Soul's Eye

Chapter 2: The Man in the Ashes

The man stood facing me, his gaze cold. He was imposing, dangerous, and exuded a suffocating pressure, yet I couldn't focus on him; I couldn't take my eyes off what I was seeing.

Near the entrance I had come through, with his back against the wall, my father's lifeless body lay motionless.

He was in a pool of blood, his body shatered and his torso punctured by a partially melted iron bar, the sheen of the metal mingling with the life leaking from him.

His washed-out eyes stared at an invisible point, his face frozen in an expression of silent amazement. Blood had spread over the ground, tracing a red trail that led to the man standing a few meters away.

He was tall, draped in a dark cloak that floated lightly around him. His jet hair was neatly combed, and his features were icy, indifferent, as if the scene of carnage were a mere triviality.

"Kid, come here." His voice rose into space, cold, poised, without the slightest trace of emotion.

I tensed, 'how dare he!'

Rage bubbled up inside me, ready to boil over.

"I'm going to kill you!" I screamed, my fists clenched to shatter my fingernails, bubbling under my skin.

Part of me wanted to flee, to avoid this fight I knew was hopeless, but rage drove me to attack. I wanted to scream, to strike, to kill this man who stood there, motionless, before the destruction of everything I had loved.

I threw myself at him, my vision saturated with anger, but it was useless.

A wave of unbearable heat invaded the room.

Flames shot up from the floor, encircling me before assaulting me.The heat bit into my skin, but the worst thing was that he hadn't moved. He just stared at me, almost disdainfully.

The flames closed in on me.

The air itself had betrayed me.

My body hit the ground, rolling in ash and smoke. My skin stung, my limbs refused to move, and my vision blurred with every heartbeat.

The man approached slowly, each step measured, indifferent.

"Reckless," he said.

He knelt before me, eyes level with mine.

"Good. That means it's working."

I didn't understand but it wasn't important, I tried to take advantage of it to give him a punch but I I hadn't even touched him that he had disappeared from my sight, and a fiery blur invaded space.

I had no time to react. A split second later, an iron fist gripped my shoulder, and a searing burn raced up my back.

I screamed in pain, my legs threatening to give way under the impact. The smell of burning flesh rose to my nose, unbearable, as I felt my life slipping away.

He reached out, not to strike — but to grab my chin. I tried to jerk back, but my body was too slow. Too weak.

I collapsed to my knees, panting, my face disfigured by pain.

He quietly spoke again, as if I were nothing but a nuisance: "You're nothing but a helpless child." He slowly withdrew his burning hand from my shoulder. "And yet, the leader claimed you alive. Consider yourself lucky."

The heat around me increased, the flames grew more intense, and the air grew thinner. My body no longer responded, and I could barely breathe.

I fell back into unconsciousness.

The last thing I saw was the shadow of the man who had taken everything from me dissipating into the darkness. 

I wasn't sure when the pain stopped, or if it ever really had. I only knew the fire had faded. Or maybe I was too far gone to feel it. Everything felt distant now. The world, the smoke, my own breath. Even the smell of blood had dulled.

It was like floating. Like dreaming.

But dreams didn't hurt like this.

I wanted to open my eyes. To scream. To reach out and grab the man and drag him into the abyss with me. But my body had become a prison, a weight that wouldn't move.

Thoughts flickered. Faces. My sister. My father. The garden. The voice that had called to me. The taste of the fruit—bittersweet, ancient.

What had he meant? "It's working"?

Something inside me throbbed. Not just pain. Deeper. Like something trying to wake up. But it was faint. Dormant. Waiting.

I felt it when he lifted me, my head lolling back, a rush of cold air brushing my cheeks. The cloak, the boots dragging through blood. The way his arms held me without care.

I wanted to resist. But the darkness pulled harder.

And then, for a breath—I saw.

I saw through my eyelids, or beyond them. The fire. The trail of blood. The ember glowing faintly in my chest.

Something had changed. Something was beginning.

But I couldn't hold on to the thought. The weight of unconsciousness wrapped around me again.

And I sank, silently, into the dark.

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He watched the boy collapse, his body broken, his spirit cracked — but not extinguished. Not yet.

Ash clung to his cloak as he stood in the silence that followed. The flames around them withdrew, curling like serpents back into the cracks of the ruined earth.

He stared at the boy for a long moment. A strange expression crossed his face — not pity. Not remorse.

Something closer to curiosity.

"So that's the one," he muttered under his breath.

He glanced down at his gloved hand, still faintly glowing with heat. The skin underneath was unburned. Untouched.

Then he turned to the far wall.

A soft hum echoed from a black, beetle-like device attached to his belt. It blinked twice.

"Target retrieved. Initiating transfer."

He gave one last glance at the motionless child on the floor.

"He's unstable. But it seems he might take it."

He paused, as if weighing something invisible.

"...The leader will be pleased."

He crouched, slid his arm beneath the boy's arms, and lifted him like a rag doll, limp and lifeless.

He walked toward the exit, cloak dragging through blood and rubble.

Just before crossing the threshold, he bowed—an elegant, mocking gesture.

Then he stepped out, and the house fell silent.

Only the blood remained.

The house fell silent again.

Only the blood remained.