He walked aimlessly beneath the spires.
To him, the people who walked past were like shifting ghosts, their faces blurred like faded memories. He had no particular destination in mind, but simply let his feet move him forward in the hopes that his thoughts would do the same. Slowly, the apathy washed away, replaced by a roil of emotions he couldn’t quite describe.
As the suns dipped below the horizon, he walked past a sign that said “hotel” and turned to walk inside.
The lobby was clean, with carefully placed furniture and a desk. A woman in formal attire stood behind the counter and peeked up as he entered. He walked up to the counter but did not look her in the eyes.
“One room,” he said in a monotone voice.
The woman looked him over, raising an eyebrow at his fur-clad hands and formal suit.
“Certainly. How long is Mr. Blessed planning to stay?”
“One night,” he answered, moving the muscles of his face as little as possible while still producing words.
“All right. Room thirty-four on floor three is available. That will be two pounds and six pence,” she said, holding out a key.
Wretch took it and let a dozen coins clatter against the wooden desk.
“Sir, this is too much!” she said, scrambling to stop the rolling coins from falling off the counter.
Wretch, already walking up the stairs, answered in a monstrous hiss,
“Keep it.”
In a narrow corridor on the third floor, he unlocked a door and stepped into a small room.
He flicked on a switch to turn on a fizzing gas lamp. A bed stood in one corner and a small table in the other, with a chair under a window. An open door led into a tiny bathroom.
He walked forward and sat down on the chair, letting his head rest in the palms of his hands.
He strained his fingers, letting the claws dig into his short-haired scalp. He breathed in deep, then forced the air through his sharp teeth with a hiss.
He looked up through the window. The last rays of the suns were painting the top of Saint’s Summit orange and gold, glowing even through the haze of the Lows.
He stood up slowly, walking to the bathroom as he dragged his claws along the wall, shredding the wallpaper.
He turned on the water from the faucet and splashed cold water on his face, then stood up straight and glared at his reflection.
A young man with short, dark hair and strange eyes. He was dressed in a suit, pretending to be something he was not. He stared into the reflection for a while as water ran down his chin to drip against the ceramic bowl.
“You…” he said to the person in the mirror who mimicked his every move. “You are the source of all my problems.”
The person in the mirror did not give him any sympathy, knitting his brow.
“I gave it everything after the cage, suffered and fought. How could that not be enough?”
The person in the mirror glared its teeth, sharp fangs meant to rip and tear.
“You have no one to blame but yourself. You know that whatever you touch spoils and withers,” said the man in the mirror.
“It was our duty,” Wretch answered. “Our role.”
The monster in the mirror licked its lips, and a twitch darted up its cheek.
“What is duty but another cage?”
Wretch gripped the faucet as a tremor went through his body.
“I am a hunter.”
The monster in the mirror drew closer to the surface.
“They let him die. Exploited, taxed, and punished us because we were faithful, useful.”
The figure in the mirror was changing, its skin squirming and twitching.
Wretch gasped for air.
“That’s what I wanted, to be needed, to be useful.”
The monster in the mirror gazed straight at him, only centimeters away. Its expression pulled into a snarl.
“Oh, you are more than useful,” said the reflection. “You are the bait.”
The reflection cracked with a sharp sound. Wretch’s fist having pierced through the glass. The split mirror now reflected a figure with a dozen dark eyes and mismatched teeth. A being none could call human, one that none could call friend.
With a scream, he tore the mirror to splinters, slamming the faucet to pieces. Arms burst out of the expensive suit, ripping at the interior with human nails. Pipes were pulled from their sockets, and the tiles of the wall exploded.
He staggered into the bedroom, skin roiling like waves in a storm. The chair was hurled through the window with a crack, the bed shredded into ribbons between his claws. The wallpaper ripped from the walls, all while a scream echoed through the corridor of the hotel.
A while later, the door to room thirty-four swung open with a groan.
Wretch was standing there with a blank expression in a ripped suit, and the devastated room behind him.
Two other rooms were open, and people were peeking out at him with startled expressions. He walked with steady steps along the corridor, and the onlookers fled in fear.
Down the stairs, a panicked receptionist was speaking with a colleague. They froze as he appeared in the stairwell, their eyes growing wide.
Wretch walked past as his tail slithered out, placing a bag of coins on the counter.
“Sir?” said the receptionist as he disappeared out the door.
He walked through the dusk as people passed him by, their faces twisted into theatrical masks of mocking. The sky above grew dark, and a clap of thunder came from far away.
His ambitions, his aspirations to ascend and find some mystical figure who had given him an old tome, were pale compared to this pain.
And he would never bear it again.
He walked down a road, coming into the gap between two spires as a bolt of thunder soundlessly illuminated the surroundings.
A large building stood there, several stories tall, with the windows glowing orange from the light within. Despite the two guards outside, no sign hung over the two doors.
The Bureau of the Hunt. Either fate or his subconscious had led him there.
The guards noticed him as he approached.
“Who goes there?” one said.
Wretch flashed his badge in response, not breaking his stride toward the entrance. He walked inside as the guards shot each other strange looks, deciding to follow.
Wretch swung the door open and stepped inside. A man he did not recognize, dressed in a suit, sat on a chair to the side. He lowered his newspaper as Wretch entered.
Wretch gave him a look, and the man paled, standing up and putting a hand on his saber.
On the other side of the room, three openings in the wall acted as counters. Behind two of them, clerks were working despite the late hour.
The man with the saber took a few steps closer.
Wretch slid his badge onto the counter.
“I am Wretch from the Richters.”
The clerk, a thin middle-aged man with a receding hairline, did not look up from his paperwork, only taking a glance at the badge. If he had, he would no doubt have noticed the shredded suit and the twitches traveling up and down the hunter’s skin.
“Oh, the Richters. Are you here for the payment?”
“Payment?” Wretch repeated with a tone as coarse as gravel, his eyes trained on the clerk.
The thin man kept scribbling on different papers.
“A payment of seven thousand pounds has already been sent to your associated bank accounts.”
“Even though the target escaped and a Fireling was lost…” the man continued, unaware as Wretch’s eyes grew wider.
“As the details of the enemy’s Blessing were learned and a group of saboteurs was killed, the upper management has deemed the operation a complete success.”
Success.
The word circled in his head as something rose within. The memory of a white cross with a picture placed before it flashed in his mind. No, he couldn't accept that.
A Blessed name washed over the room, and the clerks looked up with startled expressions. The killing intent was thick and raw, threatening to tear and rip.
Wretch, Collector of Wounds, slammed his fist against the clerk’s temple, sending him crashing against the back wall in a cloud of scattered paperwork and broken teeth.
“Stop this! Surrender!” shouted the man with the saber as the other clerk let out a scream.
The Blessed had been ready, put on edge by his appearance, and held out his hand as his eyes lit with fire. Wretch froze, an invisible force holding him in place as if he were tightly wrapped in stone.
Wretch hunched under the pressure, his skin roiling as he and the man visibly strained against an unseen force. Wretch’s muscles bubbled, joints cracking, and the remaining clothes ripped as his changing flesh pushed against the restraint.
The man visibly shook, and with the sound of cracked glass, he stumbled away.
Outside the Hunter’s Bureau, the two guards looked at each other. With a thud, the doors broke off their hinges, and the Blessed guard skidded across the stone, coming to a stop with bloodshot eyes and claw marks on his chest.
Wretch walked out of the door, his face a mask, only the occasional twitch revealing whatever turmoil moved beneath.
A window shattered above and the street lit with blue light. A lightning bolt struck the space between Wretch and the Blessed lying on the road. Andryi walked out of it, clad in a cloak and ill-fitted suit, one arm bandaged and a patch covering one eye. The battle against Grendel had cost him too.
The Blaze looked between the guard and Wretch with a frown.
“What are you doing?” he said with a voice that was wet, as if he were drowning.
“Grendel is alive, my Captain is dead, and you call it a success,” Wretch said with tired eyes and a lethargic expression.
A thin trickle of rain fell from above, sputtering out on the cobblestone. The man looked at him with wrinkled brows and bared human teeth.
“We are hunters. Every opportunity, every chance. We kill the beasts.”
“No matter what we pay.”
Andryi took a few steps toward him, and every time his sole hit the ground, an arc of lightning zipped along his form, even as he had a slight limp.
“Well, I am right here,” Wretch said with a blank expression as his form twisted and a name appeared in his mind.
Andryi the Wrathful.
The wolfish-looking man took another step. A small explosion of arcing lightning came from his foot, and the man barreled toward him with an expression of unrestrained fury.
The tingle of battle pulled at the things within Wretch, the only thing he excelled at. He let it sweep him away in yet another soothing dance of death.
Two long, bone-like blades grew out of Wretch’s forearms. He jumped upward as a fist shattered the ground where he had stood. He spun in the air, cutting like a whirling razor. A bandaged fist struck out toward him, and he quickly threw up a bone blade to block.
The hit made his entire body shake, and the bone protrusion cracked into shards. He was sent flying into the air. His form twitched and changed as he flew.
When he plummeted to the ground, his arms were massive claws with long flowing fur. The cobblestone beneath him sprayed as the claws dug into the ground.
Andryi walked toward him with balled fists, breathing heavily.
“If I get more into this, I really will kill you,” his wet voice said over the empty street. The guards and the other Blessed had already evacuated the premises.
Wretch’s claws dug into the ground, and he looked up as the rain fell on his face, cooling his skin.
“Andryi…” Wretch began in a low voice. His lip quivered and his blank expression contorted in pain. His fist slammed into the ground and a roar escaped his throat.
“Let me just fight and die.”
Andryi stopped baring his teeth and gave a grunt. He took a step forward and lightning sizzled through the pooling rain on the ground. He accelerated toward him.
Wretch’s claws tore into the ground, similarly launching him forward. A ring of blue light shone on Andryi’s right hand and lightning began to crackle around it.
The massive claw struck the lightning-charged fist with an explosion of electricity and flesh that shook the raindrops with a thunderclap.
They both shot backward, Andryi and Wretch sliding over the wet stones.
Long dark burns sizzled on Wretch’s right arm while Andryi clutched his wrist. The blaze found his footing first, holding out his hand as if preparing to throw a javelin.
“I do not pity you,” Andryi said as lightning thundered high above.
Wretch slammed a massive fist into the ground, spraying cobblestones onto the street.
“If I hadn’t existed, you would have left him alone,” he said with a wail toward the sky. “He would have lived.”
Andryi’s feet left the ground as he began to hover a few inches above the ground. A lightning strike showered the street and the nearby houses in white light. It had hit Andryi’s outstretched hand, and he held it, the living lightning forced into the shape of a spear that cast shadows along the street.
Wretch’s left claw dug into the stone road.
Andryi lunged the lightning spear forward as Wretch catapulted a sizable grasp of cobblestones from the road.
The lightning burned through the projectiles, crashing into Wretch and sending him skidding across the ground. An electric shock snapped through his system. The rock peppered Andryi and the Hunter’s Bureau alike, cracking windows and breaking wood.
Wretch’s arms shrank back into his body as he struggled to control his spasming muscles, the concentration lost.
Andryi, bleeding from his forearm and leg, took a step forward, seizing the opportunity. He accelerated, shooting toward him like zigzagging lightning across the wet stones. Wretch got up to his feet as Andryi slammed a fist into his side.
The impact cracked his ribs, but he could withstand such things and reached with his claws for the man's throat. Then a flash of light came from Andreyi's knuckles. A boom shook the street, sending Wretch flying through the air. With a crack, he crashed against the wooden facade of a two-story house. Splintered wood sprayed as he shot straight through.
Andryi rubbed a cut on his neck with his bandaged hand, looking at the blood staining the white bandage. In the moment they had been close, a claw had grazed his neck.
He walked toward the dark spot where Wretch had disappeared.
A cracking and squirming sound came from the darkness.
Wretch stumbled out into the light from a nearby gas lamp, swaying as if possessed. Most of his body sizzled with dark burns that covered half his face and most of his torso. The destroyed suit was reduced to nothing but ribbons.
Andryi looked at him with a frown.
“You’re tough.”
Andryi stepped closer as zipping lightning shot back and forth around his body.
“Last chance…”
Wretch crouched down, digging his claws into his scalp, sputtering barely coherent words while his skin roiled in the rain.
Andryi pounced as pale human hands burst out of Wretch’s torso like the petals of a budding flower. The hands dug into the ground and Wretch sprinted on a multitude of hands toward the Blaze.
Andryi zigzagged with lightning speed through the rain as Wretch’s spider-like form shot toward him.
The Blaze attacked first, a hook-like punch of electric energy. Wretch swerved to the side. A lone gas lamp stood there, and he caught onto the vertical pole with a multitude of hands.
Andryi launched toward him with another punch, but a spit of acid met him. The Blaze stumbled back, shielding his eyes. That bought Wretch a moment. His black claws held out a black cross that grew in size between his fingers, extending to the size of a spear in moments. Muscles strained as a dozen limbs pushed off from the pole, catapulting Wretch toward his opponent with the spear-like cross, striking outward like a viper.
Andryi took a small step a moment before the black spike of the cross would have impaled his head.
Wretch struck the earth with a crack.
Andryi didn’t wait, taking another step to accelerate back toward Wretch with his lightning-infused fist raised.
He slammed into Wretch with another thunderclap that spread arcing electricity through the pooling rain. Wretch was sent flying but suddenly was pulled back as if by a rope, a wheeze escaping his throat.
For the first time, Andryi gave a look of surprise. As he looked down, a tail snaked around his midsection. A dozen hands, burned and jittering from electric shock, grabbed onto him.
Claws and nails tore into Andryi’s suit as Wretch grasped onto him like an insect. Andryi tried to pull him away, but the claws and hands held on tightly.
A pale hand reached out into the air as something burned into it. At the same time, Andryi reached out a hand in a similar way, a crackle of lightning sounding far above.
The Blinking Blade and the lightning itself burned into one hand each. They both struck each other in a flash of white and blue.
Andryi blinked. He was lying on the ground and the rain sputtered onto his face. He gritted his teeth, noticing the blade jammed deep into his clavicle. His clothes were burned, and even though he was seemingly immune to the worst of the electrical shock, his fingers were blackened and the bandages torched.
As the Blaze came to, his eyes shot wide. A figure was standing above him. His entire body burned to a crisp, his two hands ending in charred claws, rain dripping down the pale talons.
Andryi sprang to his feet. Wretch didn’t respond, standing completely still, not even moving as the opponent ripped out the Blinking Blade lodged into his torso with a groan and a spurt of blood.
“You…” Andryi growled through gritted teeth as a vein pulsed on his forehead.
Wretch took a shaking step forward, a whisper escaping his throat.
“Cap…”
“…tain.”
Wretch fell headfirst onto the cobblestone, his meager body producing a quiet thump. He lay there in silence.
Andryi stared, one hand clutched to the bleeding wound in his chest.
“You didn’t kill me?” Andryi said, brow furrowed. After a moment, he walked closer, raising a fist that began to buzz and arc with electricity.
He stood over the charred body, utterly unconscious.
“Why?” Andryi spat, but Wretch couldn’t answer. The rain dripped down, diluting the blood from their wounds.
The man raised his fist as if to strike, poised to end it.
But a strike never came.
After a moment, the arcs of lightning around the hand decreased, then stopped entirely.
“What a mess,” Andryi said as he lowered his fist.
He stood over the body in the empty street as rain pattered against the stone beneath the spires, looking down at the two hunters.