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37.03% Age of Beast Tamers and Exorcists / Chapter 9: Slave of Money

Capítulo 9: Slave of Money

"Hey!" Zmey groaned, glancing over his shoulder and locking eyes with the man. But the eye contact wasn't as profound as it should have been. "Do not hesitate. I will spare only those who listen to my orders. If you waver for a second, I will kill you!"

The other villagers stared in shock. Did they have to beat the dragon to a pulp for him to spare them? What logic was that? What was his plan? They imagined, although the answer continued to shadow them.
Right-hand trembled with great intensity. He gritted his teeth. His face grew paler. Zmey could see through him – they didn't hesitate out of respect, but out of fear of being harmed in the end.
But he hoped in silence that boldness could take hold, making the villagers heed him. If they didn't, he might have to go the extra mile to make them. Which he wasn't sure he could. Doing this to them was already too much for them.
"Why? Why are you asking us to do this, of all things? Please, I can't…" right hand spoke up.
Zmey's chest tightened.
He cut in. "It will make me feel better. This is the only help you lowly humans can render to me. You all will heed my command if living is your priority."
Shadows loomed over the chilly surface under the morning light as the light changed. Birds chirped in the distance as if planning to make a very huge announcement.
Zmey saw as, one after the other, the villagers rose from their knees and headed towards him. Most had their gazes fixed downwards, tools like shovels and rods in their hands. Zmey felt his heart racing as a rush of adrenaline overcame him.
He had tempted the villagers. They would have tried their best to carry it out, regardless of the choice it would have led to. At first, their pressure might not be very high.
But, as memories of evil creatures feeding on their emotions like him returned, it would dawn on him they were exacting justice too. Justice over years of hardship.
He swallowed down. This moment would be as painful as it was in his recent reincarnation when he committed suicide. This was the same thing – he wanted to die of his own accord.
But somehow, he felt like holding back. To tell the villagers to stop or hold on. This made him worried. Because as he recalled his past lives, he found nothing to live for. Live for how long, exactly?
For fourteen years – reincarnating at twenty-five and dying at thirty-nine years. The long years could have been worthwhile if he had spent them in happiness and peace, as he dreamed of. He had either spent them fighting for others, nursing injuries, or being nice to people who hated him or others.
Zmey sighed. Shadows closed in on him.
'The ritual isn't something one should attempt. It's torture for defying the creator. To defy the reality of death,' he thought. 'I'm dying at last. What a relief!'
His eyes followed the emergence of the surrounding villagers. They centered him before he knew it. Women whimpered without making a sound, and men appeared pale, resembling ghosts.
Somehow, to him, they were like those who had killed him back then. But the past ones were very energetic and not hesitant at all. They enjoyed putting him in terror.
But as he never blamed them, so would he not now. Everything was arranged to restore things to their original state.
"We're going down for our foul deeds, Zmey Ashbane. Report… from Orin Stonewood. Let us…" he sighed, shutting his eyes and turning his head down, "… let us atone for all we had done. After that, maybe we can make it to heaven. All I want is to leave this world; I'm sick and tired of it."
He swallowed in silent surrender.
A woman raised her shovel, followed by a man raising the wooden handle of an axe, too. Zmey could hear the shift in the atmosphere. The villagers were making their move – he smiled with a brief expression.
That was what he needed. Their survival instincts would push them to act, without knowing it, to stay human. They needed to be human, but he had no interest. Not at all.
'Since that time, I'm not human anymore. I became a pawn, one in the larger game the minister of defense planned. Not for the entire Stonewood family he destroyed, but the whole world. Probably in my ninth reincarnation. He would try to find me, but… hell yeah, I'm leaving him behind. I'm taking control and ruining his perfect plan!'
Whack!
A heavy blow landed on his back. His body bent under the force, but it only took a wince before a hot warmth coursed through his backbone.
Nothing came in the next second as he had expected it to.
"This… this makes no sense! Why are we to do this?" he heard a deep voice say amidst a sob.
"I can't… I can't do this! I'm even more scared!" A soft, agonised voice followed.
Zmey clenched his jaw.
"If one of you wavers again, I… WILL make your houses your graveyards! I will tear your bodies to shreds in the cold weather! Happy ending? Tell me about it when your entire family goes down with you! Cursed bastards; heed my command!" he groaned. Shivers ran through the man standing next to him.
He swallowed down. 'He became more irritated. I can't die if the others get foolish!' The man, without hesitation, whacked Zmey's head with the cudgel he had in his hand.
Zmey's head thrummed. A loud, resonant sound echoed in his hand for seconds. He couldn't hear anything anymore. He didn't feel immediate pain, but it was a short-term deafening instead.
Before he could register the normal reaction, the back of his neck seemed to expel its contents. It was as if his lungs and throat… it was as if they would force themselves out.
His heart's beating sound screamed at him he would die at this rate. But then he protested. What did it know, exactly? He deemed himself right to take control, and this was his decision, after all. Pain could struggle to overwhelm and torture him, but he won't change his mind.
There was one way for them to stop.
"Stop… until I take my last breath!" Zmey groaned.
"Ey? T-t-take last breath?" a deep voice loudly imagined. But the attacks never stopped coming.
Arms, shoulders, neck… entire exposed body parts bent under the relentless hits. The force of the blows tore his black cloak as if it had sliced through at different positions. He felt the chilly air waft through his skin.
The skin ruptured, tearing off. Blood had either painted the ends of the tools or stayed on his wounds without flowing. He could only smell the metallic scent of blood as if something blocked his other four senses.
Blood trickled down his temples. He winced. He tasted metal. It felt as if a mountain rested on him. He couldn't maintain his position anymore. He felt like lying on a bare stomach. The more he looked at the snowy ground, the hazier they became. He was blacking out.
He gasped.
"Curse it… this is all… too much for me. I can't… can't breathe. This is too much! Why… why is the same thing happening? Why's my life this sour?!" he mumbled, ragged gasps following each statement.
Whack, whack, whack! – the attacks kept on coming.
Whack!
Zmey's loud surroundings deafened his ears.
Suddenly…
A loud bump!
"Out of the way! What the heck is happening here?!"
Air rushed at him, stinging his scarred back. Why, suddenly?
Then a hand gripped him. Immediately, something wrapped around his arm. And metallic warmth ran through him. What was happening? Just what?
His eyes shut. But he could hear an angry, deep voice. "Why are you all acting this way? What in the world did he do to get beaten this way?" And then, mid-point, the voice grew soft, "Anything… can be done with money."
Then, one deep voice came again, protesting against the other one.
"It's you again, child! Learn to stick your nose in your own business, not others'! You know nothing other than money, bastard!"
 
 

 


next chapter

Capítulo 10: Forced to Endure

Zmey's head swirled into consciousness. Through his eyelids, orange light filtered and danced, accompanied by an incessant buzzing. The foul stench hit him next, making his saliva thicken in his throat. He shifted, uncomfortable against whatever supported his arm.

Memory returned in fragments. Someone had taken him—interfered when everything had been perfect. His jaw clenched. Damned meddler.

Pain gripped his hips as he tried to rise. Then hands steadied his shoulders, the touch bringing both relief and revulsion. He opened his eyes carefully, only to have sunlight pierce through the nearby railings. He shifted left, away from the glare, and tried again.

"Are you a ghost?" he growled, fighting waves of pain. "Or the bastard who took me from there?"

The figure before him came into focus slowly. A young man crouched nearby, wearing an easy smile that defied Zmey's hostile stare.

"You're not fit to move," the stranger began. "Take a rest. I have—"

Zmey's leg shot out, shoving the man away. The stranger—young, perhaps in his twenties, with a rough, pale face—stumbled back against the wall. He let out a surprised laugh, glancing around before returning his attention to Zmey.

Pain radiated through Zmey's body, echoes of the villagers' beating. Still hurting, still alive—when that hadn't been the plan at all. He reached left for support, found purchase, then felt moisture seep through his fingers. One glance revealed his mistake.

"Shit!" He jerked his hand back, lost balance, and hit the ground. His back slammed against the wall, sending fresh agony through his body. "Curse it..."

The source of his disgust stood revealed: a waste bin surrounded by flies filled with rotting rice and sewage. He forced himself to look at his unwanted saviour instead.

The young man wore clothes that barely qualified as such—a torn earth-coloured top and black knickers. His pale face bore strange dark marks, and though his features suggested youth, something older lurked in his expression.

"What are you called?" Zmey forced out the words.

The stranger's face brightened. He shuffled closer, stopping a careful distance away. "I'm Nero, the finest informant in Frosthaven. My motto's simple—share what you know, spend what you have. Ask anything. One question cost two gold coins, boss."

Zmey's sigh ended in a grimace. "Do you understand what you've done? Who asked you to interfere? To ruin everything just to sell me your damned information?"

Pain wracked his body, making breathing difficult. If he still had the dragon's power, he'd make this meddler his first victim. The fool should never have come to this village, never had the chance to cause such havoc.

Nero chuckled, pointing to himself. "You think I wronged you? The villagers were beating you senseless—they're usually peaceful folk. Must've had a reason. I saved you out of mercy. Understand? I got you out of that mess."

"Shut it!" Zmey straightened, despite his screaming back. "Speak again and I might kill you." He clutched his stomach, forced to use the waste bin for support.

Arctic wind cut through his torn cloak as he limped toward the alley's end. Beyond lay a vast stretch of fenced, uncultivated land where livestock wandered. He didn't look back until he'd turned the corner.

Nero watched him go, shaking his head. "Never seen someone so ungrateful. Threatening to kill me? Please. You can barely walk." He brushed at his already-ruined shirt, sighed, and gazed upward. "Why save someone who can't even pay? Four questions asked, not a coin in sight. Ingrate. Criminal. Deserved that beating."

He shivered, stepping out of the alley. Once he'd gone, Zmey peered around the corner. Finding himself alone, he slid down the wall. Snow gathered on his shoes; his breath visible in the cold.

"You didn't understand," he whispered. "If you'd ignored me like that couple who killed me in my first rebirth, we'd both be better off. I'd have my death; you'd have your sales. Instead, you've forced this pitiful soul to endure more pain before the end."

 


Capítulo 11: An Old Seer

Zmey swallowed hard, his saliva thick in his throat. He couldn't stay here for long. He didn't know where to turn. Whether to survive here for a few seconds or die while amplifying the pain. This kingdom, Frosthaven, felt like a graveyard.

Everyone was stuck inside their houses. The lands were cultivated by snow as if by its own will, and even the distant ice mountains and towering trees seemed to lack something—perhaps leaves, unless they were just fallen, lifeless ones.

He took a second to glance back at the alley. "For fuck's sake… how do I get back to where I was a few moments ago? The jerk didn't even…" A gasp interrupted him mid-sentence as his ribs twisted, threatening to tear through his skin.

He couldn't move immediately. Closing his eyes, he exhaled, trying to subdue the pain.

Zmey heard a soft whispering voice. "I think he's injured. One can't end up like that and be just. Must be involved in dirty things."

Realizing the voice came from above, he turned his head upward. Just as he'd seen when interacting with the villagers, a reflected shadow appeared on the creamy transparent board shielding the house's window—the very one he leaned on.

He heard a scratching sound, as if someone were moving something. A moment later, he realized the owners had drawn their curtains.

They were suspicious of him. Not just suspicious—very careful at the sight of the beaten-up madman he had become. Very sensitive. What else would he expect?

Clutching his side tighter, he pressed his hands to the ground, using it to push himself to his feet. He sighed, shaking off something he had known from the outset was inevitable.

He turned and limped to the right. The path ahead, about seven feet away, led to an icy narrow bridge. Snowbags floated atop the river flanking its sides, and even the watery surface gleamed as brightly as the ice.

Zmey thought back to the house owners' words. 'I'm very involved in a dirty thing. A dark one at that. Thanks for ignoring me. That's help in disguise… I guess.'

Time passed more quickly than he'd expected. With his own eyes, he had watched the sun move mid-quarters into the horizon. Then halfway. Finally, it disappeared entirely into the clouded horizon. It all felt spontaneous, leaving the sky awash in twilight.

The cold remained, though it had lessened. From the distance, while limping and resting near some houses, distant nocturnal sounds warned him.

Night was approaching. If he didn't make a choice soon, he would end up dying in the late hours. Or worse, sleeping on the bare, cold ground until morning.

Evening was already here, with the night closing in. The scents of burning candles drifted from dimly lit buildings, mingling with the sharp chill in the air.

He heard whispers as he moved around. At first, it seemed as if unseen beings were the speakers, but he knew who they were. He breathed shakily from time to time, his body aching incessantly.

Then came a moment he thought would never arrive—a realization that dawned on Zmey as he prepared to turn back and take another route for the thousandth time, only to meet yet another dead end.

The kingdom seemed more like a small settlement to him, but in his current state, walking around as a stranger felt like moving a million miles. He stopped, his breath visible in the arid twilight air.

The wind played faintly in his ears before vanishing. His eyes glued to an old, rough-haired woman sitting three meters away on the bare ground.

Like everyone else, she was pale-skinned, with snow clinging to her loosened grey hairs. She wore an ash-green cloak, her legs crossed over each other while she sat hunched. Her bent posture reminded Zmey of the times he used to caution one of his little sisters.

"Your back will ache if you sit like that. Sit straight, please, Nora…" he mumbled in a low, piercing voice.

The old woman stared blankly ahead, with only a faint trace of life flickering on her face. It was as though she couldn't see him—or simply didn't care about his presence. She seemed just like him: a homeless, hopeless human.

Zmey limped toward her suddenly. To do what exactly?

As he got closer, her sight locked onto him. He froze, caught off guard by the sight of her striking emerald eyes. A chill ran down his spine. 'Who in the world has eyes like that?' Zmey wondered.

For a few moments, the woman stared silently at him, until she broke the stillness.

"A cat. A big, bright one," she said.

Zmey blinked, completely astonished. Just as suddenly as before, she repeated: "A large cat with eyes of gold, claws of diamond, and skin of silver. It attracted other animals. They wanted its eyes to stand out too, its claws for precision, and its skin to make armor of their own. The cat would surpass the higher animals in the future. From the future, it carried out its life task in the present…"

Zmey blinked again and sighed, still nursing his injuries. 'How long has she stayed out here in the cold? She's speaking in parables now, but it doesn't even make any sense.'

"…The cat had always known. But when the time came, it seemed to have forgotten about the complexity of its life. One not of a single lifespan… Killed. But still not. Died again. Yet, it lived. Died, and died, and died… yet it was still alive. A wounded soul it became."

Zmey's expression shifted. His brows furrowed as he glanced at the ground briefly, mumbling to himself, "The complexity of a cat's life?"

He looked back at the woman. 'Is she… a seer?' he wondered. The phrase stuck with him. The complexity of a cat's life. A thrill ran down his spine.

The belief that cats have nine lives often made humans think of them as complex creatures. Seers were known to see things in fragments, relaying them one cryptic piece at a time. Their statements seemed meaningless at first, like a jigsaw puzzle waiting to be solved.

"Who's the cat here?" Zmey muttered. Desperation seeped into his voice as he asked the woman, "Then… the cat finally died as it wanted, right? Did it die? When it reached heaven, did it perhaps cross paths with the…?"

"Hell."

Zmey gasped aloud, his eyes widening. "What… what are you trying to say?! Why hell?!" he shouted.

"Deserving souls go to their rightful places," the woman replied, her tone calm and unfazed. "You reap what you sow. The cat, by flaunting its worth and possessions, attracted others to it. Its actions influenced them—they weren't evil."

Zmey gritted his teeth, shaking his head as he wiped sweat from his brow. "Forget it… She doesn't even know what she's saying. There's no cat with silver skin or golden eyes. Never was I here. I never yelled at an old woman. I was never disrespectful to an elder."

With those words, he turned his back. He had to leave—not because of the interaction, but because of the choice he made for himself.

As he walked away, no matter how hard he tried, her words echoed in his mind. She said hell. She told me hell!

"No matter how the cat tries to escape…"

Her deep, eerie voice made him pause. He glanced over his shoulder.

"…it is never successful. A coward fleeing its crime, trying to evade punishment. But as fate wills it, so shall it be. For the rest of its life, the cat will remain hopeless and ultimately face judgment for its deeds.

It swayed the minds of its kind with its possessions but refuses to accept its role."

Her words hung in the air like a heavy fog. Zmey unconsciously gripped his ribs, unable to distinguish between the pain of his past and the present. He clenched his jaw, his mind reeling.

"The cat… at fault?" he muttered, his fist tightening. He groaned, "What?"


REFLEXIONES DE LOS CREADORES
Kutley Kutley

I bet you guys are already hoping for an introduction into the beast taming world, and to get immediate view of how beasts are tamed and controlled. Relax. We still have a very long way to go so let's not rush things. It's a novel that will exceed 600 chapters, so now you know why there is no rushing. We have to approach things strategically.

By the way, drool over the woman's words if you like. I believe some had already understood things in the first few lines the woman uttered, some took an extra time, while others will have to re-read to understand. Lol... you know the class you are.

I'm in the last class tho. XD.

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