Capítulo 7: Chapter 7 - Misplaced Anger
The blind elder moved with an unsettling grace, each step as fluid as a dancer's, his robes barely whispering against the stone floor. He advanced, and though he was sightless, it felt as if he were looking directly at me.
"Stop—" I tried to command, but the words choked in my throat. My blood boiled beneath my skin, my legs trembling under the weight of fear. A bead of sweat traced a slow path down my brow, stinging my eye.
The air thickened as he neared, his footsteps tapping out a rhythm that threatened to lull me into some kind of trance. How could he know where I was?
How had he even entered this place? My thoughts tangled in panic, fingers tightening around the spear I held with a desperate grip. He was blind. I should have the upper hand.
I needed to take control, assert my dominance. Instinctively, I stomped on the wooden floor, the sharp crack echoing in the room.
His expression shifted, calmness giving way to… disappointment? The change was subtle, but unmistakable.
"I am not your enemy," he said, his voice both firm and gentle, as if trying to soothe a frightened child. He reached out, placing a finger on the tip of my spear. "Your frustration is misplaced."
I backed away, the wall of weapons behind me rattling as I collided with it. Trust was a luxury I couldn't afford, not here, not with him.
"Your anger will kill you," he continued, his voice unyielding. He turned his back to me, offering an opening too tempting to resist.
Adrenaline surged, and I lunged, thrusting the spear toward his exposed back with all the force I could muster.
He didn't flinch, didn't even turn. His arm flicked back with impossible speed, the spear spinning from my hands, clattering uselessly to the floor.
But war had taught me resilience, and I lashed out again, forcing the spear downward in a vicious arc.
How can he see?
The elder's face darkened. "Stop," he commanded. His left hand caught the spear mid-swing, and his right palm slammed into my chest with the weight of a boulder.
His movements were seamless, like water flowing around an obstacle. Pain exploded in my chest, and I was hurled backward as though struck by a battering ram.
My body crashed into the wall, and weapons clattered to the floor, a cacophony of metal on stone. My head rang with the impact, hot blood streaking down my face, the metallic taste seeping into my mouth.
I tried to curse, to give voice to the fury boiling inside me, but the words refused to form. I was spent, utterly exhausted.
My limbs felt like lead, and defeat curled around my heart, a cold, creeping sensation that threatened to suffocate me.
I was sixteen. Too young to have seen so much death, too young to be so familiar with pain. The thought of surrender, once unthinkable, now loomed large. Vengeance felt like a distant dream, slipping further away with each ragged breath.
I crumpled to the floor, the wood slapping beneath me, echoing the finality of my defeat. I couldn't move. Couldn't rise to meet this threat.
The elder approached, his footsteps a soft, relentless rhythm. "What happened to that fiery passion from earlier?" His words cut through the fog in my mind, but they only deepened my despair.
Passion? He was blind, not oblivious. He knew.
The wooden planks creaked as he crouched before me, his robe brushing against the floor. "Is this how it ends...Maxwell?"
My heart stuttered. He knew my name. My father's name.
A surge of fury coursed through me, momentarily banishing the encroaching darkness. No. This was not how it would end. It couldn't.
With a primal cry, I kicked out, sweeping his legs from under him. He fell, but even then, he moved with a calculated precision, catching himself on a single hand and using the momentum to twist toward me.
His speed was unnatural, but I managed to dodge, sluggishly evading his strike. He didn't relent. He spun from the floor, a blur of motion, and lunged.
I barely avoided him, my body reacting on instinct, fueled by sheer desperation.
Is he toying with me?
No, he wasn't. I'd been on battlefields, seen the horror of war. There was no bloodlust in him, no rage.
The room seemed to shrink as he closed in, a relentless predator. The floor splintered beneath him as he struck again, this time crashing into the ceiling, defying gravity itself.
What was he? My mind struggled to comprehend as he descended upon me like a hawk.
This was madness. I couldn't keep up. My legs, driven by fear and pain, carried me into a frantic run. I searched for an exit, any way out of this nightmare.
But there was none. The walls closed in, and my hope dwindled with each breath.
"Miracles don't just happen," my father's voice echoed in my mind, and I knew he was right. There would be no divine intervention, no sudden salvation.
Sweat burned my eyes, my body screaming for release. But I couldn't give up. Not yet. Not like this.
The shattered remains of the shelves caught my eye. There had to be something there, some weapon I could use.
He was closing in. Faster.
Frantically, I scrabbled through the wreckage, splinters stabbing into my fingers. There had to be something.
But the cold, reassuring weight of metal eluded me. The weapons were gone.
The blind elder was almost upon me, his presence an inexorable force, and I knew with sickening clarity that my options were gone.
This was the end. But even so, I refused to let it come easily. Not without a fight.
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