Chapitre 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!"