The wind whispered through the broken trees, carrying the stench of rot.
Anthony walked at the front of the group, boots slamming against the cracked earth with mechanical precision. Riley followed a few paces behind, silent but visibly tense. Around them, the remnants of a once-thriving village smoldered — blackened walls, crumbling stone, and twisted, melted corpses.
Another village. Another infection. Another necessary purge.
No ceremony, no regret. Anthony's spear still crackled faintly with residual energy, the scorched remains of the infected lying in his wake.
A small crowd had gathered ahead, faces pale and hollow. Survivors — uninfected, but barely. A woman clutched a young boy to her chest, sobbing incoherently, her face streaked with dirt and tears. Others huddled behind her, their bodies tense with hope... and fear.
One of the village elders — a hunched man with trembling hands — stepped forward, bowing so low he nearly kissed the dirt.
"Please, sir," he croaked. "Please, he's just a child. He's not... he's not turning. Give him time."
Anthony said nothing. His stare was dead, colder than the frost gathering at the edges of the burnt ruins.
He approached the woman, who clutched her son tighter.
Riley shifted behind him, her mouth opening in protest — but the words never escaped.
The child's left arm was blackening at the veins. Thin, almost imperceptible tendrils writhed just beneath his skin, like worms burrowing for his heart.
Anthony made his decision in less than a second.
A flash of steel.
A gasp from the crowd.
A final, pitiful whimper from the boy.
Silence.
Anthony wiped the blade clean against the charred earth, turned, and walked on as if nothing had happened.
Behind him, the mother collapsed into the dirt, shrieking until her voice broke.
---
Later that night, campfires flickered weakly against the growing mist.
Anthony sat apart, inspecting his weapon, tightening the bindings on his armor. Riley stared at him across the fire, expression shadowed by the dancing light.
"You didn't even hesitate," she said finally. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"I don't waste time," Anthony replied flatly.
"He... he might've had a chance," she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
Anthony's gaze met hers — empty, unyielding. "Hope is a liability."
Riley turned away, drawing her knees to her chest. For a long time, neither spoke.
The sky above boiled with gathering clouds, thick and suffocating. The scent of rain — heavy and unnatural — hung in the air. Something vast stirred in the distance, unseen but inevitable.
---
The next morning, the world had already begun to shift.
A crumpled newspaper — tossed by a panicked traveler — lay abandoned on the road where they walked.
The headline was simple, brutal:
> "The Scourge of the Black Beasts: Savior or Monster?"
"Witnesses describe a lone warrior purging entire villages suspected of infection. Survivors speak of immediate executions, no trials, no chance for mercy. Fear spreads faster than the plague. Is he our salvation, or the beginning of something far worse?"
Anthony barely glanced at it.
Riley, however, picked it up, staring at the ink-stained words. Her hand trembled slightly.
Even now, small groups of travelers passed them by, whispering urgently among themselves — some pointing, others averting their gaze altogether.
The dominoes had started to fall.
Where Anthony passed, hope died, and fear flourished.
He had become more than a man.
He was a force — an omen.
And somewhere beyond the dark hills, the rivers began to swell, the first whispers of a flood that would soon wash everything away.
The morning was an ugly thing, gray and sick with mist. Ash fell like cursed snow, settling on charred homes and blackened corpses. The only sounds were the distant caws of crows and the crackle of dying embers.
Anthony walked ahead of the group, spear slung across his back, each step measured and unhesitating. Riley followed, her boots scuffing against the ruined ground, her face twisted in unreadable conflict.
Around them, the villagers gathered, clutching each other like debris clinging to a sinking ship. Mothers, fathers, the wounded — and the infected.
One woman stumbled forward, dragging a boy no older than six by the hand.
"Please!" she cried, falling to her knees. Her hands were red and raw from clawing at the rubble. "Please, you don't have to— he's not sick! He's just cold, look!"
Anthony crouched, grabbing the boy's wrist in a rough motion. The child whimpered but didn't resist.
Dark veins ran beneath the boy's skin, snaking up his arm toward his heart. A slow, inevitable corruption.
Anthony didn't flinch. His voice was low, mechanical.
"One touch. One breath. And it spreads."
"No!" the mother screamed. She threw herself forward, grasping at Anthony's leg. "He's all I have! Please, you can't—"
Anthony pushed her aside with the back of his arm like she was nothing more than a nuisance.
The boy's eyes widened, understanding too late.
One stroke.
A quick, clean death.
Blood hit the dirt in a thin arc.
The boy crumpled without a sound.
The woman's scream tore into the dead air like a blade. She threw herself over her son's body, sobbing, cursing.
Anthony simply stood, wiping the blade against the grass as if cleaning mud from his boots.
Riley watched, a sour taste in her mouth. Her hands trembled against her sides, nails digging crescent moons into her palms.
Anthony turned slightly noticing her, meeting her eyes.Trying to give her comfort in words he spoke. His voice was flat.
"If a rabid dog bites you, you don't ask it to apologize."
A few of the nearby villagers recoiled, clutching their loved ones tighter. Fear rooted them to the ground more firmly than any chain ever could.
The sun broke faintly through the mist, casting long skeletal shadows over the ruins. Smoke rose from collapsed rooftops like dying prayers.
Anthony took it looked into it the headline was big, and scrawled:
"Black Butcher Strikes Again — Survivors Countless, Hope None"
Beneath it, a rough sketch: a figure with a spear, face hidden in shadow, standing over a field of burning bodies.
"Finally famous," he said dryly, tossing the paper into a puddle where the ink bled like a fresh wound.
Riley flinched at his callousness but said nothing. Her throat was dry, her heart heavier.
A few of the braver villagers whispered behind their hands:
"That's him... the executioner..."
"Devil in human skin..."
"Why is she still with him?"
Anthony ignored them all.
---
As they moved, the sky began to change.
Heavy black clouds gathered fast, pulled by unseen hands. The ground underfoot trembled slightly — not enough to knock anyone down, but enough that even the survivors stopped and stared.
Riley caught up to him, voice low.
"Something's wrong."
Anthony didn't slow. His smile was cold, humorless.
"Wrong is relative."
A distant rumble.
Not thunder — something deeper. Something vast.
Far beyond the hills, a wall of water shimmered into view — a tidal flood, tearing trees from the ground like blades of grass. It moved with terrible