"Just before dawn."
That was the first thought that crossed Ex's mind as his boots touched the cracked asphalt of the village road. Mist clung low to the ground, curling around his ankles, and above, the pale light of morning bled weakly through bruised clouds. He moved without hurry, the long walk from the forest still in his bones, but his eyes—sharp, restless—drank in every detail.
Power lines spiderwebbed the rooftops. Surveillance cameras blinked dull red over doorways. A pair of armored jeeps sat outside the market square. Not some backwater. Not some forgotten place. This village was alive, humming under the surface with all the comforts of modernity.
He marked the exits without needing to linger—north road, always busy; south chapel door, quiet, half-hidden near the woods. Soldiers patrolled in pairs—eight total that he counted before reaching the tavern. Not many. Not enough.
Good.
Another nest of fools.
The inn door creaked under his hand. Inside, the air was thick smelled of old sweat, oil, and cheap beer. Ex slipped into the dim interior like a shadow, boots soundless over the worn floorboards. Men hunched at tables, voices rising and falling in that drunken, easy rhythm of those who had already survived too many. He took a table at the back, facing the entrance, the wall cool against his shoulders
The plate of food was barely touched. He toyed with it absently, gaze drifting from face to face, ear tuned to every voice rising above the din.
"…my girl—can you believe it? First Chosen in the family."
A thickset man thumped his mug on the table, beaming through his drink-addled haze.
"Next week's the blessing. She's been training her Soel since she could walk. Makes a father proud, eh?"
Another barked a laugh.
"Proud? Careful you don't choke when the tithes come, fool. You hear two of the Zodiacs came through the other night?"
Murmurs at the table.
"Thought they were just passing through," someone muttered.
"No, no, they were looking. Asking questions, sharp-like. Collecting tithes, sure—but I swear they were hunting something… or someone."
A third voice, rough and slurred:
"Bah. Probably sniffing after that damned shadow walker. You hear? Bastard's been hitting churches, one by one. Maybe they think he's here already."
A fourth chimed in with a sharp edge of contempt:
"Shadow walkers. Apostles. Scum, all of them. Should be rounded up and beaten to death. Damn cultists think they can spit in the gods' faces and walk free…"
Ex's lips curved in a thin, sharp smile.
He chewed slowly, savoring the food not for its taste, but for the moment—the simple, perfect stillness before a storm. Coins clinked softly on the table as he stood, the clatter swallowed by laughter and drunken curses.
The rented room was small, its window cracked, a cold draft slipping through. Ex sat on the edge of the bed, removing his boots with slow, deliberate care. The daggers lay across his thighs, catching moonlight.
Zodiacs. Apostles. Chosen. Blessings.
He filed it away, piece by piece.
And still… The gods haven't come. Not once. Not for any of them.
He leaned back against the thin mattress, eyes half-closed.
"Maybe they're deaf."
The thought made his smile widen faintly.
"Maybe they need something louder."
He woke at midnight.
"The tavern creaked softly, a lone snore drifting from the next room."Outside, the village lay under a hush of frost, the moon a pale eye above.
Ex slipping through the window, boots silent on the eaves. His dagger gleamed once in the dark before vanishing into his palm.
He watched the people — farmers, craftsmen, mothers clutching children. He walked the narrow alleys, the frost-crusted graveyard, the road that led into the hills. His senses stretched thin, drinking in the pulse of the place.
Would they run, he wondered, if they knew what was coming? Or would they kneel and pray, and wait for a savior who would never come?.
The first soldiers outside the church didn't even have time to scream.
Ex slid from the shadows like a blade drawn between ribs. His feet kissed the ground in near silence — step, pivot, weight shift — a dance carved into bone-deep memory. The first man turned at the wrong moment; Ex's dagger kissed the gap beneath the chin strap, slid clean through the soft tissue, and twisted. A crackling burst of Soel light tried to flicker in the man's palms — too late — his knees buckled as his own energy fizzled, leaking into the cold.
Ex ducked as a bolt of compressed air hissed over his shoulder, the next soldier already channeling Soel through her fingertips, weaving spirals of cutting wind. Smart. Ex vaulted forward, rolling under the blast as pebbles shattered against his back. His boot struck her ankle mid-spin — she toppled, the wind scream breaking apart as his dagger drove cleanly into the notch beneath her ribs. Breath left her body in a soft, startled gasp.
"They'll pray to you soon, he thought, imagining the gods' faces watching the chaos unfold. They'll scream your names when they see what I've made of this world."
He reached the chapel—the farthest exit—and slipped inside. Oil lamps lined the walls, flickering shadows across old stone. A single stroke of his blade cut the lines on the fuel barrels near the altar. With a simple spark, the fire leapt up, hungry and bright, licking across the floor and racing toward the rafters.
Ex climbed to the roof, crouching in the dark as smoke curled into the sky.
Screams shattered the night.
Villagers poured into the streets—men, women, children, their Soel flickering to life in desperate hands: water rushing from palms, shields crackling over skin, blades of hardened air hissing from fingertips. Soldiers barked orders, herding people toward the north road.
Ex watched, laughter trembling in his throat. He slipped from the roof, cutting through alleyways, lighting another fire near the market, blocking the most-used escape.
"Run, little sheep!" he roared into the chaos, laughter spilling from his chest. "Pray to them! Let's see if they listen!"
A soldier charged him, barreling forwards, arms glowing — shock Soel, a crackling skin of force armor. Ex sidestepped, narrowly missing the arc of a charged punch, fingers brushing the man's sleeve. Sparks spat from the knuckles as they struck stone, exploding into a web of fractures. Ex smiled, the edge curling slow at the corner of his mouth..
He darted back — inviting the lunge — then let his heel catch on loose stone, a controlled stumble. The soldier lunged, overcommitting, his armored fist hurtling toward Ex's face — and in that instant, Ex twisted inside the arc, slamming his dagger between the shoulder plates where the shock field flickered weakest.
"Too slow," Ex whispered in his ear as the body went limp.
A crack of light split the night — another soldier had conjured mirror Soel, a hard-light double splitting off and racing at Ex. He felt the surge before he saw it, a ripple in the air, a breath in his gut. Pivot, low sweep — he carved under the mirror's legs, a single stroke that sent the projection flickering out like a broken bulb. The real soldier hesitated just a heartbeat too long. Ex surged forward, closing the gap before the man could reform the image — his blade punched into the gap beneath the collarbone, sharp and sure.
As each body fell, Ex felt it in his chest — not weight, but lightness.
Let them run. Let them call on their gods. Let them find out no one's listening.
He wasn't just killing; he was writing a message, one corpse at a time.
One by one, they fell—flickering lights snuffed out in the dark.
By dawn, the village was ash and ruin.
At the entrance, Ex dipped his fingers into a pool of blood, dragging an X across the welcome sign, marking it like a grave.
He stood for a moment, breathing in the cold air, watching the smoke twist toward the sky. His smile was slow, almost reverent.
Now you'll come. Now you'll see what I've done for you.
He waited, standing in the center of the ruin, chest heaving.
Nothing.
Only the crackle of dying fires.
Only the stench of burned flesh.
Only the faint, empty sound of his own breath.
And in the silence, one thought, sharp and cutting:
Still no god.
Ex's jaw clenched.
As he turned to leave, his eyes fell on the fevered man from the tavern, half-buried in rubble, still muttering.
Ex turned, crouching beside the broken body of the tavern drunk, half-buried in stone. Blistered lips moved soundlessly at first, then caught on a ragged breath.
"… I haven't even seen her blessed yet… my daughter… she was to be the first Chosen…"
Ex leaned close, voice soft, knife-light.
"Tell me," he murmured, voice soft as a knife sliding home. "Where do I find them?"
The man's eyes rolled, glassy, barely seeing.
And that's when Ex felt it —
the prickle at the back of his neck.
He straightened slowly.
Beyond the ruin, through the thinning smoke, a figure stood — a lone boy, maybe fifteen years old, barefoot in the ash. His clothes were simple, white linen untouched by soot, his golden eyes luminous in the fading dark. The fire curled around his feet, licking at his ankles without leaving a mark.
He watched Ex — silent, still.
The boy tilted his head, almost curious, almost… disappointed. As if he had seen this all before.
His golden eyes caught the first light of dawn.
And in a voice soft as falling ash, he said:
"… Now the real journey begins."
Then he turned — barefoot through the ruin — and walked into the smoke.