Ryurei drew in a slow, measured breath, a tremor running through his fingers.
His gaze stayed fixed on the priest—calm, cold, calculating.
The priest looked down at him, the smirk on his face hissing silently like a snake watching its prey.
The air thickened, dark, heavy.
Ryurei lunged forward.
A slash through the air—missed.
He didn’t stop.
He swung again and again, desperate to land even a nick.
The priest dodged every strike, then drove his knee into Ryurei’s stomach, hard and clean, sending him crashing to the ground.
His flat cap fell off, tumbling gently through the air, revealing his unkempt violet hair.
Blood spewed from his mouth, his body turning fragile from the sheer impact.
It hurts!
he thought, fingertips quivering as pain bit sharply at his abdomen.
But he knew he couldn’t stop—he had no time, no choice but to stand back up.
Screw it!
He arose, stance wavering, legs shaking as though they’d give out at any moment.
I shouldn’t stay on the ground this long.
“My, you are a tenacious one,” the cleric remarked in a caustic tone.
“That strike was meant to send you into another slumber.”
Ryurei charged.
Quick.
Decisive.
Still too slow.
The priest’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him reeling toward Kisatsu this time, blood trickling down his chin.
The world seemed to pause for a beat.
“At this pace, I shall sooner or later slay you with my bare hands,” the priest said, wiping a kerchief on his knuckles.
“You strike only with your palms—perhaps that might avail you, but only should your blows find their mark.” He stepped forward, each movement clinical.
“You will need far more than that.”
Ryurei clenched his fist and faced him, golden eyes sharp, firm, unyielding.
“I’ll do what I have to do!”
He didn’t hesitate—he rushed forward one last time, even though he knew he was likely too slow for the priest, even though he wasn’t sure he could survive the next strike.
He wasn’t fighting to win—he was fighting to protect.
There was someone else—a reason not to buckle.
He swung his hand, aiming for the priest’s neck.
But the priest grabbed Ryurei’s hands with ease and steered him toward Kisatsu.
The priest’s hands gripped Ryurei’s wrists tightly from behind, coiling around his skin like a snake strangling its prey.
“Let go!” Ryurei cried, making a desperate attempt to break free.
“Not yet, I am trying to teach you something.” The cleric caressed his right hand gently, the smirk on his face curling like poison.
“If I do this…” His thumb pressed against Ryurei’s wrist, slowly tearing his skin apart like a soundless canvas.
A scream of agony pierced the air, and the grass beneath them pooled in red—warm, wet, ruthless.
Blood dripped faster the more strands stretched between his skin, like a viscous ribbon of crimson.
“S—Stop, please!” Kisatsu’s voice echoed through the air, terror and plea cutting at its edges.
The chains clanked as he shifted forward, stopping him when he tried to reach them.
Ryurei’s hand dropped to the ground, bouncing softly as blood spurted in dark red.
He jolted forward from the priest’s grasp the moment the priest loosened his hold, crouching to the ground and clasping his right wrist.
Blood jetted across the place, painting the grass in grim crimson.
He writhed in agony, hoping movement would stop the pain, but the blood kept flowing as if pulling every ounce of life force he had.
Hot.
Sharp.
Throbbing.
He let out another bellow that sliced through the air like the high-pitched shriek of a guinea pig.
Though his voice rang desperately, his vision blurred, the world darkening at the edges.
At the end of his scream, the priest hissed, voice low, forbidding, “Does it hurt?
Your father will receive a punishment far worse than this,” though the echoes of the scream still reverberated through the air.
Kisatsu watched silently—hopelessly—a bloodcurdling expression etched on his face.
His knees wobbled until he fell limply to the ground, eyes wide with something beyond terror.
His lips twitched, but nothing came out—either no sound at all, or too soft for the air to carry.
Silence bloomed, thick, heavy.
The wind blew gently, skimming across the priest’s skin.
But something else pressed at him—almost like a burning sensation.
My skin is burning?
The sneer on his face ebbed, replaced by a crinkle on his forehead.
He glanced around, searching for any waft of smoke that might mean there was a fire nearby.
Radiation?
Has Xavior arrived?
His gaze flickered toward the ships.
Then what of the ships?
Just a beat—fleeting, but enough.
With the last sliver of his strength, Ryurei sprang from the ground toward Kisatsu, a few steps landing before the first trickle of blood could drip.
He had waited for it—the smallest distraction.
A chance he’d wish a miracle for.
He swung his left arm through the air in a quick, slashing motion, eyes narrowing in desperation—as if pleading that it would work, that he could still save someone even though he couldn’t save himself.
The chains tore apart in a thunderous clank.
Kisatsu had been freed.
“Run!
Go without me, and hide as far as you can!” Ryurei stopped before he could reach him.
He’d already lost enough blood to faint mid-flee.
Knowing Kisatsu, Ryurei would only slow him down if he floundered along the way.
“But…
Ryurei—”
“Go!” His voice cut sharp.
None of them moved in that moment.
A look of desperation drowned both of them.
This was already wrong.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
But they still hadn’t suffered the worst of the worst.
A flash of light blazed from the direction of their home, brief but powerful.
They both felt it, turned toward it, and suddenly they could no longer glimpse what could’ve been their home.
A colossal white quetzalcoatl burst into view, slithering across the grey sky.
Its steely, silver scales shimmered from afar—its eyes grim, hooded rather than fierce, as if pain had clawed at them.
The sound of ships echoed softly, a clear sign they had already arrived at the shore.
Kisatsu cast a brief glance at the hovering serpent.
He blinked sharply—then darted away without looking back.
He didn’t dare cast another glance at Ryurei—he could no longer afford it.
His legs would’ve given out if he’d seen Ryurei in that state one last time.
He ran with every ounce of strength left in him—farther than his breath could ever carry.
Shortly after, another priest arrived to rendezvous with the first.
“Reverend Dontemoré, we have him.
Xavior Ashira has been captured,” he reported, turning toward the kid sprawled unconscious on the ground.
“What is this?”
“A mere find.
A trinket I stumbled upon while keeping watch.” Dontemoré strode toward the body and nudged it over with his foot, checking whether the boy was still conscious.
“Keep him.
He would certainly make a fine specimen.”
“And what of the other one?” the other priest asked, glancing sidelong toward the distant child.
Dontemoré’s gaze followed, a flicker of disdain crossing his eyes.
“Leave him,” he said evenly.
“Nothing of value will come out of him.”
Rays of gold bound the boy’s body in a robust, polyhedral box before sealing it behind transparent barriers.
The parts of his body that projected were carved away to make his form fit the case, revealing pale silhouetes that resembled bones.
The box floated upward, then was hurled into another realm through a breach in space.
“Now, what of Xavior?
I trust he has already been executed?” Dontemoré asked.
“Executed?
Reverend, the plan was interrogation first.”
“The interrogation is futile, imbecile.
You will extract nothing from that excommunicated filth.
We came to execute him on sight.
Now that he is captured and debilitated, killing him is our primary advantage.
Do it—now,” he ordered, voice authoritative, urgent, and final.
Near the edge of a crag, Kisatsu hid behind a juniper tree, heaving for air as if he could pass out at any moment.
He’d only spent a minute resting, and it felt like another minute could cost him his freedom.
“Ryurei…” he whispered between heavy breaths.
This wasn’t a dream—he hated it.
Still gasping after the sprint, he stood up unsteadily and moved forward, stance wavering with each step.
Then he ran again.
Just when he thought he’d gotten away, he felt—rather than saw—someone following him.
It wasn’t one of the priests, but he was certain he was being pursued.
Behind him, a cloaked man leapt silently, moving in rhythm between the branches of the red cedar trees.
With one swift motion, the man landed beside him.
“N—No!
Please—” Kisatsu pleaded, but the man struck him from behind, rendering him unconscious.
Through his stupor, Kisatsu noticed the plain white mask concealing the man’s face before he lost awareness entirely.
The man hoisted Kisatsu over his shoulder, then flicked his gaze toward the prodigious serpent in the sky before leaping in a direction parallel to the nearby town.