If walking through the night with only the moonlight and the occasional flashlight of my phone, surrounded by flies and the growls of unseen animals, isn’t scary and annoying enough, seeing a deserted village sure is.

  I expected some sort of light in the brick houses. I know they sleep early, but some liked to keep a light on at night. It’s not my first time coming here in such hours.

  Sometimes it was because something broke, or a loud noise happened. Especially during the war—even the most remote places could be hit by a stray missile.

  It’s not like the wars decades, even a century ago. The weakest and cheapest of missiles today can reduce an entire home to powder and debris.

  That’s a fear I’m accustomed to. But in this new reality, I feel a fear that most of the human race hasn’t felt in a long time—the fear of the unknown.

  As if answering this primal fear, a door creaked open as I entered the center of the village. The door of a house veiled in darkness.

  I’m not stupid enough to walk into that. Maybe stupid enough not to count my remaining ammo after all this time, but not stupid enough to die in the dark to some noisy monster.

  As I lifted Marlene, the shotgun feeling cold in my hands, I saw the face of the being illuminated by a ray of moonlight.

  My arm instinctively lowered. The familiar face of one villager showing up. But then I noticed something strange.

  When did they get so scrawny?

  Most of the guys here eat pretty well. Some are lean, but I’ve never seen anyone like this.

  The man’s face looked like one from the impoverished countries ravaged by famine.

  No, this isn’t right.

  “Who are you? Keep back!” Why did I even say that? Obviously, the guy won’t obey.

  Soon, the creak of wood turned into a cacophony as doors across the village opened.

  New faces appeared—all haggard and dried, skin and bones. It felt like I was in a plague-stricken village.

  Their clothes were torn, bloodied. And one looked familiar—a police uniform.

  Fuck.

  “You! Remember me? I’m the army guy from before!” Why didn’t I ask this guy’s name? I know I’m bad with names and would’ve probably forgotten it if it wasn’t weird enough. But damn.

  “Talk to me! Why isn’t anyone talking to me right now? Can’t you fucking see how weird it is for a bunch of people to approach you in the middle of a village in the dark?!”

  “I’m warning you, assholes! Don’t come fucking near me! I’m armed!”

  I’m in hell, right? Is this some sort of purgatory?

  I don’t want to become a killer. These are people, they lived with me in this forgotten place.

  But they’re moving faster and faster toward me, what I can fucking do?!

  My breathing became quick and erratic. Damn, I’m losing it.

  No, I won’t fucking die here.

  Would dying be better than becoming a killer? Yes.

  No. Fuck.

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuckfuckfukfukfkfk...

  “What did Carlos say to me? Ah, yes. ‘You want to survive a fucking war, Henrique? Let the adrenaline flow. It’ll make it easier. Don’t look them in the eyes—they’ll haunt you.’ What did he say at the end? Ah, that asshole. ‘You already lost it the moment you shot the first bullet. The difference is whether you want to be a dying loser or a living one.’”

  I’m finally losing it, aren’t I?

  “I’m not fucking dying here,” I whispered, my voice trembling. But I know. I’m not the same Henrique as before. I have fucking magic now. Not only that, but I also know I won’t be the same after this.

  I let my mutated adrenal glands pump me full of adrenaline. Also, they also pumped me full of noradrenaline—like the doctors said. It’s in the name. No need for explanations.

  What’s its other name? Ah, yes—norepinephrine.

  The nearest villager rushed at me. All my attempts to clear my mind failed. I looked into her eyes, her disheveled hair. Was it blonde, or just a trick of the light?

  It would’ve been ghostly if not for the wetness in her eyes. They shone. Yes, she was alive. I couldn’t convince myself she was an undead or whatever monster I could come with.

  My adrenaline surged. My shotgun pointed at her chest, my arm trembling.

  I shot.

  The buckshot hit her left torso, taking part of her arm with it. The proximity increased the damage.

  What a wonderful sound, the ringing in my ears sounded like the most angelic music. It helped clear my mind, drowning out any last pleas or cries from her.

  A group of three came next. I could see they were feral, like rabid animals. It didn’t help against the wetness dripping from my eyes.

  A few droplets of my divine blood floated up, my fingertips feeling wet.

  My blazing ray shot forward, hitting one of them in the neck.

  I swung my hand, the droplets reaching the others who kept coming even as their fellow fell to the ground, blood splattering on their bodies.

  I didn’t wait. Crimson flames engulfed the two of them, growing stronger each second as they used their blood as fuel.

  The one on the right kept coming, like a living bonfire. I pulled my shotgun and fired, the pellets hitting him squarely in the head, exploding it.

  I didn’t focus on their eyes. I didn’t focus on anything.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Just use your spells when you can, the shotgun when you can’t.

  The two on the right—burning blood was enough.

  The three at my back—a blazing ray and some burning blood. Ah, this one was made of sterner stuff. My shotgun hit him in the shoulder, enough to make him lose his footing, but not killing it. My Burning Blood finished him before he hit the ground.

  My nostrils were filled with the smell of burning meat, my ears with the ringing of the shotgun. My mouth tasted like smoke, carbon, and dried saliva.

  My eyes—they just feel wet.

  Soon, it was just me, the policeman, and a bunch of corpses.

  “Who did this to you?” I did, I know. I just wanted to know who forced me to do it—someone I could blame, someone to take the place of my own fears.

  The man didn’t answer. My body felt fatigued, my arms hurt. But could I live with myself without hearing anything from them? Without knowing why I just massacred a village?

  I tried to shoulder-check the guy to the ground. The policeman was stronger than me, even as a husk, and scratched my right earlobe and cheek. I used Burning Blood, setting his hand on fire.

  A morbid plan formed in my head.

  The man lunged at me, arms outstretched, even the one in flames.

  I took some of the blood flowing from my cheek and smeared it on his unburned arm. As soon as it connected, I used Burning Blood again, engulfing it in flames.

  Then I dropped some of my divine blood on his feet and set them ablaze.

  I stopped the flames on his arms, now just burned husks.

  The policeman’s body fell forward, face-first, his legs too weak to hold him.

  I stopped the flames and kicked him onto his back.

  He tried to lunge at me, even as his body refused to obey. His limbs flailed wildly. But it wasn’t just his limbs moving—his lips moved in an endless loop.

  As I tried to get closer, he tried to bite me. No way to hear what he was saying like this.

  I took out my phone and recorded him for a few seconds.

  Turning up the volume all the way, I could hear through the sounds of wildlife around us.

  “Welcome-the-empty-welcome-the-empty-welcome-the-empty...” The sound was eerie, alien—nothing like the man I’d heard less than a day ago.

  I stopped the recording and killed the policeman with a single shot. Maybe a waste of a bullet, but I’d already put the man through too much pain.

  Now I had someone—something—to direct all my rage, all my hate. To myself, to this situation. And now, to them.

  ---

  The silence was an insidious killer. My head was the only place I could be right now. What I wouldn’t give for a monster to show up so I could vent all my rage.

  The monster I needed to defeat in the future wasn’t enough to make me forget what I’d done. Maybe it never would be.

  The corpses stayed frozen—all husks, some burned black, others just lifeless.

  No shards showed up. And I wouldn’t dare take them even if they did.

  Fighting the urge to bury them was hard. Burning them to dust felt just as wrong.

  The thought of the local—and now alien—wildlife desecrating their corpses felt like another sin I didn’t want to carry.

  Everything goes so fast when you try to lose yourself in action.

  My home was just ahead. The “me” from before felt stronger, even without magic. He had certainty, a clear conscience, even as war tried to take it from him.

  My buddies were the ones who carried that sin, not me. Now I know it.

  The weight of killing someone—maybe it’s worse for me because I killed people I lived with, even at a distance.

  How much I wanted to call my buddies. But were they even alive? As soon as I left, I tried to reach them—a message here, a call there.

  It didn’t last. I felt like a traitor. Here I was, living off my fixed income. Not a luxurious life, but a comfortable one.

  I know the rich live with so much more, wasting on banalities. And worst of all, they don’t know or care about the price paid in blood and spirit.

  My sin is having a conscience. But what can I do? Cut it out? How?

  The place I called home felt the same—a broken window, the only difference being the burned husk inside, nibbled at by insects.

  Probably more charcoal than meat. That’s why so few of them are here.

  Our clash had left a scar in the center of the normalcy I once had.

  I drank water like mad straight from the faucet, my parched lips feeling bliss, only tainted by the filth I felt within myself.

  Opening the fridge, I saw milk, cheese, ham, fruits, yogurt, a half-eaten cake, the remains of my dinner, and more.

  My stomach gurgled, but I felt nauseous. I knew where it came from—the people I bought it from.

  They didn’t make it, but I bought from them. I wasn’t hungry enough to endure that.

  Another stop—the bathroom.

  Maybe some of the filth would wash away. How many times had I felt like trash, only to feel like a monk reaching nirvana after a shower?

  I took off my dirty clothes and threw them in the trash. They couldn’t be cleaned.

  The water fell on my body, the sound relaxing, the dirt washing away. The wererat blood was gone—nothing a sponge couldn’t handle.

  But I still felt like scum.

  Slowly, I turned off the shower.

  Looking in the mirror, I saw the same me. The beard hadn’t even grown enough to need a shave.

  Even after all the shampoo and soap, I still smelled like smoke.

  I took my shaver, and in a few minutes, a younger version of me stared back.

  The beard was nice, but it aged me. Still, I only saw a worse version of myself.

  My black hair, my brown eyes, my skin—I still didn’t know if it was light brown, white, or whatever.

  I know all that jazz about ethnicity. It never meant much to me. I’m me. I don’t feel like either.

  With all the bigger problems of war, people still acted like animals—discrimination, pillaging, extortion, scamming, robbing, raping, murder...

  We’re so much worse than animals. Would one of those rich bastards care that their countrymen bled?

  Would I?

  Did all this philosophical rambling do anything for my guilty conscience?

  No.

  Leaving the bathroom, I went to my room. I was glad I’d closed it. I activated my plug-in repellent, just to make sure nothing would make my night worse.

  Closing the door, I put on some light clothes and fell onto my bed.

  My hands finally returned to normal.

  If there’s one good thing about being exhausted, it’s that sleep welcomes you with open arms—even the most vile trash.

  Doing my damnedest, I set an alarm for five hours. Be damned if I wasted time getting shards.

  The heaviness in my head lightened as my body was forced to sleep, no matter how sick I felt.