A distorted sound, like a radio with a bad signal, filled the cave before anyone could locate where it was coming from.
— Interesting. I find it remarkable that you managed to discover the creature inside that monster.
The voice had a mocking quality with an excess of expectation — the kind that belongs to someone watching from somewhere they can't be reached, and knows it.
In Auren that voice produced something that wasn't a single feeling but two at once: fear, and a rage that had no clean way out. And with that rage came the memory — involuntary, uninvited, with the precision of things the body doesn't forget even when the mind tries to file them away.
That day I had to hide in the misery. Without giving off so much as a trace of warmth or breath — all to keep living a life that was already in decline after losing my parents. They did everything they could to not be swallowed by the filth of the city. Only to become victims of men who didn't care about anyone beyond themselves — just personal gain, and sometimes not even that, just the excuse of a habit more disgusting than any other. Edmond Plot and Sylas Withered. Of course I memorized them. Those faces I will never forget. I will never forget those bastards who took from me the most I had ever loved up to that moment. It was unforgivable.
Investigating cartels I found them again. As I suspected, they were from the same group. And a tradition, a habit — that's all I needed to carry out my revenge. Maybe I could recover the satisfaction they had taken from me. A wide open place full of bars and strip clubs, tables covered in drugs. The mere smell of the place made me hate everything in it — including myself, for being a passive smoker of that filth. As night fell the party began, fulfilling the worst of their fantasies. What saddened me were the boys younger than me at the time, following the road those degenerate old men walked: some out of fear, others looking for a better opportunity, some just to channel a little of the fear they wanted to project. Though the ones that hurt most are the ones who accept being there just to belong — like a parasite afraid of its own supposed prey.
— SYLAS!
Auren's voice came out on its own, without modulation.
— You have no idea how glad I am that you're here, Auren. — A pause with a hint of savoring. — Or should I call you hero? What a joke. You're no different from us. Or I should say — from me. Seeing as you were a genocidal man without a shred of scruple.
— Why the hell are you still alive? And what did you do to the child?
— Was I supposed to go to the little gathering? Don't make me laugh. And the child — he was here long before I ever set foot in this place. But you could say I brought him back. — The tone shifted, from mocking to functional, with the speed of someone who has another priority. — And speaking of your creature... that's enough of your nightmares. Use something truly intelligent.
◈
An electric discharge struck the tank.
The sound of pain was extremely loud — and in less than a second the wasteland of the cave disappeared. What emerged wasn't the reality of Confragos.
— It's cold — Axel said.
— What is this? — Celia said. — Are we near an arctic zone?
The climate made it obvious: snow-covered trees, a white field reflecting every bit of available light. And strangest of all — the cold could be felt. Not as a visual suggestion but as real temperature descending through skin and lungs.
There was no time to fully process the situation.
A rain of bullets flooded the space from multiple directions.
Víctor took a hit in the arm. Johnny in the leg.
— What the hell? — Axel said. — These are people.
People wearing clothing far too loud for the white of the scene — which should have been an advantage. But the wave of bullets was enough that nobody wanted to lift their head. The fear didn't come from the illusion but from the one thing that was absolutely real: the bullets were genuine. That was enough.
— I'm certain the machine hasn't moved — Johnny said from his position, leg already immobilized. — The number of effects it would cause in the vision would be enough to detect it. The problem is this horde of bullets.
Amid the whole trajectory of gunfire, one bullet caught Axel's eye.
It was coming from the opposite direction.
Not from the horde — from the other side, crossing the snow-covered field in a trajectory none of the attackers would have taken. Axel searched for the origin on instinct before reason could catch up. The silhouette was barely visible: a robe the same white as the snow, so well integrated into the landscape that without the bullet he never would have found it. Almost imperceptible. Almost.
The precision of that shot wasn't that of someone trained. It was that of someone who had turned training into something else — into a category that no longer had a common name. Axel thought it without being able to help himself: a legend among legends.
The precarious fear of an early death didn't disappear — but he couldn't stay still inside it either. If he couldn't change the situation it would be the same as prolonging it. He just had to find the path, even if what lay ahead looked like hell. The same hell that forges you — if you let it — into the best of weapons.
Just like the surname he had cursed so many times.
The red-haired boy named Axel Forge found the angle.