Marekaj.

It was the name of that backwoods shithole in the marshlands to the southeast of Provo, Clyde silently recalled as he nursed on a flagon of freshly-poured ale, while cold, gray eyes studied a map of Zephon’s established travel routes next to the warm glow of the tavern fireplace, hovering keenly over the ink spot that marked the colony’s approximate location. He’d learned it from a scholar who had gifted him the map at Pyebwa Outpost, a small settlement within the Metaia region.

Marekaj. The name burned its way through his retinas and into the pits of his memory, like a hot cattle brand pressed against his brain, ensuring he would never forget it again.

After all, Marekaj was where Clyde first found himself, nearly a month and some change ago.

It was where he regained his consciousness after coming to grips with the bitter realization that he had not been pulverized beneath the collapsing rubble of Kefka’s tower, his so-called “monument to non-existence”. It was where he had first learned that this world was not his own. It was where he could put the assassin named “Shadow” to rest, once and for all. It was where he had finally, genuinely, truly disappeared from the lives of everyone that had ever known him—dead to the world in everything, save body and soul. It was where his search for a quiet life had sincerely begun. Clyde had been given carte blanche to work with, a new lease on himself and his future, one that he had, for the most part, taken full advantage of.

And to think, he was preparing to go back there, to where all of this started…

As he reflected on these facts, Clyde took another long drink from his flagon, exhaling through flared nostrils as the alcohol slid down his throat, leaving behind only its signature aftertaste. In his mind, he ran through list after list of materials, gear, supplies, things he would need to bring with him for the long journey to Marekaj. The more he pondered on it, the more his thoughts meandered into other places, areas he had firmly believed he would never need to revisit again, once the reality of his new life had been fully grasped.

Anyone else trying to walk in his shoes, figuratively speaking, would have hesitated to follow through on the plans that formed in Clyde’s mind; others would have fiercely refused to entertain these thoughts altogether, content to spend their days in blissful ignorance. Why dredge up memories of the past when they ought to remain buried there, in the past, where they belonged?

But, Clyde wasn’t doing this for personal reasons, no. As it was with most other Provonians, only the tactile sensation of a full coinpurse, paid in advance for services soon to be rendered, gave him the necessary motivation to dedicate all this time into formulating such an exhaustive travel itinerary. What made this worthwhile? It would have to take someone offering an exorbitant sum of gil—lavish amounts, even—to give anybody, let alone Clyde of all people, enough incentive to leave the safety of his home and face the perils of a world yet-to-be-fully-explored.

Well. Somebody did.


—--------------------

The proposal came to him the prior evening, about an hour after Clyde had returned from shopping to prepare a savory vegetable stew for dinner. Seeing that his own crops weren’t ready for use in cooking yet, a jaunt to the central markets had been required, where Clyde bought a selection of the finest produce available to him this season. He’d also paid the extra gil for a small basket of hand-baked wheat rolls and a wrapped brick of butter for dressing. It was nominally better than eating plain stew.

Preparing the ingredients for cooking was as simple as cutting each of the vegetables he wanted to add into small pieces. Onions, potatoes, carrots, and celery were the staples of choice for tonight’s meal. All of them, down to the last morsel, were tossed into the only kettle that Clyde owned, which had already been set atop the cabin’s designated fire pit and filled with water. All that was left now, was to let it simmer until finished. A pinch of powdered arrowroot, just the smallest pinch, would help it to thicken.

That was when Clyde heard a rapping, a rhythmic rapping, tapping at his cabin door. Knock knock knock.

No words leave his mouth. Quietly, Clyde puts down the wooden ladle he had been using to stir the stew against the nearest table, then smoothly glides his fingers over the polished mahogany handle of a chopping knife, the same one he used earlier to prime the vegetables, until they were fully wrapped around it. Clyde slowly brought it up and around his body until it rested firmly against his lower back, hidden from view, so that he could edge his way closer to the door. Old habits.

Knock knock knock. More rapping, gentle rapping, tapping at his cabin door.

Using his only free hand, Clyde unfastened the numerous chains and locks keeping it sealed shut, then pushed it forward just far enough to create a pinstripe opening for him to peer through. Who, or what, was making that noise?

But all he could perceive through the gap was a human-shaped figure, or something that vaguely looked like one. Gender indeterminable, completely covered from head to toe in a mess of tattered and mud-stained textiles he could only assume were once clothes, and a swarthy, emaciated hand holding a length of gnarled wood bedecked with an intricate woven web of beads and feathers and ribbons and silk string. He could see no face beneath the fragments of fabric that served as a veil.

Clyde leered at the stranger through the vertical hole, his long hair profiling the glowering expression on his bearded face. “What do you want?” The question was coarse and blunt, a transparently unsubtle way of communicating that they were not welcome on his property. The knife in his hand remained out of view.

The visitor lets out a drawn-out, wheezing sigh. “Bonswa. Sak pase?” A combination of sounds are produced, yet their intended listener could not decipher their meaning whatsoever, if any even existed. Sensing Clyde’s puzzlement, a hoarse chuckle soon follows, as if the strange figure had caught themselves in the middle of an error. “Eskize m, zanmi. Mwen forget, this tongue, eh… kij an yo di… dee-fee-kalt to speeck.”

Clyde cannot stop himself from emitting a glottal groan. Language barrier. Just perfect.

“What do you want?” He repeats the question, slower, more forcefully. A sensation of restlessness must be held back, suppressed, as it courses through his arm and down into the fingers that carried the chopping knife. He cannot determine if the stranger is a threat, but their presence alone is enough to annoy Clyde to the bone.

Another dry chuckle emanates from below the nameless person’s shredded rags, their sickly form shivering where it stood. They remain unbothered by Clyde’s rising frustration. “Dwat nan sib la, jis tankou yon flèch. Only bizz-ness. Mwen asire w, I bring only bizz-ness.” Between their reliance on whatever bizarre dialect they spoke and the appropriately thick accent that came with their stilted efforts to speak the common tongue, Clyde was at least provided the full context behind their sudden arrival in the waxing dusk of night, inconvenient as the timing was. Nobody ever approached him, even casually, unless they had one thing in mind: to offer him a job. “Èske mwen ka antre, can come in, yes?”

“Hnh...” Clyde grumbled, softly. This wasn’t the first time a complete stranger had approached him with work in mind, but ever since he’d been handed the deed to this cabin and the plot of land it sat on, other Provonians had grown accustomed to letting Clyde be the one to do the approaching first, since he only expressed the motivation to work when there was money to be made, and almost never went the lengths to be sociable anywhere else. Rarely did anyone ever work up the courage to encroach on his property, let alone knock on his door; the fact that this person was here, grungy and odorous as they were, meant they took considerable pains to seek him out. The dreamcatcher shit was a bit excessive, though.

He lowered the hand that held the knife and set it down against the closest available flat surface. With a groaning creak, the cabin door sluggishly opened until it sat partially ajar, leaving Clyde staring at his visitor with a scornful expression. “Make it fast,” he brusquely commanded, before turning to venture back to the cauldron so that he could resume stirring his stew. The last thing he wanted was for this person’s stench to permeate through the house. Or his food. Or clothes. Or anything, really...

Like an excited carrion bird, the visitor practically crowed with delight. “Bèl! Gwo fòtin! Will not ree-gratt, much proh-meese! Ou pa t 'gen yon chwa, de tout fason.” With an almost asthmatic fit of cackling laughter, the stranger tottered and staggered their way inside Clyde’s cabin as if their body were afflicted with some kind of muscular wasting disease, until they found comfort in an empty chair nearby, tapping their cluttered walking stick against the dusty wood floors as the various charms and decorations that adorned it jangled and tinkled asynchronously with every movement.

As the unfamiliar presence stumbled near him, Clyde barely resisted the urge to curl his nose up at that god-awful smell clinging to their body, a ghoulish mixture of bog water and terrestrial decay. Not even the marriage of seasonings and aromas emanating from the cauldron of soup could rescue his sense of smell from this heinous olfactory assault. Here’s hoping it didn’t completely ruin his appetite…

While Clyde did his best to choke back the opinions he had on the stranger’s terrible comprehension of basic hygiene, he had noticed that they were extensively fixated on his presence in the cabin, perhaps even obsessively so, although he could not discern if it was born out of familiarity or simply out of mere fascination. Whatever it was, it had him thoroughly creeped out, even if he refused to let it show.

Better keep it on topic, then. “What sort of ‘business’ are we talking about here?” Clyde stated in a matter-of-fact tone, albeit one that suggested mild irritation for having his evening ruined by forces beyond his control. He would have folded his arms for emphasis, but the stew still needed stirring.

The stranger says three words. Three words that Clyde can fully understand. “The dangerous sort.”

He paused. “How dangerous?”

A hideous wheezing sigh leaves their mouth, or whatever passed for such. “Enough.”

Clyde’s gaze narrows, but only slightly. They’re hiding something. Of this, he was becoming increasingly certain.

Gray eyes monitor the figure’s wretched form as it shook and shivered, like an animal left out to fend for itself against the elements, fidgeting restlessly in the chair he would likely have to incinerate in the burn pile outside after this conversation was over with. Here and there, Clyde caught only brief glimpses, flashes of movement beneath their collection of damaged textiles.

Creeping.

Slithering.

Skittering.

His grip on the ladle tightens, almost entirely by instinct. If this asshole had the nerve to bring pests into his house…

But Clyde can only bring himself to sigh, allowing the anger he felt for this stranger’s ignorance to melt away until all that remained was passive bitterness. Besides, bugs inside the house weren’t uncommon when you lived close to the edge of a forest.

“You’re obviously not from here,” said Clyde, unable to see any humor in the irony of his own observations, “but not everybody around these parts are enthusiastic about getting involved in dangerous business.” The hand that gripped the ladle continued to mechanically stir in circles. “Not without a good reason to, anyway.”

“Of karss! Pa gen anyen nan mond sa a gratis, yes,” the figure chortled weakly. “I have mah-nee, lots and lots. I pay you, you do job, yes?”

“…That’s the idea.”

The visitor in rags let out a low hissing sigh, but Clyde couldn’t tell if this meant something positive or negative. Maybe they just had bad lungs?

The answer wouldn’t matter, because the strange individual would soon reach a gnarled, bony hand inside the grotesquery of fabrics that covered their body until it touched against something that clinked metallically. Clyde patiently waited for them to summon what he assumed to be a bag of gil, possibly full to bursting, but instead, he played witness to something far more valuable.

Treasure. It was the only word to cross his mind, the only word capable of properly illustrating the actual handful of riches that sparkled and glittered between the visitor’s sickly fingers, spilling onto the table below like drops of rain. Rings cast in gold and platinum. Gemstones in a myriad of cuts and polishes that shimmered in all the colors of the rainbow. Amulets and talismans with patterns so intricate they needed to be perceived with a magnifying lens. Tiny spheres of compressed incense, more fragrant than even the most intoxicating perfumes. Simply looking down upon it all had not only taken Clyde entirely by surprise, but also gave him the impression that this was part of an even bigger cache of loot.

Which begged the questions: who was this person, and where did they come from?

“I come from my home, in Marekaj,” the stranger ponderously explained to Clyde, as if they were directly offering answers to at least one of these thoughts. Almost as if they had read his mind. Only one word stood out to him, familiar in all the ways he never wanted it to be: Marekaj. “Premye mwen te wè ou sòti nan fènwa Vid la, before our trah-bulls begin.” The walking stick jingled in place, the arm attached to it shivering harder than usual. “Ou antere tèt ou la, espere mouri. Lè w fè sa, ou madichonnen zo zansèt mwen yo.” The shaking ceased, eventually, and the tone of their voice became graver than it had been so far. Almost wrathful. “The dead walk again in Marekaj.”

The visitor’s words rest on Clyde’s mind as he continues to stir the pot. That identifies the problem, at the very least. Now it was a matter of determining how big said problem actually was. He could figure that out by himself, considering the generous down payment they were planning to make with all of this swag. “And you want me to take care of them?” A rhetorical question, mostly.

“Lay to rest,” the robed figure corrected Clyde with an insistent tone, “Ou dwe refè sa ou te vle kite dèyè pou fini kochma a. Dead only minor prah-blum.”

What? Clyde could hardly process the person’s way of speaking as it currently stood, much less what they actually expected from him. So the undead were lurking around Marekaj; how was this not the primary concern? Such questions only served to worsen the feelings of suspicion that Clyde harbored for the foreign presence that occupied his household, who was now starting to come across as an intruder with sinister ulterior motives.

He glanced down at the pile of treasure that had been spilled onto his table, watching it sparkle and gleam under the warm glow of his fireplace in silent concern. All of this for a simple zombie problem?

Before Clyde could even consider throwing out another question, the scrape of a chair against the floor had cut him off, followed by the erratic shaking ascent of the disheveled stranger in rags as they prepared themselves to depart his home, evidently satisfied with having said their piece—even though they hadn’t been here for longer than a few minutes, at most—and pointing to the pile of loot they were content to leave behind for the trouble. “Down. Dee-pah-zett. Fè travay sa a byen, epi rès la se pou ou. Much more mah-nee, much more.” That definitely confirmed his earlier theory about there being a larger cache, and it was tucked away, hidden somewhere deep in the dark and humid swamps of Marekaj.

Little by little, step by step, the stranger waddled their way through the open door, until they had cleared the threshold and could properly start down the path leading away from Clyde’s home, using their decorated staff as a balancing implement as they huffed and heaved out haggard breaths with every pace. After they had walked a distance of several meters or so, a fell sirocco rolled through the forest surrounding the cabin, only to seemingly gather and pool around the departing figure until it formed a whirling twister of soil and shadow.

“Go to Marekaj, vin tèt ou ankò, and lay de dead to rest!” called out the stranger from inside the maelstrom, “Viv objektif ou te fèt pou sèvi!” With a final, howling cackle, the cyclone of debris intensifies to a crescendo, causing the cabin door to rattle violently on its hinges, then dissipates almost as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind utterly no traces of the person standing in the center of the eye, other than a lingering smell that should have never been introduced to his nose in the first place.

And there Clyde sat, quietly tending a pot of simmering vegetable stew as a pile of trinkets more valuable than his entire property decorated his table, itself worth less than the smallest token that could be found among the pile. But the expression on his face said it all, though: he was looking at an opportunity to earn some serious income.

Sure, the whole exchange could be written off as a series of business etiquette breaches, but the visitor had come to him with a task, and offered payment in advance while also leaving the means and methods to complete said task wholly open-ended. Or so Clyde had assumed. And with the promise of additional compensation, that could only mean that Marekaj really was experiencing issues with making sure the dead stayed dead.

Thoughts and prayers don’t pay the bills.

Clyde hummed slightly, as he lifted a ladle full of warm stew to his lips. Blow on it first, to avoid burning the tongue.

He paused. It needs more salt.

Which he forgot to buy.

…Fuck.

——————

Thanks to the rather substantial handful of wealth the stranger had left behind, Clyde suffered no difficulty in gathering the materials, supplies, and resources he needed for the long trek to Marekaj. Small conversations with local travel authorities let him know in advance that the trip would span about a full month, at the most, provided he made frequent stops or became held up by unforeseen circumstances of some nature or another. According to the map, the kingdom of Torensten was the closest geographical link between Provo and the Metaia region, next to a mountain range that prevented direct passage into the swamplands.

For common travelers, anyway. Clyde had enough experience to know how to spot shortcuts and where to find them, and when it came to making long journeys on foot, he was as much of an old hat as any other seasoned trailblazing enthusiast, even though enthusiasm was about the only thing Clyde didn’t share with such types. An infestation of undead meant he couldn’t dawdle or waste time making frivolous pit stops; he needed to be expedient with his movement, and get there swiftly as possible. Cutting through the mountains might save him some time.

Getting there by chocobo seemed to be the most logical choice, as this allowed him to rent their hardiest bird for the length of a full calendar month, even if he wouldn’t require it at some point during the loan period. In addition to a hefty bundle of premium-grade sylkis greens, Clyde had fully expected his chocobo mount to carry him all the way as far as Pyebwa Outpost, where he would leave it in the care of the ranchers there. A month’s worth of dried food rations would keep him sustained during the trip, and he would have no issue finding clean water to drink, or bathe in if need be.

Fuck airship travel. That’s all Clyde will ever speak on the matter.

Then, there was the issue of weapons.

He’d always expressed a familiar comfort with small blades, such as knives and daggers. When it came to swords, Clyde had similar tastes, preferring those with shorter blades compared to the standard lengths carried by armed guards and wannabe adventurers. But ever since he woke up on Zephon—ever since coming to accept his new lease on life—there hadn’t been a need to carry such things on his figure anymore. He had hoped that he would never have to again, and, for the most part, he had succeeded. The idea had grown on him.

Until now.

Most of the tools he’d left behind, when he first made the resolution to do so, had been left in the care of a short-term acquaintance he had made during his initial visit to Pyebwa Outpost, one he had promised to visit if there ever came a time he needed to return to Marekaj, for any reason at all. The irony of his own words rang in his mind with a most bitter and discordant tone.

But, the job involved zombies, and promised treasure. Clyde figured just one exception could be made. Maybe.

One of these weapons, he kept. A long knife, with a prominent curved blade, polished to a mirror sheen, sharpened so keenly that any substance it cut would be lacerated with visceral prejudice. Even the very point of this dagger was capable of penetrating flesh with no resistance. For nearly a month and some days, it sat hanging on his cabin wall, resting placidly in its scabbard to collect dust in tenebrous obscurity, permanently relegated to nothing more than a faded reminder of the bloody life, and all its painful memories, he swore to leave behind him.

For the sake of protecting himself on the long road to Marekaj, Clyde had chosen to take this dagger with him as his only means of self-defense. He would acquire the rest of his equipment at Pyebwa.

And embrace his innermost demons for one more job.

Navigating from Provo to Torensten had proven especially fruitful, and gave Clyde just enough time to meander through its major streets in a preliminary endeavor to commit the most important points of interest to memory. He spoke to no one, and kept his distance from everyone, but so long as he caused no problems and kept to himself, Clyde was little more than another grain of sand in the hourglass of time passing by, a fish in the proverbial ocean of people moving to and fro about their ordinary lives. Just another nobody.

Reaching the eastern gates had been just as easy, since the stable-hands were courteous enough to guide his rented mount to the appropriate post so that he could resume his journey from there. The coins were the easiest to barter for more services and goods, because as soon as Clyde withdrew one, they were instantly recognized as relics of an old kingdom of Metaia long since deceased, and were given a few appraisals ranging from modestly substantial to fiscally outlandish. Of the more reasonable opinions given to him, these businesses were afforded “special consideration”, meaning Clyde offered an additional piece of treasure in exchange for all the required bits and pieces he would need for the road, along with their unconditional silence and cooperation to never speak about him or his activities thereafter.

An economically outstanding bargain for all parties involved; simply having two Old Metaia Kingdom coins would help pay any business’s bills for a month, and it left Clyde significantly endeared to by the recipients of such treasures. A way to form connections and engender trust, and, more than anything, save time on getting to Marekaj.

On the way to Pyebwa Outpost, however, Clyde ran into some…problems.

——————

He had been carefully galloping through the fields connecting into the southern swamplands proper on the back of his chocobo, having put Torensten long behind him by this point in his travels, accompanied by nothing but the two saddlebags full of gear he’d brought along and his thoughts about how to best deal with the undead that walked through Marekaj. Due to a lack of visible shortcuts, a tried and true detour through the mountains hadn’t been possible, like he had initially thought, so Clyde was unfortunately stuck taking the long way to Pyebwa Outpost.

Between the rolling fields, pockets of forested land, and fording the occasional small river, it had been relatively easy to avoid encountering any wild monsters on the prowl. Chocobos were widely regarded for their impressive senses of sight and smell, and were capable of fleeing any would-be predators by virtue of their world-famous running abilities. One would have to take a bird completely by surprise in order to successfully get the slip on one.

It happened as quickly as it had crossed his mind, when Clyde’s mount suddenly let loose a distressed “Wark!”, abruptly ceasing all forward momentum, even though its rider could not perceive any source behind the animal’s anxiety. Not visually, at least. The chocobo stirs frantically in place, stamping its talons against the wet grass and mud as it squawks and yelps with obvious panic.

Losing balance fast and unable to maintain a sense of direction due to the chocobo’s rapid motions, Clyde pulls the reins to guide his mount away from whatever was causing it anguish, but the bird refuses to follow the cue and starts spinning in place even more, practically shrieking at this point. Becoming increasingly desperate to regain control of the situation, Clyde grits his teeth, and draws in a breath, preparing for the inevitable forced dismount—only to wince his entire face upon realizing he had just caught wind of an extraordinarily pungent stench beyond all verbal description. One he was all too familiar with.

As he tried to reorient himself and get a better look at his surroundings, despite the chocobo’s bucking and squawking, Clyde’s watchful gaze passed its way over several markers that were more readily visible than this potential new enemy. A cluster of boulders; a diminutive peat bog off in the distance; the trunks of a few dead trees, broken and scattered throughout the swamplands; muddy footprints from where his chocobo had been sprinting; a person draped in a cloak of grasses and colored vines—

“Soo-eeee!!”

Clyde gasps as the chocobo fully loses all composure at the sound of a man hollering loudly. It buckles once, and only once, but the force of its movement is strong enough to send the bird’s rider practically flying to the ground with a pained grunt.

More bodies suddenly emerge from the surrounding grasses, each one dressed in the same motley of multicolored plant matter as the first, whooping like a pack of growler monkeys at the anguished bird while throwing their arms and hands up as far as they could, an attempt to make themselves more threatening. Combined with the atrocious odor that lingered in the area, the abundance of stimuli proved too much for the bird to handle, which caused it to bolt off in the direction it had originally come from, until it almost completely disappeared out of sight, saddle bags and all.

Fuck.

Still laying prone, Clyde tries to move, but is met with the familiar sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. “I reckon yuh oughtta stay right where y’are, fella, if’n ya know what’s good fer yuhs.” A few mischievous chuckles emanate from some of the figures surrounding him on all sides. He turned his head, to get a better count of how many men there were. Ten in total, all armed with either common swords or knives. Most of them lacked significant protections; a leather bracer or two, maybe some padded armor, tops, but it was mostly clothing and bare skin, caked with mud, grime, handmade paints, and probably excrement. Most of them lacked teeth, also, by the look of things. Maybe a chromosome. And every last one of these hillbilly dumbshits were a little too eager to escalate the situation further.

They inch closer.

Clyde takes another light sniff, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining it. Yep. Still smells like a shithouse. Simply glancing at their costumes allowed him to see a plethora of false eyes, teeth, and wild color patterns painted all over the ends of certain vines, which gave him the information he needed to fully understand exactly how they were able to succeed at scaring away his chocobo. He nods his head upward slightly at the man he presumed was the ringleader to this little operation. “Malboro disguises. That’s original,” he said, sounding more detached about the situation as opposed to being concerned, like anyone else might have been. “Kudos on getting the smell down.” Clyde scoffed, rolling his eyes for emphasis. “Not like it made a difference…”

“Ooh, lookee heer, boss – we gots ourselves a tough’un!” another man pointed out, his accent just as thick as the leader’s, and almost twice as irritating in its tonal abrasiveness. It was like listening to the delicate, soothing sounds of coarse-grit sandpaper scraping up against his eardrums. “Looks like ‘e knows a thing ‘er two ‘bout malboros, even!”

“We oughtta try summathat thare sap yah got from Jessin on the feller! Should knock ‘is purty lil’ lights out fer a long time!” suggested another man with a particularly twisted amount of enthusiasm. Colorful imagination, this one had, using malboro toxins as a potent chemical sedative. In large enough doses, prolonged exposure to its concentrated form would undoubtedly lead any victim to an ignominious end – the “lucky ones” got to escape with lasting permanent brain damage, among other crippling side effects.

Clyde snorts quietly. “Buy me dinner first, at least.” Sarcasm. The obvious goal was to make sure he couldn’t put up any resistance while they stripped him of everything valuable. Inhaling malboro toxins would certainly do the trick, at least.

More impish giggling from the miscreants surrounding him on all sides, followed by more blades being drawn from their scabbards. “Can’t make no promises, fella,” said the group’s leader, leering at Clyde with particular menace. “Me ‘n th’ boys don’t care too much fer foreplay.” At least three other men let loose a dirty sneer. One lasciviously drags the tip of his tongue across his upper row of teeth, grinning all the while.

Clyde’s face turned into a visible scowl. Money wasn’t the motivator here. They were doing this for the thrills. Which made them nothing more than a gang of inbred maniacs, terrorizing the southeastern swamps of Metaia. No better than the monsters they sought to emulate.

Well. Two can play at this game.

“Hard and fast, huh?” Clyde asked with a half-hearted shrug, slightly shaking his head. “Do all your stick-ups go that way, or just the ones you get really excited about?” If they were going to imply lacking standards of any sort, then he was fully justified in accusing them of being pathetically impotent, in crime, and in other avenues of living.

The ringleader merely smiled. “Let’s find out.” He nods twice in quick succession. “Pick ‘im up.”

Two pairs of hands suddenly press down against Clyde’s body and grip onto whatever they can before hoisting the entirety of his frame up, forcing him to stand on both feet again. He refused to struggle. Refused to give these idiots the satisfaction of watching him try to resist their disgusting intentions. His expression remained distant, even placid, compared to the menacing leers and grins of his transgressors, who could only observe what was on the surface. That which he allowed them to see.

If only these fools had the sense to look into his eyes before anything else.

Then they would have seen just how hopelessly outclassed they actually were.

“Turn ‘im ‘round.” The gang leader’s two subordinates wordlessly comply, twirling Clyde on his heels to expose his backside. A few “oohs” come from the remaining bandits serving as onlookers. One of them lets out a wolf whistle. Clyde’s face remained fixed in a scowl, yet the rest of his body harbored no tension whatsoever, a detail that went entirely unnoticed by his assigned chaperones, who were too busy waiting for further instructions to offer any close attention toward their prisoner. Keeping his hands relaxed, as well, both of them inadvertently brush up against a pair of objects close to his hips and waist. With a brief glance down, Clyde blinks in mild surprise.

Two daggers, both left carelessly unsecure in their holsters yet firmly secure against the smalls of their backs, each positioned in such a way that it also off-handedly revealed both men to be of opposite lateralities; one dagger allowed for a right-handed draw, while the other accommodated for a left-handed grip.

Huh. That’s suspiciously convenient…or it was fucking amateur hour here.

The ringleader claps his grubby hands together before shedding the makeshift malboro disguise, exposing a pudgy pear-shaped figure smeared with swamp grime and who-knows-what-else. A pair of weathered burlap slacks were the only form of clothing he thought important enough to wear, if only for the sake of resisting the elements of nature; his utterly bestial demeanor suggested he would have much rather gone without, if he could get away with it. “Make shurr ‘e don’ move too much on me, boys—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Clyde interrupted, lowering his cold gray stare. “Take all the time you want with me.”

The statement rouses the entire group into a raucous frenzy of malicious hollering and whooping, like a throng of snickering hyenas ready to pounce on the only available mate in miles. Clyde found no humor in their ulterior motives, or the cancerous intentions that inspired them to act with such inhumane cruelty, yet he permitted them this moment, this little handful of seconds. He allowed them to laugh away their self-awareness. He let them trivialize the atrocities they were prepared to inflict upon him. Gave them an excuse to act as if their repulsive way of life was somehow normal. Just a part of the routine. No one else was watching, right?

They were willing to go this far with it. Just how low will they sink before they finally realize they’ve hit the bottom, where the real monsters lurk?

Footsteps thump in the soft earth behind Clyde, a tell that he was walking closer. The head yokel nods to the goons holding him captive, giving the nonverbal command to stand by in case things got…messy. Stupidly, they wrap their arms around his own, doing about as much to constrict their movement as a pair of rubber snakes. He rolls with it. It lets them think they have the upper hand, while putting his right where he needs them to be. It didn’t look like the other knights who say “niece” had the required spatial awareness or the cognitive flexibility to recognize a set-up as it was being, well, set up. Must be all the shrubberies they were wearing.

Clyde senses the body getting into position behind him, bringing that hideous malboro stench with it. He hears the man smell the air, groaning in wicked anticipation. “Mmmnn, yew cityfolk do smell like money, that’s fer shurr…” A chubby hand slides onto his shoulder, savoring the textures of the fabrics and simple armors that covered them. He grits his teeth, so that the rest of his skin cannot crawl from the sensation of having his personal space so thoroughly violated. “Bet’chu taste like money, too…” The only thing that Clyde could taste was the vilest contempt for this abject waste of human skin, and the repugnant polyps that served as his satellites.

He tried to resist it. The urge to give in. To let loose the creature once more. But Clyde could feel it peeking through, in places. The subtle twitch of a finger. The calm in his breath. The way his toes shifted in the mud. How the hairs on his neck began to bristle. How he practically salivated over the mere thought of surrendering to his worst impulses. All because these imbeciles had met the wrong person in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Interfered with his work. Made an enemy out of him, simply because they could.

As soon as the hand upon his shoulder began to meander toward his spine, Clyde subtly lifted his head back. He allows it to move down, inch by uncomfortable inch, enduring as much indignity as he was willing to for the explicit sake of guaranteeing that each and every last one of these bandits had their guard at their absolute lowest point.

The head hick snarls treacherously into Clyde’s ear. “Be a good boy and squeal like a pig fer me.”

Limit, broken.

Because of the way his captors had been holding his arms, Clyde was given more than ample room to grip the hilts of each dagger, pull them from their respective sheaths, bring his arms forward before either of them had realized that their charge had begun to put up physical resistance, angle his wrists, then plunge the entire length of each blade deep into the sides of both men, bypassing ribs and penetrating vital organs until he ripped the knives back out with equal brutality, spraying the marshlands with twin geysers of precious arterial blood.

The man behind him blinks, but the rest of him, and his henchmen, are not quick enough to perceive Clyde spin on the balls of his feet before the first two bodies can even so much as finish falling to the ground. Crouched low, he flourished the knives in his hands, then lunged upward and forward until both weapons collided with the flesh of their intended recipient, puncturing through like needles to a balloon, burying themselves beneath the sternum and inside the lower half of the heart in fluid unison.

The head hillbilly lurches forward, colliding with Clyde’s shoulder, gasping and spitting up blood as the shock begins to take hold. The pain was unbearable. The rest of the gang all gasp and cringe in visible horror. More of his life’s essence spilled onto the clothes of the man he intended to be his victim as he leaned over, ever so slightly, so that his mouth could find its way close to his ear.

No emotion could be seen on his face. Nothing, at all. “…You first.”

The gang leader’s body suddenly spasms as Clyde pushes up into it one final time, then, with all the strength he could muster, pulls his arms apart with silent rage, completely dousing his entire form in a magnificent shower of gore and viscera that would send the victim falling backwards to the ground with a final guttural croak, like a half-dissected frog showing the whole world what sort of filth lurked inside. Three scoundrels down, butchered like meat on a slab, soon to be left forgotten and rotting in the middle of nowhere.

The other seven men, still alive by virtue of Clyde’s ever-waning patience for them, all begin to immediately hesitate at the idea of avenging themselves against the killer of their fallen brethren, stunned by just how effortlessly he had ended their lives. Not even the image of the fearsome malboro could inspire enough courage to stand against the likes of a true monster, this one, the one they had unwittingly thought to rob today.

Clyde simply stood where he stood, hands still wrapped around the daggers stained with the blood of three lowlife scumbags, taking deep breaths as he made peace with the act of ending their pathetic lives; the only real concern he had in the moment was how to go about getting new clothes to replace the ones he’d just soiled. He could play the rest of it by ear, for the most part.

A relaxed sigh left his mouth. “Anybody else want to skip the foreplay?” The question was meant to be rhetorical, but nevertheless invoked a deep and powerful terror in the minds and hearts of the men left to fend for themselves against whoever, or whatever, this person really was. He maneuvers his way over the corpses of his newest kills with ginger footsteps, claiming three more tallies amongst the countless others that forever marked his soul.

Given no reply after twenty seconds of combined hesitation from all of the men that remained alive, Clyde simply exhaled through flared nostrils. “Hard and fast it is, then.”

Whoosh! A hand suddenly flies forward in a blur, letting loose the knife it once held so that it could fly straight and true into the skull of Clyde’s fourth victim, sending them barreling backwards and to the ground before the other two men standing next to him could react fast enough. Clyde swings his other arm to the left, throwing the other dagger deep into the abdomen of target number five, hard enough to send them keeling into themselves with an anguished grunt. With the hand that held the first knife, he reaches down at his waist, grasping the hilt of the only weapon he had brought with him, and removes it from the sheath before spinning back around and into a battle-ready posture, the sheen of the exotic curved blade perfectly reflecting the murderous instincts dwelling in his steel gray eyes.

Enemies six through ten were about to learn, fast and hard, why this knife was called the Man-Eater.

Number six steps up to bat, brandishing a simple iron longsword nearly three times the length of Clyde’s long knife. With a defiant scream, he lifted the weapon on high and charged at him, giving his target plenty of time and space to shift his form as soon as the blade came falling down, allowing him to then slice upward and into both of the bandit’s wrists, fast and hard. The man shrieks in helpless agony as he watches the crescent blade remove his hands as though his flesh were made of paper, sending them and the sword they once wielded tumbling uselessly to the ground, only for his cires to be abruptly silenced as the Man-Eater is then dragged across his throat, sending him to the grass as another corpse, disarmed and disfigured.

Seven, eight, and nine all acquire the same idea at once and try to bum-rush Clyde from three different angles, but his reflexes are much faster than they are. He ducked low, retrieved the sword from the pair of severed hands laying in the grass, then spun his body around with his arm stretched out as wide as he could get it to go, carving through the air like a whirling dervish in order to buy just a few more seconds of time, and a few more inches of space. The maneuver succeeds, halting all three men from advancing any further at the risk of getting disemboweled, allowing Clyde to then cease spinning just long enough to use the remaining momentum to lob the longsword at the seventh man until its blade practically skewered him completely through, sending him barreling to the ground like a sack of wet potatoes.

Bandits eight and nine attempt to redouble, but are given no chance to swing their blades, no time to react, as Clyde’s superior footwork and control over his own weapon allowed it to blink between their bodies in a rapid flurry of side-to-side stabs and slices, sending splotches of scarlet spattering all around. Both men gurgle and convulse as the Man-Eater, true to its name, practically devours its way through their flesh as if it were made of fat and gristle, until their bodies are left to topple to the swamp grass. Their deaths are as unremarkable as the entrails his knife had cut their way through.

This left only one bandit standing.

Just him, and the thing that killed his whole gang, leader included, in less than a minute.

But Clyde simply straightened his posture out, took another deep breath in, then let a deep breath out. Copious amounts of blood had covered him from head to toe, and in spite of it all, the only expression that his face could seem to make was that of a grossly dissonant serenity, as if the pure violence that had just unfolded was merely a footnote in whatever sort of hideous existence he led. For him, this was only a late afternoon.

All it took was one simple glance from Clyde to immobilize the lone remaining bandit with instinctual fear. “Hey. You there,” he said, softly, eliciting a cringing whimper from the sole survivor. “You see where my bird went?”

Terrified and confused in equal measure, the hillbilly stuttered as he tried to point in the direction he had last seen it run off towards. All Clyde did in response was turn around to gaze upon the marshland’s horizons, squinting to get a better view of the elements that were further away. A few seconds of careful scanning passed until a small speck of yellow stood out in the distance, along with little bits of brown.

Cool. It hadn’t wandered too far. Means he can keep his deposit.

Clyde turned back to the scared bumpkin, sniffed, then blinked. “You’re gonna go over there,” he ordered, without changing tone, as he casually pointed in the chocobo’s general direction, “And you’re gonna get my bird. And you’re gonna bring it back to me,” his finger then aims itself to the ground, wandering all over in rough circles to vaguely call attention to the abundance of dead bodies that surrounded the two men, casually wiggling the Man-Eater in his other hand for added emphasis. “Or I’m gonna lose my temper, and use this knife to carve you up like a fuckin’ pumpkin on Halloween.”

With a string of frightened expletives and frantic pleas to spare his life, the tenth and only remaining member of this half-baked band of highwaymen had gone sprint off for the chocobo he had played accomplice to in scaring away. Clyde simply scoffed as he wiped both sides of his knife against his clothes, removing as much blood as he could before returning it to the sheath at his hip. Simpletons were the easiest people to make threats against.

Rather impressively, it took the cowardly bandit no less than ten minutes to get a hold of the rented mount’s reins and guide it back to Clyde while he simply waited with both arms folded into his chest, more perturbed by the loss of time on the road than by the fact he had just finished ruthlessly executing nine petty crooks living in the bogs of Metaia. He was still technically on the clock, and there were zombies to be put back in the ground. This had been a distraction, if nothing else.

Once the leather straps were meekly handed back to him, Clyde took it upon himself to examine the chocobo for any lasting signs of trauma or injury, feeling internally relieved to find none in the process. The poor thing didn’t deserve to suffer the way it had. All things considered, these assholes had it coming. It seemed as if none of the bags he’d brought with him were lost or tampered with, either; that was another added bonus.

“I’m gonna let you slide on out of here…for now,” said Clyde, aware of the irony behind his choice of words as he slipped a foot into one of the stirrups, pushing his way up and over, until he was fully seated and comfortable atop the saddle draped over the bird’s back. “But consider this your only warning: don’t be a dick to animals. Or I’m gonna find you, and cut yours off.” He made sure to add extra spite to that threat. Clyde had ways of following through on promises he intended to keep.

Unwilling to find out for himself, the hapless buffoon immediately turned tail and fled as fast as his spindly little legs could carry the rest of his twiggy body, tripping several times in his endeavors to put as much distance between himself and Clyde as humanly possible.

The chocobo clicks and chirrups, turning its head every so often as though it had difficulty understanding the meaning behind Clyde’s decision to set the other man free while the others perished before his impressive threat display, having seen him perform the miracle from afar.

The rider simply hummed to himself, no longer concerned about the bodies he had decided to leave smoldering in the autumn air. They would serve as a reminder to anyone else who had thoughts about preying on the weak and defenseless. Failing that, they’d be food for the carrion birds.

Without another word, he regained his bearings atop the chocobo’s back and began steering it again in the direction of Pyebwa Outpost, aware of the gore that practically caked every aspect of his image, but feeling none too bothered about it.

He’d be cleaning up soon, anyway.

——————

One might not have believed it unless they saw the journey for themselves, but the speed at which Clyde had been traveling by chocobo, combined with his refusal to pause for reasons not related to his current assignment, had allowed him to arrive at Pyebwa Outpost in a span of no more than three-and-a-half weeks, give or take a day. Much faster than what was initially projected to him.

Once the evening sun had descended below the marshland horizon, Clyde had, at long last, spotted the scholar’s haven as he crested over a hill, nestled safely between the Metaian swamps and the tropical forests that surrounded it, visible as a blanket of scattered, flickering orange lights; little beacons of comfort and security for the people inside, if you could also withstand the constant swamp smell.

To say nothing of the gore and grime splattered all over his body like some grotesque modern art project, Clyde’s approach had caused something of a minor commotion among the erudites and bookworms still too squeamish to stomach the sight of such things. Fortunately, those with greater intestinal fortitude and wisdom could recognize the signs of a traveler who had pushed themselves too hard to reach their destination, as evidenced by the copious fatigue present on his face and in his eyes. By comparison, the chocobo he had come with seemed significantly more well-rested and taken care of. Was that deliberate on the rider’s part?

Too exhausted to illuminate his benefactors on the reasons that brought him to Pyebwa Outpost, let alone care about even doing so, Clyde was immediately taken to the nearest available washroom tent, whereupon he was encouraged—at great lengths—to cleanse himself of the filth that covered his body and sooth the tension in his muscles with a hot, relaxing bath. Clyde offered no resistance to the plan. He practically stunk of dried hillbilly innards, and it beat having to clean himself off in the river.

It also gave him the time and space he needed to think about a few things while he waited for a change of clothes.

About the first time he’d come here, over a month earlier. About how lost and confused he’d been, trying to make sense of why he hadn’t died, even though it was the only conclusion he felt he truly deserved for himself. About the storm of feelings that ran through his veins as he fled his way through the mires of Metaia. About the feelings he once claimed to have killed, so long ago…

He had been denied his rightful end that night; of that, Clyde was certain. But, in a world such as this, Zephon, what sort of good might a heartless killer such as himself ever hope to achieve?

So he made a choice: to bury the existence of “Shadow”, the strongest part of himself, so that he would never again be called upon to end another life.

Clyde took in a single, uneasy breath. Had he really believed, truly, that he had just…kept this side of himself tucked away, like a costume, an outfit, that he could simply put on and take off as he pleased?

He closed his eyes, and saw only corpses – ten of them, dressed like monsters, behaving like monsters, only to be killed by a monster in the end. There’s his sign.

Ding-ding, ding-ding. A soft silver bell rang out in lieu of having to knock on the door, as there were none in the cleansing tents. “Hello, Clyde? It’s Cash,” called out a young man’s voice, one that Clyde automatically recognized as soon as the fellow had introduced himself through the washroom’s silken barrier. “I heard about your arrival from the senior scholars. They say you live in Provo now?” Cash: that was the name Clyde had been given when they first became acquainted with one another, after he confided to him his plan to start his life anew and leave his old ways behind. Last time they had spoken, he was training to become a libramancer, or something to that effect.

Clyde said nothing, only shifting his weight around in the bath water.

The absence of any response was all Cash needed to hear. “How was it over there?” he asked. “The quiet life?”

A forlorn sigh, matched only by the emptiness dwelling in his cold, gray eyes. “…Better than I deserved.”

A moment of silence lapses. “I see…”

Another one passes. “How many people know?”

“Just the scouts who found them,” A pause, followed by a soft chuckle. “Don’t worry. Nobody’s planning to speak a word of it.” Then comes a relieved sigh. “To tell you the truth, we had actually considered sending letters out to enlist mercenary aid. Those bandits have caused us nothing but trouble over the last month or so.” Cash explained, as if these words were supposed to make Clyde feel better about having unraveled all of his efforts, all the progress he’d made to abstain from ever killing again. Ten corpses were all he had to show for it. And it seemed as if Cash understood this, based on the utter lack of feedback he’d been getting from the opposite side of the tent’s screen. “Please, think nothing of what happened, Clyde. You helped us, more than you realize. Let us help you in return.”

Ironic, being told to forget about murdering a couple of lowlifes. Anyone else wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Neither would his other self. He would have just written them off as collateral damage. The suggestion brought him no sense of additional security.

“So, Clyde,” Cash said, after letting a couple more minutes pass by without speaking, uncertain if anything he had said was getting through to the visitor, “What brings you back?”

He took several seconds to form the correct string of words. “I was given a job to do.”

Cash hummed in acknowledgement from behind the silk screen. “All the way out in the swamps?” he asked.

“In Marekaj.”

An uncomfortable tension suddenly manifested above Cash’s shoulders. There had been rumors circulating among the researchers, speculations that the undead were rising in great numbers around the isolated colony. None of them were suited for dispatching the creatures personally, but neither did they experience any luck in finding somebody who was capable of such a feat, until the moment Clyde appeared at their doorstep. Serendipity at its finest. But was he aware of the problem’s full scope yet? “Is your job a dangerous one?” Cash inquired.

The words of the robed figure, the visitor who had given him the task, echoes in Clyde’s mind. “Enough.”

He was serious. The tone of Clyde’s voice said as much. “How will you prepare?”

The answer seemed obvious enough. He didn’t need to do much of anything, other than issue a simple request to Cash, loathe as he was to allow these words to leave his mouth. But the job posed its risks, and he needed to saddle up with these in mind, if he wanted to get paid for his efforts.

“…I need a mirror.” Clyde said. He would know what he meant by this.

Cash allowed the statement to hang in the air before he responded, lowly, “Very well. I’ll be right back.”

——————

When it finally came to rest in front of him, Clyde had almost felt his stomach turn over from disgust. Just the act of looking at it made him sick in ways he hadn’t felt in years, maybe even decades. From the polished ebony wood to its brass fixtures to the colorful flower motifs etched into five of its six sides, every element of its construction seemed like a cruel mockery of every step he took to put its contents behind him.

The box.

A window into an old life he swore to bury, in lieu of himself.

But Cash had done what was asked of him; for this, he couldn’t be faulted. But even the young scholar-in-training felt as if a part of himself had simply enabled Clyde to pursue his worst tendencies all over again, like giving an addict free reign to indulge their habits without restraint.

Any other time, Clyde might have agreed with this chain of reasoning. All the violence he’s ever inflicted upon the world, all the blood he’s ever spilled, all the failures he couldn’t live with, and he really thought he could just keep it all in a box? Where did it bring Clyde, in the end?

Back to him.

Weathered, calloused hands touched against the lacquered surface of the chest. Clyde’s stare thins as he reflects on the images stamped into the container’s form. Cherry blossoms and white chrysanthemums nested inside an abundance of crimson spider lilies. In the language of flowers, the particular way that these examples were arranged among the chest’s open space illustrated a sobering, unavoidable, deeply personal truth to the man it was fashioned for: All things are destined to perish and be forgotten.

Clyde growled softly. If only that were really the case…

Fingertips press into the box. He breathes in, then breathes out. As it was with mythical Pandora, to lift this lid would be to unleash all the evils of his past unto the world itself.

But evil haunts the residents of Marekaj, and Clyde was called upon to lay these monsters to rest. He couldn’t do it alone; even though he would never allow himself to ever openly admit it to anyone else, Clyde needed help.

He needed Shadow.

Gently, delicately, both hands separate the lid from the box. Inside it lurked him, his other self, right down to the iron tacks, all of it neatly folded and organized for ease of browsing. Everything he would need was here. Right where he left it the last time.

Time to let the monster out of the closet.

——————

Burnt cork. It always starts with a layer of burnt cork, smeared over every inch of his face until it was entirely black in pigment. Since his hair had grown out, it would need to be tied back into a bun of some nature, both to prevent visual obstructions and to eliminate the presence of unwanted areas where he could be grabbed and rendered prone. It would make it significantly easier to follow through with the rest of his preparations, as these actions were but a prelude to the greater process about to unfold.

Next came the armor. He never wore very much of it, only just enough to keep the most vital spots on his body covered, guarding areas such as major arteries and veins, important muscles, tendons, joints, ligaments; all the parts that every human being takes for granted, until they stop functioning the way they’re supposed to. On the other hand, too much protection would only slow him down, impair his movements, and make it easier for attackers to single him out in a fight.

This is where the outer layer of his uniform, the black garb that defined his inner demon, served its intended purpose. Void of all color, save for the presence of abyssal indigo flames, letting his body slip inside the form-fitting fabric had felt much closer to allowing the darkness inside his rotted heart to seep its way out so that it could crawl and slither up and over every limb until nothing that resembled a human person was left; only a dark and empty void remained, a hole on the integrity of the world and reality itself, all-consuming, and all-obliterating. A sensation he was all too familiar with, like putting on an old skin. In a particularly messed up sort of way, it was kind of like stepping out of retirement.

Spiked pauldrons for his shoulders, and a girdle and sash for his waist, the belt engraved with the image of a setting sun. Footwear shaped from lightweight mythril ore to preserve the wearer’s running speed without compromising defenses. Gloves for his hands, made using materials treated with heat-sensitive chemicals that resulted in the fabric taking on a striking tonal gradient.

Then, came the cowl. The mask. The image of his other self. His true face. Pulling the fabric over the bridge of his nose until it covered the bottom half of his face had felt just as stifling in the moment, like being asphyxiated by the weight of his awful choices—just like it always felt, every other time before this one. How the smell of it reminded him of a cemetery, or a mausoleum, or even just a shallow grave. A metal headband, etched and embellished far more than the rest of the outfit by comparison, would serve as the finishing touch, set above his brow line until both mask and crest formed a thin space, a window for his eyes to perceive the world, yet still small enough to prevent peering eyes from looking too long.

Sitting below his ensemble were his weapons, his tools of trade. Before him rested two swords bearing straight blades and square guards, both sheathed, each fitted with furniture and ornamentation befitting their assigned names. Between them, an exquisite dagger, not unlike the one currently in his possession, albeit significantly more exotic in its apparent function. Close to these, an antique armored gauntlet to be worn over one hand, and a string of meditation beads in polished obsidian. Over his left hand was slipped the antique gauntlet, accompanied by the beads, which wrapped around his wrist in a series of tight loops to keep them secure against his body. A flick of his fingertips against several hook-shaped latches caused the chest to suddenly expand up to nearly twice its original volume as a series of miniature compartments, drawers, and storage slots, filled to the brim with more equipment from his old mercenary days, slid out or popped their way into view. A clever work of engineering on Cash’s part, worth every gil spent.

The topmost shelf served as a sumptuous display of small, sharpened metal plates in the shape of four-point stars, arranged on a small wooden dowel by tiny holes in the center of each star. Above these were a set of much larger, dagger-like blades all connected to a larger metal ring and folded close to one another. In another compartment, directly parallel to the previous one, were a series of painted origami stars, identical in shape to the ones made of metal, arranged in a neatly organized row. Two panels on the left and right of the box revealed an assortment of wrapped and sealed parchment scrolls in varying styles and colors, along with a collection of small round pellets close to the size of marbles.

Swords, shurikens, skeans, and smoke bombs. The “Four S's of Assassination”, he used to call them.

At present, this was what he had to work with. All that remained of his former life. Establishing an active market connection for additional supplies seemed…unnecessary. But he never anticipated being put into this position, being forced to draw upon the vestiges of his old self in exchange for money. For the last month and some days, he’d been content to spend the rest of his wicked life in solitude and obscurity, hoping he would never have to pick up a weapon for the sake of ending another life.

But hope is for children and idealists. He should have known better than to pretend he could escape from himself.

One by one, he would grab a weapon, and secure it to his body in some manner. Both swords were fastened to his lower back, positioned so that they could be drawn with one hand apiece. The pair of knives were tucked into the sash above his waist on the left side, out of the way but still readily accessible. He took a generous amount of the smallest shurikens and passed a sturdy cord through the holes in their centers until the finished product resembled something akin to a necklace made of tiny blades, securing them to his waist along with his other weapons, making sure to take the larger folded shuriken along with. As for the origami stars, he only needed as few as three, at the most. Last, and certainly far from being the least, he gathered a handful of the little black beads and poured them into a satchel of appropriate size, before attaching that to his belt, as well.

He would then close his eyes, inhale, let the musty swamp air settle in his lungs, and exhale. He allowed his body to accept the tactile sensations present all over, letting it grow comfortable with being immersed in unfeeling coldness once more, to receive the baptism of darkness and secrecy. He breathed in the old odors until they became familiar to his senses. He rolled his neck, as well as the joints in his shoulders, as though he had finished stepping out of the very box that once held his gear.

When he was prepared to finally open them, his eyes had, through some occult method, turned deep red.

There he was. The real him; free at last, free at last. Anyone who knew him as Clyde would no longer see that man standing before them, but a hollow space where a human person ought to exist, a frigid void borne of death, meant to die, only to be reborn from death anew. A wretched thing whose only purpose was to kill, and kill, and kill. Like any good tool, however, it must eventually be put down once the task has been finished.

But tonight, he was needed once more.

Tonight, Shadow had returned. And it was time to kill again.

It was time to go to work.

——————

A full moon hangs over Zephon, casting down its pale silver glow from above quiet Marekaj. A dense screen of milky white fog descended upon the isolated colony and the river leading up to it like an ethereal veil, twisting and coiling with a serpentine suggestion that impaired all visual perception of the swamps and everything that sat within them. Amidst the landscape of murky blues, sickly greens, and muddy browns flickered little pinpricks of orange light, flames dancing on the burning ends of makeshift candles formed of tallow and corpse wax. Severed fingers, furled into hooks and turned upward, as if beckoning the lost and damned souls of the world to Marekaj. An invitation that never went unanswered.

Bones. Ancient, creaking, animated and shambling, they thumped and stumbled across the decrepit wooden docks propped above the fetid mires, hissing with an unnatural spite while more emerged from below the water’s surface, caked in algae and detritus from ages long forgotten, some more complete than others. By the workings of some terrible occult force, the osseous remains of those who had perished in Marekaj had been touched by the curse of undeath, denied eternal repose so that they may roam among the realm of the living once more, scornful of all who possess that which they now lack. Skeletons.

Rather fittingly, not a soul could be seen wandering Marekaj; they had taken shelter against the elements and the encroaching vessels of evil. Even the animals seemed to avoid this place. All that lurked here were dead things, and monsters.

In the distance, close to the edge of the village, a thin black object floated gently up the river, almost at a snail’s pace, until the narrow oblong shape had met the mist surrounding Marekaj. Without any resistance, the mysterious shape completely disappears into the white shroud, and out of sight.

As the colony’s inhabitants had all retreated into their shelters to protect themselves against the approaching undead scourge, there would be no witnesses to notice that the object was actually a small fishing canoe, and that it had been carrying a single passenger, their body obscured by a thick cloak of reeds and a wide conical hat made of straw, the entire time it had been moving upstream.

With the aid of a bamboo stick, the canoe’s lone occupant carefully pushes the vehicle across the water’s surface until it rests parallel against the nearest landing, letting them moor the craft with a small length of rope that they would shape into a thief knot. It was visibly similar to a reef knot, but was far more difficult to put together than the latter pattern and similarly less secure, and was a useful tool for sailors to know if their belongings had been tampered with by some filcher’s sticky fingers.

Slowly, the figure creeps their way out of the canoe, lifting itself effortlessly upward until their entire body stands on top of the swamp-stained planks that formed a path to the village proper. Wary glances are cast left and right, discerning only approximate footholds and vague shapes amidst the obscuring fog while both ears attune themselves to the ambient sounds of the surrounding swamps. Crickets and frogs singing in harmony, a chorus of mating calls. Fish nipping at the water’s surface for insects to eat. The hooting of an owl.

It’s quiet. Almost too quiet.

CRACK!! What sounded like a bolt of lightning pierced through the natural tranquility of the swamps. Birds would scatter, but visibility remained too poor to see the direction in which they fled. It would have helped the newcomer to determine precisely where the sound had come from, or at least triangulate its closest approximate point of origin. The stranger stood perfectly still, motionless, a statue in everything but material composition.

FTHOOM!! Another noise, this time closer to a small explosion of some caliber, roars out from deeper inside the village proper, accompanied by a brief illuminating flash of smoke and flame that revealed a cluster of emaciated silhouettes hidden inside the opaque fog some several dozen meters away; in the same stretch of time, five of the reanimated creatures were utterly disintegrated by the blast, leaving behind not even ash or dust.

The figure’s gaze, red like blood, narrows beneath the hat’s woven brim. Someone else was here. Sniping his quarry at long range with considerable firepower. But, from the look of things already, his undead targets had already finished giving the other presence a warm welcome and were now preoccupied with searching for their attacker. A fortuitous distraction, if nothing else, but it would allow for a completely effortless infiltration of the village. But he would be the one to find the treasure that had been promised to him. Of that, he would make certain.

The mist thickens, just enough so that their presence appeared to melt away until it vanished out of sight. A few seconds elapse until a thin spot presents itself in the fog, but all that remained of the mysterious boatswain’s existence was the cloak of reeds and the conical hat, now lying in a heap against the mossy docks of Marekaj, the former wearer nowhere to be seen, even from a vantage point above the fog.

Within, a group of four skeletons patrol the walkways, isolated from the rest of their osseous ilk, compelled by whatever forces animated them to search for the attacking presence, unhindered by sensory deprivation as a human might be. Which also meant they wouldn’t be capable of hearing what was about to come next.

A glint of light penetrates the fog. A four-pointed shape, no bigger than the palm of one’s hand, speeds imperceptibly through the air, spinning as it passes, until it collides with the brittle skull of its intended target, sending fragments of bone exploding out and to the muddy decks as the rest of its frame collapsed into a useless pile. The other three skeletons hiss, like cobras rearing up in self-defense, searching for heat signatures among the mist, yet finding none.

Three more shapes, identical to the first, easily carve through the veil and find their respective marks, obliterating fragile craniums and sending another triad of skeletons back to their final rest, seemingly destroyed by nothing, and no one.

But tonight, a true predator of evil will make itself known.

Tonight, Shadow joins the hunt.

@deathpenalty

A black shape suddenly ripples and billows above the fog obscuring Marekaj, descending into the misty screen like some kind of winged creature until it, too, could not be perceived fully with a naked eye; the only discernible detail about this new presence, based on sight alone, hindered though it may be, was that the entity seemed humanoid. Shadow did not require a visual confirmation of the second figure’s appearance to understand that, in the moment, they were not an immediate threat, although he continued to remain hidden himself as a matter of necessity, to avoid being seen by the shambling monsters prowling about, wholly immune to confusion, yet easily distracted by external stimuli all the same.

With unnatural fluidity, the smoky haze begins to creep away from the settlement and its surrounding territories, gradually dissipating until all that remained was a chilling panorama of undeath; dozens upon dozens of corpses and skeletons, maybe more, all struggling to cast off the chains of eternal sleep to spread whatever havoc they could in their newly resurrected states. From his concealment, Shadow could, at last, observe the second person’s form in greater detail. Long raven hair, black leather from top to bottom, pointed metal sabatons, a gauntlet ending in the talons of some wicked beast, and what could only be assumed was some kind of mechanism similar in look to the contraptions made by a certain King of Figaro Castle, albeit embellished with ornamentation far beyond the likes of anything Edgar could have ever hoped to fabricate with his own two hands.

The other individual would be the first to actually speak, declaring in a deep and serious tone that they could exchange pleasantries afterward before announcing a plan to buy his unseen ally-by-circumstance enough spare time to circle around the nearest group of enemies and return them back to the cold void of death. On principle, Shadow felt comfortable enough to follow this strategy, as it meant he could spend less time in the darkness picking and choosing moments to strike.

TAKTAKTAKTAKTAKTAKTAK!! Flashes of light erupt from the only opening on the stranger’s weapon, unleashing a barrage of projectiles faster than the eye can behold as the air filled with a sound unlike anything Shadow had ever heard before, spraying a cluster of half-rotted skeletons and sending shards of bone matter flying all around in a volley of what the other man referred to as “suppressing fire”. Simply witnessing its operation in that moment reminded him less of Edgar’s inventions and more of the Gestahlian Empire’s magitek weapons if their potential for lethality had been elevated to an artisanal standard. This was no mere weapon for killing, but an agent of Death incarnate, here to remind these abominations of the world’s natural order.

Now, there are two of them.

Beneath the pale light of the full moon, the lone marksman’s umbral duplicate, his shadow, slowly stretches out from behind his thin frame, growing and spreading underneath the darkness cast by his fluttering cape until it resembles something akin to an oil spill, a building absence inside visible space.

Then, as if breaching confinement from some dark corner of Hell, another shape begins to slowly emerge from the centermost point of the expanding silhouette, thin like the marksman’s, seemingly poised in such a way as to closely mirror the stance of the only human visible to the approaching undead legion. Had there been other living witnesses to see it for themselves, it would have very much appeared as though a second person had materialized from the crawling blackness.

A trick of the senses, nothing more. To offer himself an advantage against these ghoulish things, Shadow took the initiative to carry a pair of invisibility scrolls with him to Marekaj, having already unsealed one of them in order to melt away into the mist upon his arrival; the other would be useful later on. Beginning from his feet, the effects of the scroll gradually faded away, revealing portion after portion until the complete shape of his body in full garb could be seen illuminated in silver moonlight. No more hiding.

Shadow runs past the caped man with skillful celerity in every step, reaching behind him to withdraw a third scroll; in that same movement, the clay seal crumbles beneath the pressure of his thumb, allowing him to throw his arm and hand forward in a sweeping arc; esoteric process causes the parchment to simultaneously unravel and dissolve into a plume of viscous black smoke, through which Shadow leaped with all the agility and grace of a springing panther; he would emerge from the other side unalone, not as one man, but as many—nearly as many as twenty, perhaps more—physically identical replicas of himself, shifting and quivering with an almost phantom-like suggestion beneath the silver moon’s pall. Plebeians had a tendency to call them “shadow clones”, but only because they had no knowledge of the scroll’s precise mechanisms of operation.

TAKTAKTAKTAKTAKTAKTAK!! Aided by the marksman’s rapid-fire shooting and the illusory effects of his appropriately-named Shadow Scroll, the assassin in black and his many intangible replicas appear to flicker and dance their way across the muddy battlefield, appearing in one place only to vanish to another, flipping, cartwheeling, tumbling in multitude until the “army” of clones had all but completely swarmed around the monsters currently under duress.

Projectiles whizz through the air, thumping into soft mud, bursting through the surface of the swamp water, or cracking against fragile bone matter, while Shadow deftly maneuvers his way to the enemy closest to him, burning red eyes locked on a festering specimen of a zombie as it lurched and shuddered with every shot that struck its moldering form. Five more shamble close by, flanked by another five skeletons, and even more monstrosities preparing to close in.

He reaches for the black sword at his waist, quickly drawing it from the scabbard with a nimble flourish of the wrist while moonlight bounced off and gleamed within the blade’s polished surface as though it were meant to function as a mirror—the sword of lunar spring: Oborozuki.

Two seamless slices carve apart the rotten flesh, reducing the animated corpse to inertia once again. As another tries to lunge for Shadow, he dips into a sweeping kick that topples the creature off-balance while another closes in for an ambush, only for the assassin’s body to flicker and fade away the exact moment its attack tries to connect; five more shurikens then plunge their way into his foe from several meters away, thrown the moment his illusions had begun to produce the results he’d aimed for. Immune to confusion, but easily distracted all the same.

His lungs burned with every breath he took, foul as the air was in the swamps around Marekaj. Adrenaline surged through his muscles and veins, feeding his body the sort of energy it hadn’t felt in what seemed like years, short as his time in Zephon had been thus far. Perhaps he had also fallen victim to the throes of self-delusion, convinced that there was ever a time he could put this part of himself to rest; just as these creatures, these people—reduced to unthinking, unfeeling things—were once given. But as Oborozuki ripped and tore and pulled and split its way through the rotted flesh of the undead, all Shadow could think about was how it all felt so…correct, so…organic. Back then, he could easily drop twenty men as easily as he could take a shit.

Three more of the walking corpses fall to the muddy marshes as piles of lacerated meat and putrid viscera. As the illusory effects of his scroll terminated, Shadow merely sighed quietly, his gaze red with frigid focus. Nothing’s changed, he thought, using his free hand to draw five more shurikens before heaving them at the five skeletons that surrounded him, one by one, in consecutive fluid motions until each of them barreled through the skulls of every last adversary to send them clattering uselessly to the ground.

Nothing’s changed at all.