The man didn't run. He tucked the book firmer into his armpit and started to walk, his boots crunching over the glass of the light bulbs that had just started to pop, one by one, along the ceiling. He stopped. He looked back at Renji's body, which was pinned to the shelf like a moth.
The gray skin of the avatar was tearing. It didn't look like magic; it looked like wet parchment splitting under tension. From the gaps, a jagged, white light began to bleed out. It wasn't a glow. It was a physical discharge that smelled of scorched copper.
The discharge hit the nearby shelves, the wood charring and snapping as the shelves collapsed under the weight of the heavy ledgers.
The man's one good eye widened. He was afraid. He didn't want to be, so he clenched his fist until the knuckles turned white and jumped at the body on the wall. He wanted to end it. It was a stupid move. The moment his knuckles brushed the light, he wasn't just hit; he was hurled across the room. He hit a mahogany table, his ribs snapping with a dull, wet sound. He coughed, a spray of dark blood hitting the floor, and he clutched his side, his breath coming in short, panicked wheezes.
The few people left in the library started to murmur, their voices a low, frantic hum. Some had their phones out, trying to record the carnage, but the screens began to spiderweb and go black as the discharge from Renji's body intensified.
"What is happening?" a woman whispered. Her knees gave out, and she slumped against a pillar, her eyes rolling back.
"Call the soldiers! Someone get the Guard!" a young man shouted. He was kneeling by the woman, his hands shaking as he tried to find her pulse.
The man on the floor couldn't get up. He just watched, his breathing a wet rattle, as Renji's body began to reform. It was a heavy, tectonic event. An explosion of pressure suddenly threw everything—tables, chairs, half-burnt books—outward like they were made of dry straw. Dust and pulverized stone filled the air, thick enough to choke on.
When the grit finally settled, Renji was standing there. He wasn't in his original body. The avatar had been forced to regenerate, but it had come back wrong—or perhaps, too right. He looked like a Vermilion, but the gray of his skin was polished, and his icy blue hair was longer, matted with dust but still sharp.
He didn't fly. He floated for a second, then his boots hit the ground with a soft, solid thud. He scanned the room. His eyes landed on the old man, then shifted to the book lying in the dirt a few feet away. The man tried to crawl toward it. His left leg was a mess, severed at the shin, leaving a thick, dark trail on the tiles. His eye was shaking in its socket.
"Impossible," the man thought. He couldn't get the word out of his throat.
Renji didn't look at the man. He walked to the book. He felt a strange, quiet pang of regret looking at the ruined library—he'd always liked the smell of old paper. He reached down and grabbed the leather spine.
"Gotcha."
His clothes were gone, shredded by the pressure of the awakening. He looked down at himself, the gray skin unmarred. "I need a coat. People are staring."
He was right. The few survivors were staring, though most were too busy clutching broken limbs to move. Renji didn't wait for a conversation. He turned and ran. He wasn't a blur; he was a sudden absence of matter. He moved so fast the air hissed in his wake, and then he was gone through a gap in the shattered masonry.
The old man winced as he heard the heavy, synchronized footsteps of the Guard. Twenty of them. They wore the special Vermilion plate, their boots loud on the debris.
"There! Behind the shelf!" someone pointed.
The man tried to drag his ruined leg, but they were on him before he could move a yard.
"You're under arrest," a soldier barked. He didn't care about the man's injuries.
"Destruction of the Great Archive. You'll rot for this."
The man raised his hands, his body a map of burns and broken bone. He shouldn't have been alive. The soldiers slammed him face-down into the grit, the handcuffs clicking shut with a cold, final snap.
"Wait," one soldier screamed, pulling back the man's hood. "He's not one of us. He's an outsider! No markings!"
The crowd gasped. The sound was a dry rustle in the ruined hall. "Take him to the King," the captain ordered. "This is a capital case."
The man didn't speak. He bit his lip until it bled, his mind fixated on the image of the blue-haired intruder.
Whoever you are, I'll find you, he thought. The Dread-Cantor Malus will find you. He will tear the soul out of your throat. You aren't just a hybrid. You're something worse.
The tent was canvas, heavy with the smell of damp earth and a metallic hint of something like old tallow. Renji's fingers were stiff. He moved them one by one, feeling the joints click as he tore through a leather satchel.
Inside, he found a black hoodie with silver threading along the hem and a pair of denim trousers. The denim was coarse, the fabric irritating the fresh, sensitive skin of his regenerated thighs.
He stopped when he heard a branch snap. Then laughter. It was a high, domestic sound—a sound that didn't belong in a forest filled with predatory things.
"Why do they still live like this?" he muttered.
He didn't mean it as a philosophical inquiry. He was genuinely annoyed. Living in a tent made of thin fabric seemed like a voluntary death sentence. The voices got louder. The crunch of boots on dry leaves was rhythmic, confident. Renji didn't wait. He didn't want to explain why a gray-skinned man was standing naked in their living space. He lunged upward, his shoulder muscles bunching as he caught a thick branch. The rough bark bit into his palms, drawing a thin line of heat. He pulled himself into the canopy just as the family rounded the bend.
A father. A mother. A boy. They were carrying bundles of firewood, the dry sticks rubbing together with a scratchy, uneven noise. They were chatting about a meal. Something about stew. Renji watched them from the shadows of the leaves, the weight of the stolen clothes in his hand. He felt a sudden, sharp memory of a wooden table at home—how it always wobbled because one leg was shorter than the others. He'd meant to fix it. He never did.
He didn't stay to watch them eat. He jumped, moving from branch to branch. The momentum was good until a twig poked his eye. He swore, rubbing the socket until his vision cleared, and kept moving.
Ten minutes later, the screaming started.
It wasn't a "terrible" sound in a poetic sense. It was a wet, jagged noise that cut through the silence of the woods. Renji stopped. He looked back toward the tent. He should keep moving. He had the book. He had the clothes. He was already late.
He turned around and ran back. His boots hit the dirt with heavy, flat thuds.
The scene at the camp was a mess. The father was down, his chest a ruin of shredded wool and red meat. The mother wasn't moving. The smell of copper was thick now, mixing with the scent of the woodsmoke from their small fire.
A beast stood over them. It looked like a bear, but it was an Aetherian thing—too lean, its fur a matted gray, and its eyes glowing with that same dull, suffocating pressure he'd felt in the library. Its claws were long, curved pieces of black bone, stained with the family's lunch.
The two kids—the boy and a smaller girl he hadn't seen before—were backed against a tree. They were shaking so hard the girl's teeth were audibly chattering.
"Stay away from us!" the boy shouted.
His voice broke. He was crying, the salt tracks shining on his gray cheeks. He held his sister behind him, his small hands clutching her tunic so tight his knuckles were white. He was trying to be brave, but his knees were knocking together. It was a pathetic sight.
The bear-thing didn't care about the boy's bravery. It paced forward, its breath coming in hot, stinking huffs that smelled of rotting fruit.
"Did you hear me? I said! Stay... away!"
The boy picked up a piece of firewood and hurled it. It was a weak throw. The wood bounced off the beast's forehead with a soft thump. The bear didn't even flinch. It let out a low, vibrating roar that made the air in Renji's lungs feel heavy. It lunged, its mouth open, ready to unmake the boy's skull.
"No you don't!"
Renji didn't have time for a technique. He didn't have time to think. He launched himself from the bushes, his boots skidding on a patch of moss. He misjudged the height of his jump and clipped a low-hanging branch with his hip, but he corrected in the air.
He came down hard, leading with a heavy, flat-footed kick aimed straight at the beast's neck.