The world swam in a haze of orange and black. Faerlid’s head lolled against something coarse and cold, then sharp. A low growl rumbled, vibrating through him, a sound that seemed to mock the fragile beat of his own heart. He was being carried. That much registered, a disorienting sway beneath him as though he were a sack of grain tossed over a shoulder. The stench was immediate and overwhelming: ash, charring wood, and something sickeningly sweet, like burnt sugar mixed with iron. It clung to the back of his throat, made his eyes water even before he forced them open. He saw blurry shapes, red and gold, licking at the edges of his vision. Flames. A village, or what was left of one. Houses crumpled into glowing embers, roofs collapsing with groans of tortured timber. He was too heavy with a strange, inert lethargy to fully comprehend. His limbs felt like lead, his thoughts muddied by a constant, dull ache that resonated from bone to soul. He felt utterly drained, yet a peculiar heat pulsed beneath his skin, a molten tide that had settled deep within him. It was a sensation both alien and terrifyingly familiar, like a fever that would never break. He watched, passively, as the giant, multi-limbed creature that held him strode through the burning wreckage. Its skin was a sickly green, stretched taut over bulging muscles, with jagged horns curving back from a flattened skull. Each footfall sent tremors through the scorched earth. It carried him with one clawed hand wrapped around his torso, a crude, unfeeling grip that pressed against his ribs. The spectral, iridescent rings that had swirled around his fingers moments before now pulsed faintly, almost invisibly, with each beat of the demon’s monstrous stride. Screams. They tore through the crackle of the fire, thin and reedy, then thick and guttural. Human screams. Women, children, men. Faerlid heard them, distinct and piercing, yet they seemed to belong to a different dimension. His mind, still steeped in the recent horror of his own home, processed them as just another sound in the endless symphony of suffering. He brought ruin, he knew this. Every breath he took, every space he occupied, it invited destruction. These screams, these desperate cries, they merely confirmed what he already understood about himself. A small, mud-splattered wooden doll lay half-buried in the churned dirt, its single painted eye staring blankly up at the smoke-choked sky. He fixated on it, a tiny island of stillness in the chaos. The demon stepped over it, its massive foot narrowly missing the toy. Faerlid felt nothing for the doll, nothing for its presumed owner. He felt nothing for himself. The self-loathing had become a deep, pervasive numbness, a grey blanket over everything. He was here, being carried by a monster through a burning town, and it felt like the natural order of things. This was his place, in the heart of destruction, the catalyst for it all. The world was burning, and he was merely a cinder. The creature paused, its red eyes scanning the flickering shadows. A low chuckle, wet and grating, vibrated through Faerlid’s chest. The demon’s grip tightened, nearly crushing the air from his lungs. Faerlid gasped, a dry, rasping sound, but made no effort to struggle. What was the point? His body was a vessel, his spirit already broken. He was merely an object in motion, propelled by a force far greater, and far more terrible, than his own shattered will. The heat radiating from his own skin intensified, a strange counterpoint to the village’s inferno. The demon sniffed the air, a long, guttural inhale that pulled the scent of burning flesh deeper into its cavernous nostrils. Its head turned slowly, tracking a faint, whimpering sound coming from behind a collapsed stall. Faerlid’s vision, though still blurry, sharpened enough to make out a huddled shape. A family. A man, a woman, and a small child, perhaps no older than five, clutching tightly to the woman’s torn kimono. Their faces were streaked with soot and tears, their eyes wide with unutterable terror. The monster took a deliberate step, then another, dragging Faerlid closer. Its free hand, a grotesque collection of elongated fingers tipped with black talons, reached out, not to kill, but to prod. It tapped the man’s shoulder, a light touch that sent a shiver through Faerlid, even from his precarious perch. The man cried out, a strangled sound, pulling his family closer. The demon chuckled again, a sound devoid of mirth, purely predatory. It was toying with them. Faerlid felt a cold, creeping sensation unfurl in his gut. Not fear for them, not really. Just a deepening sense of dread, an acknowledgement of the raw, undeniable horror that now dominated his existence. He watched the family, their desperate faces etched in the flickering firelight. He saw the child’s eyes, wide and innocent, yet filled with an understanding of imminent demise. It was a look that mirrored his own a lifetime ago, before the blood and the katana and the strange, molten heat in his veins. He should feel something, he thought. Outrage, pity, a surge of protective instinct. But there was only the cold, hard stone of his own self-condemnation. This was the world he had brought into being, the suffering he radiated. He deserved to witness it, to be a part of it, to feel every last agonizing second of it without the relief of oblivion. The demon lowered Faerlid slightly, almost setting him down, its attention fully on the terrified family. It began to speak, its voice a gravelly rasp, twisting words into a cruel parody of human speech. “Such… tender morsels. So much… fear. Do you know… what you are?” It extended a talon, tracing an invisible line in the air before them. The woman whimpered, pulling the child’s head into her shoulder. The man shielded them both, his body trembling uncontrollably. Faerlid’s gaze drifted to the child’s small, bare feet, covered in ash. The vulnerability was stark, unyielding. The demon raised its other hand, the one holding Faerlid, bringing him closer to its own face. Its foul breath washed over him, hot and putrid. “And this one,” it rumbled, its red eyes fixing on Faerlid’s own, “this one is… different. A taste… of something new. A broken thing. Perhaps… even more delicious.” Faerlid felt a strange pull, as if the demon’s gaze was trying to unravel the threads of his existence, to peer into the gaping void of his self-loathing. He offered no resistance. He was a broken thing. The demon was merely stating a fact. The demon's clawed hand, the one that had been toying with the family, began to move with horrifying slowness towards the man's throat. The man squeezed his eyes shut, a silent plea caught in his constricted throat. The child let out a soft cry, muffled by the woman's shoulder. Faerlid registered the impending death, the finality of it. It would be quick, brutal. Just like Kiko and Misha. Just like his parents. The guilt, a familiar weight, pressed down on him, but it brought no surge of heroic defiance. Only the quiet certainty that this was his doing, always his doing. Just as the demon’s talons hovered inches from the man’s skin, a sound ripped through the air, louder than the crackling flames, sharper than any scream. A flash of brilliant, golden lightning split the oppressive, smoke-filled night, illuminating the entire ravaged village in a blinding momentary glare. The demon froze, its red eyes wide with surprise. A figure, wreathed in what seemed to be actual roaring flames, descended from the sky, a streak of crimson and gold. The air itself shimmered with heat, a different kind of heat than Faerlid’s own internal fire, a vibrant, living inferno. The demon slayer, a man of impossible speed and radiant presence, landed with a thud that shook the ground. His posture was dynamic, his long, yellow hair flowing like a fiery mane. He held a crimson blade, its edge glowing with an impossible intensity, wreathed in the very flames that surrounded him. The demon slayer moved before the demon could even register the threat. It was a blur of motion, a streak of pure, unadulterated power. The demon, still holding Faerlid aloft, roared in blind fury and alarm, its attention ripped away from its helpless prey. The crimson blade, wreathed in roaring flames, cleaved into the beast’s neck with a sound like tearing thunder. Faerlid felt a violent jolt as the demon recoiled, its grip on him loosening for a split second. He swung precariously, staring at the fiery presence, the blade that glowed like a miniature sun. Was this salvation? Or merely a transfer to a new form of torment?

The Taste of Ash