From the side, the ones dressed in saint-like robes step forward.
One of them carries a wide bronze bowl filled with thick purple liquid. Even under the rain, its color doesn't fade. It clings to the sides of the bowl, heavy and dark.
Another walks beside him, holding a large knife. The blade is long and slightly curved, its surface engraved with the image of a vulture spreading its wings.
Azrean's gaze locks onto the knife.
His breathing grows sharper. His eyes quiver, fear spreading through him in slow-burning waves.
"What is that…?" the gentleman asks, his voice small, shaking despite himself.
The old man answers without turning his head.
"You know the blood of lizardmen?"
The gentleman stiffens. His eyes widen even further.
"You mean that is—"
The old man gives a faint nod.
"It's ordinary blood on its own. But once it enters a heyuman body, it turns poisonous. It eats away at the cells. Slowly. If it isn't treated in time, it kills."
Rain drums softly against the umbrellas.
"This is how the infected are executed."
The gentleman swallows hard. His lips part, but only one thing comes out.
"So cruel."
The elder bends and sets the hammer down into the mud. He reaches for the knife instead. Its handle fits into his palm as if it belongs there.
He dips the blade into the purple liquid.
When he lifts it again, the surface glistens.
"Azrean Lumonging," he says calmly. "You shall be free."
He reaches down and tears the black tape from Azrean's mouth.
The sound is sharp.
Azrean drags in a deep breath, chest heaving. Rain hits his exposed lips. For a second, he simply breathes.
Then his voice comes out hoarse but steady.
"Screw you all and this ritual."
A few in the crowd flinch.
The elder looks down at him, eyes quiet.
He grips the knife with both hands.
"Those are your final words, then."
He raises the blade.
And drives it down into Azrean's abdomen.
Azrean's eyes snap wide.
Pain explodes through him. His body jerks against the ropes. His hands twitch where they're nailed together. His legs strain uselessly.
But he bites down hard, jaw trembling.
No scream leaves him.
Not a single one.
The old man watching from the side lets out a dry laugh.
"Haha… what a strong kid. Refusing to show weakness. Too bad his time is up."
The elder keeps the knife buried for several long seconds. Rain runs down the blade and mixes with the purple stain.
Then he pulls it free.
Azrean's vision blurs. His eyes twitch, unfocused, locked somewhere beyond the sky. His breathing turns shallow.
The elder steps back.
"Begin the burying."
The lid is placed back over the coffin. The wood shuts out the gray world above.
Four men lift it once more and lower it carefully into the waiting grave.
A saint in dark robes steps forward and tosses a single white flower. It lands softly on top of the coffin before slipping slightly to one side.
Then the shovels begin.
Dirt falls in heavy clumps, striking the lid with hollow thuds. Again. Again and again.
The sound grows muffled as the hole fills.
No one speaks.
One by one, umbrellas turn away. Figures fade into the mist.
After a while, only a few remain.
The old man turns his head toward the gentleman.
"You should return as well, young man. This is the end. There's nothing left to say."
The gentleman stands there for a moment longer, staring at the freshly covered earth.
Then he lowers his gaze and turns away.
He leaves without another word.
One of the saints approached the elder and said, "Let's return, Gemmik."
The elder exhales slowly, shoulders sinking.
"How long do I have to keep doing this…?"
The saint places a hand on his shoulder.
"It's not your fault, Gemmik. It's fate that's to blame."
Then the elder lowers his head slightly. He says nothing more, then turns and walks away, disappearing into the rain.
For a long while, there is nothing but rain.
It taps against fresh dirt. It slides down crooked gravestones. It soaks into the mound beneath which Azrean lies buried.
Inside the coffin, the air is tight and wet. The scent of damp wood and iron fills his nose. Darkness presses against his eyes so completely that he can't tell whether they're open or closed.
His chest rises in shallow breaths.
'Why?'
The question floats in his head.
Mud above him shifts slightly as rain seeps deeper.
His hands throb where metal pins them together. His legs burn the same way. His abdomen aches with a deep, spreading heat where the blade pierced him. Each heartbeat pulses against the wound, slow and heavy.
'Why is this world so messed up?'
'Why can't I decide for myself?'
Water drips somewhere near his ear, slipping through cracks in the wood.
'I am not strong enough?'
His fingers twitch weakly.
'I cannot survive?'
He draws in a careful breath through his nose. It scrapes his throat.
"Who are they to decide that?" he whispers into the dark.
His lips part slightly.
He shifts his tongue toward the side of his jaw, pressing against something hidden there. A small, smooth object slides free—a tiny red ball, no larger than a bead.
He guides it between his teeth. Then he bites down as hard as he can.
The ball cracks.
A sharp taste floods his mouth. Heat spreads instantly across his tongue and down his throat. Smoke seeps out between his lips, thin and gray. His eyes flare open in the darkness, glowing faintly for the briefest moment.
Strength surges through his arms.
He pulls.
The ropes strain. Fibers snap one by one until they tear apart entirely. His hands wrench free, dragging painfully against the nails that bind them together, but he forces his wrists apart with raw determination.
The coffin trembles.
Above ground, the graveyard remains empty. Rain falls steadily over the fresh mound of soil. Mist coils low, swallowing the rows of gravestones.
Then—
The dirt shifts.
A hand bursts through the surface.
Mud sprays outward as fingers claw into the open air. The hand grips at nothing before finding purchase. Slowly, painfully, Azrean drags himself upward. His head breaks through next, hair caked in soil. His shoulders follow, then the rest of his body as he crawls free from the grave.
He collapses onto the wet ground, chest heaving.
Rain hits his face, washing streaks of mud away. He rolls onto his back for a moment, staring up at the dark sky, lungs burning.
After a few seconds, he forces himself upright and reaches for the ropes still binding his legs. His fingers tremble as he unties them, movements clumsy but urgent.
"Tch."
He presses a hand against his abdomen and winces.
"My stomach hurts badly…"
Blood seeps between his fingers, warm despite the cold rain.
He glances at the open grave beside him. With a grunt, he pushes himself onto his knees and begins shoving dirt back into the hole. Clump after clump falls in until it's completely filled.
When he's finished, he drops onto the muddy ground beside it.
"Now I just have to wait for—"
A sound cuts him off.
He turns his head sharply.
From the far side of the graveyard, another patch of earth shifts.
Dirt scatters.
Something rises from a different grave.
Azrean squints through the mist.
'Huh… is that a person like me—'
The thought dies instantly.
It isn't heyuman.
The thing that drags itself out has the shape of one, but its body is wrong. Flesh hangs loose and gray, torn in places to reveal bone pushing through. One arm bends at an unnatural angle. Strands of hair cling in wet clumps to a skull where patches of scalp are missing. Its ribs show through ruptured skin, twitching as if something inside is trying to crawl out.
From its back, thin, ragged protrusions stretch outward—half-formed wings made of stretched skin and exposed bone, quivering in the rain.
Azrean's heart stumbles in his chest.
He forces himself to stand, but pain lances through his abdomen and nearly drops him back down.
"A failed fuse?" he mutters, panic rising.
The creature's head snaps toward him.
Its jaw hangs crooked, teeth exposed. In the next instant, it dashes forward in a jerking, unnatural sprint. Its limbs move too fast, bending too far, slapping against the mud with sickening sounds.
"Damnit, why is every single problem in this world infecting me!"
Azrean turns and runs, boots slipping against the soaked ground. He weaves between gravestones, breath ragged.
Behind him, the creature crashes into a tombstone. Stone cracks. The creature falls, releasing a scream that tears through the air—half the wet rip of meat being sliced, half the shrill buzz of a massive insect.
Azrean keeps running.
Warmth spreads across his hand, still pressed to his abdomen. He glances down.
Crimson blood coats his palm completely.
His vision blurs for a second and he loses focus on the ground ahead.
His foot slides and he crashes onto his back in the mud.
"Argh!" The cry tears out of him before he can stop it.
He looks forward.
The creature is already charging again. Mid-run, its body flattens slightly. The ragged wings on its back stretch wider.
It lifts off the ground.
Azrean stares up at it in shock as it descends toward him.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
A heavy thud echoes above him.
Mud splashes across his face.
For a moment, there is silence except for the rain.
Slowly, Azrean opens his eyes.
He looks up.
A familiar figure stands over him.
His shoulders drop. The tension drains from his face.
"Took you long enough…"
A female voice answers, soft but steady.
"That's not how you speak to someone who just saved your life."
"Azrean," she says.