The next morning, rain pelted the roof and walls. Lioraen moved as if pulled by strings. His severed arm had stopped bleeding. Like Serathiel once taught.
"This breathing style can calm your nerve and even slow your organs' function."
He had applied the breathing style taught by his late mother to slow the bleeding. Now it's just a large cut with minimal blood loss.
His legs carried him to the living room, his left hand gripping a shovel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
Water dripped from his hair, soaking his clothes, but he didn't care. He plunged the shovel into the wooden floor, over and over.
Each strike echoed in the empty room, like a hollow drumbeat.
He dug the dirt afterwards.
It took hours to dig the living room with his left hand. The sun rose high in the sky.
Finally, the hole was wide and deep enough. He lowered his mother's body into it carefully. Dirt and splinters fell over her, mingling with the rain that seeped in through cracks in the roof.
Then, he stepped back to stare at her.
"Wait for me, Mother. I'll come back to mourn you after I kill that one-eye beast."
*Not that it matters to her though. This is just to satisfy my ego as a useless son.*
He covered it up. By now, it was mid-noon.
He stood in the living room, soaked, staring at the spot he had turned into a grave. His severed arm throbbed sharply, reminding him of how much his life had changed in two days.
"I couldn't even dig a grave for you... Rae," he said to no one in particular.
*I need to go down the mountain. I should find her father.*
He turned and moved into the rest of the house, the side where he had spent most of his days.
The training yard.
The shrine had a large yard, where they had practiced sword mastery from his blind mother since the age of five.
"How ridiculous."
He picked up a rusty sword from the ground and swung it with his left hand.
Like Serathiel had once said:
"Lio, there is no such thing as a prearranged world. It is just a piled-up series of coincidences. Coincidence weaves fate, Lio."
"So, you can't read fate?" Little Lioraen once asked.
She had chuckled that time, as she fed the birds.
"No, Lio. I can't know the grand end of someone. After all, everyone is in charge of their life and choices. However, I can read the series of coincidences likely to happen. When I read your coincidences, Lio, I realised that I had to teach you to use both your right hand and left hand for sword mastery."
*She knew I was going to lose my right hand. She knew that she was going to die.*
He tossed the rusty sword away and began to gather sticks.
*Did she think she would be a burden to me if she had strived to survive?*
He sighed.
"I'm pathetic to the end, ain't I?"
He struck flint against stone, coaxing sparks until the kindling caught, flames licking at the damp wood. He watched the fire burn for quite a long time before taking a step.
Biting down on a piece of cloth to stifle any cry, he pressed his wounded right arm into the fire, gritting his teeth against the searing pain.
"Urgh!"
The raw flesh hissed as it melted together. Smoke curled around him, stinging his eyes.
When the wound had closed enough to stop the bleeding, he wrapped it up and wore a cloak.
Then, he went inside:
First, the storeroom shelves lined with neatly stacked swords, each one his mother had cherished, polished with care, stood like silent sentinels.
A few supplies were tucked into corners: dried rations, water flasks, a bundle of cloth. And on the low table, the book she read to him every day, worn and familiar.
*Did she park this stuff of me?*
Without hesitation, he began packing. Swords, supplies, the book—all folded into his bag.
The day had gone dark when he was ready to leave the mountain. He patrolled the hut first. Cast one last glance at the grave he had made for his mother; their training yard; the farm behind the small hill close to their house; their bird cage, which was now blood and bird feed.
Then he turned.
Down the mountain he walked, loaded with weapons and food in his bag, cloaked and barefooted.
Soon, he began to run, skipping sharp stones and jumping mud.
"It will get hard, Lio," Serathiel had once said. "Very hard."
"Is this it, Mother?"
He descended the mountain. The screeching that had been distant for hours was louder now.
"They increased. What are these things."
He drew one of his swords and began to walk.
*Rae's home is a few blocks away. Seeing that her father never came to find her, there is a high chance that he's not around. Did the monsters get him?*
A raw cry of a beast came. Close. Loud. He hid behind an abandoned home, sniffing the air.
*Blood... everywhere reeks of blood.*
Then, he noticed something beside him. He turned, alerted, only to face a tentacle-attached eye. The elongated, boneless, flexible organ stared at him. He gulped.
The eye suddenly withdrew and the beast crashed into the area to get the prey its eye had located.
Lioraen dashed into the street, cutting corners and looking for a safe hiding place. As the monster closed in, its eye went ahead, keeping track of Lioraen's movement.
*That eye is my problem. I need to get rid of it.*
He abruptly halted and dashed into a barn. His heart pounded as he steadied himself behind the door, his left hand gripping tight onto the sword. He carefully put down his bag and waited.
Soon, the elongated eye came sneaking, checking. He waited.
*Closer.*
As the eye saw him, he burst out of the shadows, hand rising in a clean, merciless cut. He severed it.
The monster screeched in pain, withdrawing its tentacle.
*Now is my chance!*
Lioraen dashed after it, catching up to the creature that had lost its sight. He saw a hill beside it and ran up the hill. Getting to the top, he jumped down, landing on its head. His sword went up and came down with a straight precision.
The monster made a death scream as life drained from it. It fell, and the night soon went silent.
Lioraen panted.
"I killed one."
TBC...