THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE

  600

  Jonah ‘Windshear’ Ffang could never forget the night he left the village.

  [After all we’ve done to keep you here. Do our sacrifices mean nothing?]

  It was so dark that he couldn’t see the clouds up above. The winds stirred up a chill that blew the candles out, calling the village to an early rest.

  On this night, like many others, the prodigal son found himself wandering Dunreach alone.

  [You mean after all you’ve done to kidnap me. Don’t play like taking me in was out of the goodness of your hearts. I didn’t ask to be here. I know exactly what I am!]

  Something was howling outside the village. It was either the wind or the wolves.

  The others were asleep on the other side of papyrus-thin walls, the height of their dreams, unlike the loudness of their snores, regulated by their precious fence-barrier.

  He passed by the field where that crazy farmer was still tilling the earth.

  [You don’t have a clue what you are.]

  He passed by the village square.

  [I’m your prisoner!]

  He passed by the doctor’s house, which had been empty for some time.

  The young man wandered, his featherweight footsteps weighed down by his thoughts. But somehow, he ended up at the village borders.

  To think. All this over a loaf of bread.

  [You’re a-]

  Jonah kissed his teeth. “Like I’d ever care what you think!”

  A loose pebble skipped down a cobblestone path worn thin by decades of use.

  Oedipus, the fence-sitter, jolted awake, snorting a command. “Show yourself! I have a weapon!” He swept candlelight from side to side, revealing the section of the plains where ordinary green weeds transitioned into those stinging yellow marigolds. “… in a sense…”

  The wax candle dimmed with second-hand embarrassment.

  It was caged in an ornamental contraption. Six glass windows in a brass frame, flat at the bottom and converging to a point at the tip, with a smooth circular handle.

  Such a lamp was unique in the primitive Dunreach, where their best swords were restored from rust, and their wielders wore cuir bouilli over copper plating.

  The frame was old and rusting, but the wick youthful and ceaselessly burning. Blessed with clarity, as well as perpetuity: so long as the villagers behaved, the light would never go out. So declared the Heavens through the Lightbringer, gifting it after the dead bouchère's night-long rampage.

  An heirloom of sorts. It was received by the next in line to guard the fence, but never passed on by his predecessor. For that reason, the children took to calling the fence-sitter's lamp La Mèche Maléfique, coined by a younger prodigal son after the last candle-keeper disappeared.

  The fence-sitter shivered just thinking about it.

  “I thought you didn’t need sleep.”

  Oedipus screamed, dropping the lantern.

  Jonah watched with mild amusement as the candlelight spun. Knowing the truth about it now, he wondered what would happen if it broke, but he didn’t want to be on any worse terms with that bitch, so he let it land on his bare feet and kicked it back up.

  “Sir Jonah. Thank you! That was entirely your fault, but thank you!”

  He pulled the hot lamp close to his chest, then screamed again.

  Jonah grunted in disinterest. “Whatever, man. How’s the watch goin’ tonight? See anythin’ cool before ya’ fell asleep?”

  “I…” The fence-sitter scratched his cheek, his bloodshot eyes averted. His greasy hair was slick with sweat, dishevelled, the few hairs on his baby face standing upright. The creepy stick-guy, another nickname coined by a younger Jonah, looked like he’d been abducted. Yet he was the one who volunteered for the position.

  Dunreach didn’t force its inhabitants into a field. The Shepherd’s Logbook stated that man was made to choose, not to be chosen for. So, if the old man found out he’d been sleeping on the watch, he’d never wake up again. “Please don’t tell your grandfather. I’m usually quite vigilant. It’s just that-”

  Jonah interrupted his explanation with a sigh. “Aight.”

  Oedipus paused. “Er… really?”

  “Yep-uh.” Fresh out of an argument with his grandmother, the last thing he wanted was another earful. Not to mention that whole thing started with him being snitched on, anyway. “Why should I care what happens to you or anybody else in this shithole? Go ahead. Take five. Take ten if you want. If a shadespawn gets in and slaughters all of us, then fuck it, Odey! Fuck them! Fuck me! Fuck you!” Jonah screamed on top of his lungs. “Fuck it!”

  The fence-sitter recoiled, his back pressed against the wall. The chieftain’s grandson giggled at his own outburst. Was he angry? Was he sober? Dear Heavens, he was going to extort him with this information, wasn’t he?

  “I’m sorry,” uttered Oedipus again, weakly.

  Jonah looked up, pupils ringed by the open sky. A gentle hue—piercing in the darkness. “I’m serious. I hate this barrier that keeps us in, that makes our world so small, and I hate everyone who’s content to live in it. And sometimes, I just want to rip it all apart.” The wick illuminated a pair of wet upper canines that cast a shadow on his tongue, long and sharp enough to tear a hole in the world if he were hungry.

  “But- but you can’t talk like that, sir!” protested the fence-sitter—he whose raison d’etre was to remain on the outskirts, ostracised and often gossiped by his neighbours. You, of all people, must care about the village. When your grandfather’s flame ceases, it will be yours.”

  Jonah scoffed. “Who says?”

  “Your grandmother and grandfather. And the Messolah will succeed her. You were there when they made the announcement.”

  “Huh…” He clicked his tongue, coming up blank on the memory. “Guess I wasn’t listening.”

  “Sir Jonah. All these years, you have been a menace. It wasn’t because you were sure of your position?”

  “Define menace.”

  “A traitor. A prankster. An adulterer. A swindler. And a scoundrel,” clarified the fence-sitter. And that was putting it lightly. The truth required a few words that would necessitate a good smiting from the Heavens. “A prince who goes around terrorising his grandfather’s subjects out of revenge because he knows there will be no consequences. Because he’s next in line to inherit the throne.”

  In the silence that followed, Oedipus found himself regretting the words that let loose. Jonah reached over the counter and slapped a palm onto the villager’s shoulder. Right. He forgot to add violent psychopath to the list.

  Oedipus gulped. “So, to speak.”

  Jonah burst into laughter. “Holy, shit! I am most of those things. Why didn’t you tell me you were this funny, Odey? I’d come here every night.”

  Heavens forbid!

  “So, you’re not truly a village king?”

  “Nah.”

  “And you don’t bear resentment for what happened to you?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  Oedipus stood up in protest, shrugging off the invader’s embrace. He slammed his palms on the booth, his sister’s, as well as everyone else’s, numerous tears burning in his droopy eyelids. “If you haven’t been doing it for that, then what reason bear you to terrorise our innocent people?”

  “I dunno.” Jonah cradled his head, yawning, bearing his fangs. “Bored as hell.”

  “What?! Between your grandfather’s training, the daily hunts, and the dangers of this world, if you still have the leisure to be bored, then you should be thinking ahead, like your brother! He’s set to inherit the light any day now, and I can assure you, he’s well prepared!”

  Jonah nodded thoughtfully.

  [Jonah told me to tell you that I stole the bread.]

  Indeed.

  "Do you have any idea how many people will look up to you? Those who live and die at your command? How will you become a leader if you haven't given a thought as to how you will lead?"

  Jonah threw his head back and laughed. “Sure.”

  Disgust radiated from the villager’s core like heat. Despite being the oldest man’s successor, his air was oversaturated with confidence. A certainty in his smile that no man who ever led would dare to let creep across his visage.

  Oedipus forgot his timid nature and gestured. “Then by all means. Please.”

  Tiny droplets of rain pitter-pattered about the field, bringing up petrichor.

  “If the old man is serious about what he says, then when he dies, everything and everyone inside this barrier will be a part of my world. And in my world, there are no grumpy old men, bitchy old hags, or snivelling little rats to punish you for having fun. There are no boring morning congregations or special little logbooks to tell you how to live. And there is no sitting by the fence barrier because the fence wouldn't exist.”

  Georges, that crazed farmer—never a man who craved a downpour more than he. His delighted squeals mingled with the ambience of Jonah’s declaration.

  "That fence isn't for keeping the shades out. It's for keeping us in. Like we’re the ones who should be caged. So, one day, I’ll break it down. And if we're not strong enough to live without a pen, then so be it.”

  The wind picked up, tossing rain into the booth. Oedipus was too captivated to notice his garments, soaked. Jonah—such a thing could never pass him, but he didn’t care much for the Heavens and their weeping. So, what if the skies soaked him through?

  "Because living isn't about waking up to another day. It's about knowing you weren't promised this day to begin with. Doing whatever you want before you go to bed Leaving nothing for tomorrow that may never come.”

  His eyes drifted toward Oedipus’s clenched fists. "Like you, for example. So terrified of your desires that you ran away from them.” Jonah tilted his head. “Why?”

  “To restrain myself,” spoke the fence-sitter. Head down. Gritted teeth.

  The Black Sheep slid the hot lamp between his bare hands. “Poor Odette. I bet she doesn’t even know how you feel.” A game of hot potato while singing the tune of an idle gossip. “This isn’t self-restraint, Oedipus. You’re a coward.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Oh, well. Carpe Diem, my man. Seize the day.”

  Jonah tapped the booth twice and left.

  The fence-sitter focused on the flickering candlelight, burning gravely alongside it. Jonah didn’t know it, but he’d just changed the course of a woman’s life forever. There was howling on the other side of the barrier. Most certainly the wind.

  Because Oedipus had just spoken to the wolf.

  Jonah climbed the fence-barrier with the same ease as always.

  It was the same view out into the darkness. With the same village behind him.

  The same old troubles as yesterday. And the same old dangers ahead.

  However, tonight, the wind was louder than ever, and the raindrops sounded like stones against the wood. He caught himself several times on the way down, but he never stopped climbing until he reached the peak.

  Thunder rolled overhead, the sky fracturing several times a second.

  The Beamflowers were agitated by the current in the air. In full bloom, they released a cloud of crackling pollen that illuminated the plains as the lightning did the sky.

  Burning meat seasoned the air. Smoking silhouettes who’d gotten too close. Hundreds more are impending. Early tomorrow morning, the hunters would escort some villagers to take part in the cleanup. Otherwise, the meat would attract scavengers. And the scavengers, predators.

  Jonah looked out at the peak, half-step over the edge.

  If I fall from this height, will I survive?

  He chuckled. Even the same thoughts all over again. He wasn’t going to do it, of course. He just needed some space to clear his head. Hard to do that when the other party was still cussing you out in their sleep.

  If Solvanel were here, what would he tell me?

  He’d say that their grandmother said a lot of things, but so did he. Which was true, he guessed. He didn’t have to call her a leather-faced witch. But she didn’t have to call him a thief.

  Maybe the creepy stick-guy was right.

  The old bitch wouldn’t be out of the house till morning, so he should use this time to start thinking about the future. He closed his eyes, thinking of the future. His future. Jonah, the Prodigal Son. The world on his shoulders. Greatsword on his back.

  The chief of Dunreach Village.

  “Wait a minute,” thought the raven-haired youth. “I don’t wanna do that shit.” The Prodigal Son took a deep breath, finding courage in the hurricane. “Fuck it.”

  And fell.

  Halfway through the fall, a gust was beneath him.

  Jonah manipulated the air to cushion his fall.

  The first inside the crater, he charged straight ahead.

  The Eunuch hovered far behind, towing the third of the group on a platform.

  Several tens of thousands of shades had formed a ring around the impact zone. The crowd spread miles out from the comet. Each member was a thrill to the educated mind. A wonder to be studied.

  He saw spiked, clawed, tentacled.

  He saw creeping, crawling, flying.

  Monsters, great and tall, in the bellies of greater and taller, which were hanging limp in the maws of tiny critter-like things. Gilded soldiers, half-dead, still pleading, their toes dragging through the sand as they floated along, shaken if their wailing ceased, as if suspended in mid-air by an urging hand.

  Abominations—none the exception. Inconceivable to anything but a fractured mind. So grotesque that they could only be native to the Forsaken Land of Genesis, a land thought not to exist.

  If it weren’t for the comet’s purifying light, their auras alone would drive them into madness. Instantaneous death without it.

  As he flew, a scholar’s curiosity piqued at the idea of looking down. A scholar’s common sense said otherwise. Then, a chill went up a scholar’s spine. He’d been doing just that this whole time.

  The scholar shook himself out of the stupor.

  According to his calculations, the chance that none of these creatures was lethal by image was closer to zero than one. Something in the crowd wanted to be seen, and in between a pair of walking boulders, a blushing, smiling, pink Scyphozoa waved him hello.

  Unbecoming as it was for a scholar to raise his voice, Sir Penn desperately shouted ahead. “Slow down, Windshear! You cannot face it alone!”

  The mercenary heard someone somewhere in the something, but his heartbeat was louder than the clamour.

  The air here was hot and dangerous.

  It resisted his call, scorching his lungs out of spite.

  So stubborn.

  So dangerous.

  So fresh!

  Jonah realised his weapon, that which gave him his name.

  Windshear—the formless blade. An instrument of the rarest type, known as a catalyst. Rather than granting the user a set of predetermined abilities, it was an extension of the wielder’s bestowment. Amplifying his power several-fold.

  With this, he regained control over the wind.

  The comet was dazed by the fall, a faint shadow rising slowly in a cloud of smoke. Jonah thought it was human before the silhouette bloomed. Six wings unfurling behind its back, unleashed with a radiance that swept the night aside.

  “Winds-!” Sir Rudeus Penn witnessed it from his vantage.

  A change beneath the heavens, and within himself.

  The Forsaken Land of Genesis. Its landscape and all its horrors. Illuminated as far as the eye could see. The sand within the crater lost its gloom, as well as the sky, bleached to purity by the light of divinity.

  This must be the light of divinity.

  His staunch adherence to numbers and logic—all this time, they’d been a lie.

  Everything he’d ever done. Everything he’d ever believed in. He ridiculed that boy, Solvanel, for his youthful, idle folly, but what was folly if not miscalculation? And who would think themselves worthy of facing a piece of the heavens if not an idle youth?

  “Clear!” Jonah fell from the sky, a torrent condensed at the tip of his blade.

  The silhouette curled one of its wings.

  Windshear met the appendage with the force of a cannonball. The resulting explosion echoed inside the crater. Jonah was ejected from the smoke, landing gracefully.

  His expression was pensive.

  Just then, a heap of metal clanged beside him in the sand. Sir Penn halted above, catching his breath. As the man of steel righted itself, the air shifted about the suit of armour, growing heavier—the atmosphere to match.

  “What’s wrong? Did you get it?” asked the scholar, knowing full well.

  Slowly, the mercenary shook his head. “No.”

  A Windshear-augmented slash tore through the billowing smoke, revealing all that was visible without it—a winged silhouette. One, not made of shadow, but light, standing upright in the middle of the crater.

  Three pairs of wings were stacked atop each other on its back. The middle pair was the largest, stretching over twelve ren from one end to the other. Flawless feathers layered thicker than wool, each one outlined in shimmering gold.

  A similar shining band was suspended above its head.

  Its spin was rather unstable, with tiny fractures throughout.

  Sir Penn thought back to the equation, comparing it to reality.

  The other wings were smaller, appearing somewhat accessory. Yet it met the boy’s attack with a twitch of the upper right. No feathers ruffled in the slightest. This was now beyond a simple miscalculation. None of these variables made sense!

  He backed up in mid-air, urging his purple robe, turning invisible as he realised the Decanohedron. “Then, I should hope that wasn’t your strongest attack.”

  “Tch!” Jonah funnelled his power into Windshear. “Schism!”

  The instrument projected a jarring whistle.

  A second wave went out immediately, travelling quietly beneath the noise. Of course, the first was only a distraction. When the eyes can’t keep up with a projectile, an experienced fighter reacts to the sound.

  If the sound was misaligned with the strike, then…

  The comet raised its middle wings, blocking its vision while focusing its defence on a harmless attack. Jonah made his own calculations like clockwork. Prodigious instincts hardened through countless battles.

  The second, a vertical slash without herald, was aimed at its unguarded chest.

  Before it struck the opponent, however, its smaller wings broke into thousands of feathers that returned to the center mass. The silhouette morphed, a suit of armour manifested around its person, and the second slash failed to penetrate.

  A wind burst to send him off. A gale pushing his speed to the limit.

  By the time it lowered its wings, the mercenary leader was already there.

  Blinding—the light of destruction swelling in his path. Jonah, the Prodigal Son, was face-to-face with a fallen star, keeping his eyes open just to prove a point.

  One invader versus another. But ever since that night, this world belonged to him. Seizing every day. An adventure after every sunrise. Thousands of battles. For each one, a scarless victory. But it wasn’t enough.

  Every so often, he’d catch whispers on the faraway winds. They spoke rumours of distant tomorrows far greater than today. This endless wanting was a curse that plagued him since birth. His purpose. His dream. His reason for being.

  So, if this were the end of the world, then he wanted to see it, too.

  But this world wasn’t ending till he’d seen it all.

  Jonah brought down his sword. “Clear!”

  Sir Rudeus Penn cursed when the warriors clashed, knowing it wasn’t the mercenary who caused the explosion. Windshear’s attacks were either sharp or cold. Nothing like the heat that washed over him.

  A fiery lotus bloomed in the middle of the crater, its gleaming white petals feeding on what little oxygen was left. Along with the heat came a cool solace. This flawless light, shimmering like glass, promised heaven in the silvery flames of Abaddon.

  “CALCULATE SUCCESS EQUATION — WORLD-ENDING THREAT

  DECLARE CONSTANT —

  Jonah Ffang, leader of the Nine Wolves, EXPONENT, wielder of the legendary catalyst, Windshear — EXPONENT — high rank control-based bestowment — EXPONENT — undefeated in combat to date — EXPONENT — madman.

  VARIABLES —

  OPEN BRACKET — DECLARE — Sir Rudeus Penn, motifoir and high scholar of Shindholm — DECLARE — Steel Soldier number forty-seven, second rank swordsman — EXPONENT — last remaining member of his troupe. — CLOSE BRACKET.

  —Minus—

  OPEN BRACKET — FUNCTION — First Time Encounter — EXPONENT — winged silhouette — EXPONENT — flame control — EXPONENT — fragment of the sky — PLUS — Meat Fodder Unavailable — PLUS — Surrounded by Shades — PLUS — Forsaken Land of Genesis — EXPONENT — FUNCTION — Class six zone — EXPONENT — FUNCTION — Class Six Zone — EXPONENT — FUNCTION — Class Six Zone — CLOSE BRACKET.”

  A single layer’s complete revolution was the calculation of thousands of possibilities based on the variables the user provided. Rudeus bit his fingernails as the calculation was about to begin.

  << SUCCESS EQUATION — WORLD-ENDING THREAT >>

  It was the worst result.

  Despite his efforts to narrow the scope of the expression, all three layers were spinning like wheels upon a carriage. By the first tenth of a second, it went through thousands. By the third, millions. Judging by the dryness of his tongue, the scholar was wide-mouthed, stunned up until the tenth, at which point numbers no longer existed.

  “Bah! This thing is of no use!”

  He threw his purple garment to the side, turning visible once again. The Spectator’s Cloak was a staple when dealing with live variables, granting the user a form of invisibility, shortening equations by removing the variable of their presence.

  Here, it served no purpose.

  None of these monsters was paying attention to him anyway.

  Jonah and the destroyer were matching each other’s blows, while the shades on the rim were frozen in place, watching the fires dance in the wind, paralysed as they were enthralled.

  Number forty-seven below him was similarly frozen, cycling through its entire arsenal several times over. Each realisation was a waste of energy, but at this level, what could he expect? It simply couldn’t find a suitable weapon for the current foe.

  “ADJUST VARIABLES — MINUS — Steel Soldier number forty-seven.”

  The Decanohedron stopped.

  Hope dribbled down the scholar’s goatee. It started spinning in reverse.

  “Curses!” Still, no effect.

  A silhouette rose inside the smoke. This time, it was a shadow.

  The eunuch breathed a sigh of relief. Good. He was worried about having to subtract the mercenary from the equation. If the others were on their way, then at least he was buying them time.

  Windshear, the formless blade, became a cyclone, rapidly expanding with its master in the eye. It engulfed that section of the crater, wrapping the enemy’s flames around itself like a toddler wearing a cape.

  It ceased abruptly, leaving them visible amidst the dust.

  Sir Rudeus gasped.

  Liquid fire dripped down the destroyer’s side. An injury. Not just debilitating, but grave, judging by the gush. Hope for humanity was pooling beneath his feet.

  His gaze travelled to the mercenary.

  Was this his doing?

  No.

  His last attack was nothing compared to the invader’s retaliation. If not for his quick thinking and a bestowment that slighted the young man an advantage over the flames, he’d be burning in the afterlife already.

  It must have been hurt during the fall.

  “IMPLEMENT CONSTANT — GRAVELY INJURED!”

  “You’re the first person ever to survive that attack.” Jonah pointed at the enemy with the tip of his instrument, asking casually, “Ready again?”

  The destroyer said nothing, flinching as its wings unfurled. However, it no longer carried the same contempt with which it blocked the first attack. Unable to look down on a world that almost severed its head.

  It raised its empty hand to Jonah, then summoned a weapon of its own.

  “Holy shit!” exclaimed the mercenary. “A flaming sword?”

  Sir Penn facepalmed, wishing he were close enough to smack him upside the head.

  What kind of imbecile gets excited for the enemy?

  Furthermore, it wasn’t a sword set ablaze. Their unease was brief, but as a pattern seeker, he couldn’t miss it—hundreds of thousands shifting uncomfortably. The horde, these unfathomable beings, had shuddered in its presence.

  The sword carried heat, yes, but it wasn’t on fire. It wasn’t fire. It was light.

  An extension of its being, it was the same white light that made up the silhouette.

  It brandished its weapon with pride, as if saying to its opponent, “Come.”