Thousands of stories told around campfires out at field with his mates bubbling into and fading out memory as his brain fidgeted in futile recollection.

A Kitsunite with the ability to bend the very winds.

“Sergeant?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, of course.”

They leapt from the roof, sailing through the air as their cloaks fluttered behind them, landing on a nearby signpost, every other house around them excluding the one Shabil was in either having gone up in flames or already reduced to blackened supports coated in char and soot.

A Kitsunite present in Minerva, no less. A sure rarity given that most of Houzen’s forces were currently engaged in a war with the ongoing Bestial Rebellion taking place just north of their homeland, and that the 2nd Soteira did little to re-establish the presence of Houzen Shrines within Minerva.

They leapt again, this time landing on the wooden backbone of a roof long since burnt, the structure beneath them creaking and crying out in pain as they landed atop of it.

That being said, though… The Sergeant did know of one Kitsunite not affiliated to any Shrine. One that operated independently of the Grand Maiden of Houzen.

One enshrouded in legend, ever since her defeat at the hands of Lord Gravitas and his ten-thousand strong armada.

One that went by a name to describe nothingness itself.

Rei. The Undying Witch.

And just as they made their jump, they heard the sound of wind whirring behind them.

“What the-”

The two of them were suddenly struck heavily by an object belted from the house they’d just leapt from, the force of the impact ploughing through both of them and slamming them back down onto ash-covered dirt.

With the Sergeant in a whole world of screaming pain as he jostled about the ground, the Collector took it upon himself to force the two of them back to their feet, clamouring back up to see nothing before him. No enemy, nor any indication that they had just been attacked.

Nothing but a single limp body on the ground beside them, cloaked in a black veil.

One of them.

“What the hell?” the Sergeant groaned, digging his fingers into the Collector’s shoulders as he reeled in the pain. “What happened?”

“The enemy… they’re here!”

From the flames on their left suddenly burst forth a spiralling column of fire, two blistering sheens of metal emerging from its blazing mass. Before the Sergeant could even see what it was that was attacking them, the Collector spun on his heels to face the threat, falling onto his knees as the spiralling column of wind and flame ricocheted off his chest.

He was suddenly sent back, sprawling against the dirt and pushing up against the other Hashashin’s corpse as the hole in his belly agonisingly sent burning hot blades singing through every facet of his being. Struggling to right himself as the dead weight of the Collector chained him to the earth, his broken abdomen unable to generate the strength he required, he only just barely managed to behold the Kitsunite as she threw herself off of a nearby wall and buried her blades deep into all three of them.

Slinking into the darkness, Shabil quietly looked around as he lit a small flame within his palm. The little fire danced alluringly, its light providing just enough illumination to split the complete shadow that enveloped the entire interior.

The interior before him was simple- homely and decorated modestly with flower pots hanging from the ceiling and occasional ornamental wooden plates engraved with elaborate carvings sat upon its wooden walls. Other than that, though, the family that lived here appeared to live an unremarkable life, making just enough money and food to get by, day after day.

The room itself Shabil found himself in was a fusion of a kitchen and dining room, the two halves separated only by a counter that encircled the cooking area. The dining table that sat silently in the middle of the dining room was also fairly large, easily capable of seating up to eight people all at once.

But Shabil heard nothing.

Even once he’d closed the door behind him, shutting out the crackles of the fires outside, the silence of the house only grew more noxious. He could hear no noise, no soft breathing nor any distant creakings of wood that would betray the position of those hiding from him.

Slowly, he peered behind the counter, holding the flame before him. No one.

He rose and moved himself over to the table. While he doubted it, he nevertheless squatted down to check for anyone hiding beneath.

As he approached the floor, the light of the flame stretching shadows across the wooden planks and cutting through the darkness of the table’s shadow, Shabil held his breath. Brows furrowed and eyes hyper fixated on the scene before him.

When the floor suddenly shuddered, a series of fading thumps crying out from above head.

The noise sent vibrations through even the lower floors, the crackling of the wooden supports overhead giving way following soon after. The sudden assault on his ears threw him off balance, his heart skipping a beat as his torso seized momentarily in shock.

He managed to find stability again, soon enough, resting a hand on the table to do so. And there was no one under the table. He was half-way through silently mouthing a curse when he heard a muted creaking overhead.

The sound of habitation.

He stood up, slowly, his eyes frozen in place and unseeing as he turned all of his attention into the world of sound that his ears picked up. He could hear it; an almost distant, continuous creaking that rose and fell in magnitude, as if a person- a small one, at that, was ever so gently trying to sneak around without making too much of a sound.

The floor seized again, the distant whirring of wind coming not too long after.

The suddenness of the impact threw him off again, his heart skipping yet another beat as he jumped slightly in place, provoking him to spit out the silent curse in full. But he wasn’t the only one to have been startled.

A singular loud creak sounded its way from the general direction of the others, distinct from whatever was going on on the roof. And then, silence.

Shabil knew where they were now, and they likely knew that Shabil knew too.

Shabil made his way to the stairway on the opposite side of the room from the entrance, making his way up the stairs where each step he stood on seemed to shriek out in pain. As he did so, the distant creaking continued again, their duet of squeaking wood almost ringing out harmoniously. Each step Shabil took beckoned a distant creak, their combined footsteps forming a tenuous musical call-and-response.

They must be trying to mask their steps with the sounds of mine, Shabil thought.

But, rather curiously, the distant creaks seemed to be getting louder. Notably clearer, with each step, almost as if the person was emerging from behind a series of walls and obstacles.

For a moment, Shabil paused. He let silence hold the air still once again as he considered what may face him the moment he rose above the final step.

It’s coming closer, Shabil thought.

Why’s it getting closer? Is it trying to lead me into a trap? Maybe it has a gun on it too?

…

Maybe there are others lying in wait. But, no, they would’ve been shocked too at whatever hit the roof.

…

Shabil took a deep breath. Whatever it was, he’d have to deal with it anyway in the end. Thus, as he rose above the final few steps, he raised his cloak to conceal most of his body and face- orienting himself sideways to lower his chances of getting shot.

And as he crossed the threshold, all that stood before him across the barren hallway was a child. A terrified child, her hands empty and paralysed with fear.

There was silence between the two of them, and no other stepped into the hallway.

She was alone.

Shabil didn’t know why she'd stepped out. And by the looks of the child, she didn’t know why either. Behind her was a door left completely ajar, and behind it a haphazard stack of furniture that blocked off the room inside.

Did the sounds from the roof scare her? Shabil thought, slowly lowering his cloak. Maybe she thought that one of them would come bursting through the woodworks at any moment.

It mattered not to Shabil. He would get his job done. For the sake of his Kingdom, and for the sake of his family.

So he advanced, one step at a time, the sound of his feet against the old wooden floor rising in pace and volume from a slow beat to a sonorous crescendo as he ran full tilt towards the child.

She flinched, turning around as soon as he had begun to move, slipping her way through the small opening between the furniture behind her.

He slammed against the furniture, hands buried deep in the hole in an attempt to grab the child before she could slink away into the recesses of the room. But he caught nothing, and instead he worked his way around the hole looking for some sort of purchase, some ledge or hard corner that he could grab onto and use to hoist the makeshift barricade apart.

It was no use. Instead, all that greeted his unwelcome hands was a sticky tar-like substance, its utter blackness contrasting even against the dark of the room. He recoiled, moving away from the wall of furniture.

What the heck was this? Oil? Sap?

No, it was none of those. He’d never encountered something so viscous and persistent in its adhesion as this.

He tried flicking the substance off, to no avail. Tried swiping the substance off, to no avail. Tried wiping it on the walls, to no avail. Alas, he resigned to trying to sear it off with his flames.

Holding his palms out before him, he summoned forth a cone of flame from both his palms- only to be met with nothing. The substance had snuffled out the fires.

Struck with incredulity, he looked at his hands covered in pure black in disbelief. He returned to trying to sear it off again, this time for more time.

He maintained his flames, and sure enough, the goo began to dry out- cracking off in flakes as the flames and smoke finally managed to pierce through and blow the remainder off.

How the child managed to get her hands on something like that he did not understand.

Regardless, he squared himself, hands outstretched as he faced his palms towards the stack of furniture. From the very depths of his being he called forth a torrent of fire that shot from and spiralled out of his hands, slamming into the makeshift wall. He held the fire for a moment, giving it time to eat away at the wood’s structural integrity.

Then, once a handful of seconds had passed, he shifted into a fighting stance, and threw his flame-covered fist into the wood set ablaze, blowing it apart and leaving a smoking, gaping hole in the wall that gave way to the room inside.

Shabil breathed heavily, collecting himself from the physical exertion as he used his foot to kick away the remaining furniture, exploiting the gap in their combined structure to try to tear off other pieces as he ordered his flames to die down.

In the corner of his eye, though, a peculiar sight drew his attention. In the amber glow of his flames’ embers, the black substance almost appeared red. Unusually red, in fact, a vibrant crimson, its colour and saturation likening it to deep pools of freshly spilt blood.

Shabil froze, his gaze transfixed upon the substance.

Blood? No, surely not. He didn’t make out any injuries on the child when he first saw her. Even if she was injured, this amount of blood coming out of any person, let alone a child, would surely have left them dead. It was stickier than blood too, more rich and viscous.

A window creaked open.

The sounds of the outside found their way in, tearing the silence apart and replacing it with the crackles of perverse fires and the whirs of roaring winds. The sombre orange light of ruination illuminated the dark room, casting the child’s outstretched shadow across the floor.

He had to act.

In an instant Shabil threw himself into the hole he’d created, struggling as the blood-tar gripped him and weighed him down as though he were caked in thick mud. He struggled to get through, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to make it in time.

In the nick of time he managed to free one of his hands, using it to shoot forth a ray of flame that struck the window, its fires spreading across the glass and sending the child back as she yelped at the agony of being seared.

The two of them locked eyes and as Shabil managed to free his other hand, now using both of them to push against the furniture as the entire makeshift barrier began to give way. But, just as he began to make progress, that same substance struck his face, spreading across it. This time, though, it was warm, and its thick embrace slicked its grim hand across his upper body as it obscured his vision and sealed his mouth and nose shut.

Shabil panicked, his hands desperate to scrape the blood-tar off as his legs frantically flailed about on the other side looking for purchase to push himself off of. Eventually, he managed to force himself entirely through the hole, allowing him to scrape his face against the wooden floor, wiping off just enough of the blood-tar to allow him to breathe and to see the child cowering in the corner opposite the door.

“It’s over-”

The floor suddenly shook again beneath their feet, the shuddering of the roof above them even more evident as the planks that held its thatch up quivered under whatever impacted it.

And then again.

The child suddenly broke into a dash towards the window

At once Shabil rocketed forwards, sending trails of swirling embers behind him as he rushed forward to catch her before she could jump out.

But then she stopped, a shadow suddenly cast over her face as she quivered in place beneath the window.

A veiled body exploded through the opening, shattering its glass and sending sparkles of orange twinkling all throughout the darkness of the room. It slammed into Shabil, its broken bones and lifeless flesh beating the wind out of his lungs and sending him sprawling all the way across to the other side of the room.

He pushed the body off of him as he forced himself away from the wall, pain screaming through every bone and joint and muscle in his body. Opening his eyes just in time to see as a spiralling column of wind and flame shot through the window, cleaving him with its two blades.

Landing with a flourish, the figure sheathed both of her blades, the room suddenly falling deathly silent as she turned to face the child, now cowering in the corner.

Slowly, she stepped into the light of the outside as she approached the child, the shadows on her face lifting to reveal a relaxed complexion, tender and calm. She kneeled before the girl, levelling herself with her as she looked her in the eyes.

“My name is Rei,” she said, her tone soft. “What’s your name?”

The child looked up at her, the deep reds of her irises showing in the light, only partially concealed by the curtain-like bangs of her messy jet black hair.

“Pallas.”