Chương 8: First to Decide

"Please spare our lives!" a chorus echoed through the snowland.

Zmey saw all the adult villagers outside on their knees before him. It was like a superior addressing his minions from a high podium.

What caught his attention was seeing Right-hand, kneeling as well. Were they, these adults, so vulnerable under Ashbane's pressure?

"I'm good at archery! I can help if you're targeting the evil spirits..." A man in his mid-40s with long, rough hair and rash-filled, bruised skin volunteered, raising his hand.

Zmey had almost looked at him for a longer time when the Right-hand said his too.

"I already lost my children and wife to those damned creatures. Fucking hell crawlers! I do not have that much fear anymore! Give your order, dragon…" Right-hand lowered his head.

After a split second, he looked up at Zmey. His head had turned aside, gazing with something in his face.

"We will follow your orders as long as you can in your divine post spare us. We have a strong desire to live! It's not our wish to cower in fear indoors in broad daylight. It isn't… not at all. Our powerlessness couldn't help that, but now, we'd like to do anything to keep us still breathing…"

Zmey straightened his head. He realized it wasn't 'himself' who caused the villagers to live away from reality. The dragon had massacred another kingdom. He discerned this world was more vast than the previous ones.

Not only wider but filled with actual supernatural elements. At the Infernosphere throne room, he had heard about pure and dark magic for the first time. Reincarnating into a high magic practitioner's body gave him a clearer view of those forces.

These villagers were like himself in some ways. Yet, they were not completely the same.

He knew that, as the dragon did to another kingdom, the evil creatures had massacred the villagers. Women stood outside their houses without men. Right-hand's window reflected no one peeping. It was evident that they had lost family or had none from the start.

The cold air carried the scent of burnt wood and the faint, metallic tang of fear. The snow crunched under Zmey's boots as he moved, each step deliberate and resonant in the stillness. The villagers' eyes followed him, wide with a mixture of hope and dread.

'They need advice to move on. But I'm in no position to give such now,' Zmey thought, his gaze sweeping over the rows of snow-dusted houses.

To his left, near the ashen remains of a bonfire, a black, rough-edged cudgel leaned against a wall. The arid environment splintered its surface, a testament to his abandonment. Was it meant as a tool or a weapon? The question lingered in the frigid air.

Zmey surprised the villagers. He walked with his hands in his pockets and stopped at the bonfire. The warmth of the dying embers created a sharp contrast with the biting cold.

It was a reminder of resistance, even in near defeat. The wood, nearly ash, echoed the villagers' plight. It was burned and battered, but not entirely consumed.

"Poor souls…" he murmured, shifting his attention to the cudgel. As he grasped its chipped edge, the rough wood pinched his palm, grounding him in the present moment. He moved to stand beside a woman with green hair tied in a samurai-style gown.

Her breath was visible in the cold air, coming in quick, misty puffs. Shock and astonishment etched themselves on every face around them. Zmey understood their fear and their fragile hope.

"Are you sure you'd do anything?" Zmey asked, his voice soft yet probing.

The woman hesitated, her eyes flicking to the cudgel in his hand. "Yes, but…" Her voice wavered, caught between fear and determination. "But…"

"Don't you want to do this to remain unharmed? I know. And I won't hit you in the head right after you claim you'd do anything," Zmey said. His voice was gentle, almost hopeful amid the despair. It created a striking contrast with the surrounding gloom.

The woman swallowed down as if digesting the weight of his words.

Zmey continued, relentless and blunt. "I will spare you all. There's one way to be sure you are worth that mercy. It's a test of how fearless and unmindful you are at the sight of death. How self-centred and selfish you can be to survive. I'm not here to test your level of respect or pride conservation… no. I only need that survival-driven side of yours…"

The green-haired woman screamed, her eyes blazing with resolve. "Please, tell me what to do! Is it to use the cudgel as my only weapon or—?"

"Hit me with it!" Zmey said. His voice spread through like a sudden warmth mixed with terror. The order left the woman staring up with her mouth agape. She was about to compose herself after someone had interrupted her, but not anymore.

"Ey…! What… what did you ask us to do?" one of the flushed men screamed from his throat. He was in his mid-20s with chestnut hair, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

It was as if something had removed all the frost around them. They breathed in warm air that ruptured their nostrils.

Hit who, exactly?

The villagers stared. Taking the usual breaths even seemed an impossibility. No, it seemed forbidden in this kind of situation.

Zmey knew it – as impossible as it was for the cursed dragon to make such a demand, so was it for the villagers to heed it. For what? An act of revenge for all they had suffered or lost under its peril?

'I must leave them with no other choice,' Zmey thought. The gaze of the woman followed his change in direction towards a house.

Right-hand's earlier hardened resolve crumpled into something more like the others. He stared at the dragon as he approached. He was walking between and past the others. Zmey aimed straight at him.

'Why… why's he coming at me?' The man swallowed. A hint of redness settled in his corneas, sweat huddling around his neck. His eyes blinked and then locked with the approaching figure for several seconds.

Now, it was very obvious. Zmey reached his front, and before the man could glance up finally, he whacked the side of his arm with the cudgel. The man's side bolted to the ground without delay. His eyeballs shook.

A gasp escaped his mouth, blowing off snow specks on the floor. Pain shot through his arm joints. He knew that not staying down would imply he had broken a bone.

Zmey clenched the cudgel in his hand as he saw the man's situation. But he composed himself with effort. Because he had to. This could be the last step he would take.

He turned his glance at the other villagers. Before speaking, he pointed the cudgel at the grounded figure without looking back.

"Did I get you scared now? Did I make you think angering me might make you bathe in a pit of flames in the end? Uh, tell me. Do I… make you want to unleash Survival that lives in you? Huh?!" he yelled.

Soft whimpers echoed in his mind, and he could hear deep voices making curses. Yet, he yelled harder, shaking the cudgel as if making a point through it.

"You all are weak! You're nothing. How do you think you look before mountains and waterfalls? What about how your tamers and exorcists see you that made them neglect you even till this time? There's one answer. It's because your existence is pointless to them! THEIRS... is more important. They're perhaps at cultivation places to get stronger... for themselves!

If you still think you are anyone's responsibility, you're wrong. YOU are your responsibility. That's everyone's primary name – yourself.

Times come when you have to be evil to be good at other times. Are you still holding back? Thinking there would be another way… or trash this fucking beast down with one blow?! Huh, cursed losers?!"

"Please pardon me for this!" the voice synced immediately with Zmey's last pitch. It was so quick, but he somehow had a clue. A shadow shifted behind him.

The next moment, his grip loosened, and he felt empty. The cudgel left his grip. Right-hand's shadow loomed high behind Zmey. His eyes burned with fiery determination.

His two hands held the chipped-edged cudgel, ready to do what was right for himself. Zmey tried to turn around, surprised, but before he could, the right hand whacked his back with the cudgel.

Zmey's legs gave in. He fell to a knee immediately, his hinge joint stiffening as if he had scraped a bone. A thousand pounds of weight seemed to rest on his back, making him tense.

His fingers dug into the snowy ground. Chills ran through his fingernails as he clutched a bit of snow in his hand.

Zmey gasped. "Damn… that was so quick."

Right-hand loomed behind him. He swallowed down. His eyes never left the one he had hit. Conflicting thoughts threatened to plague him.

They made him wonder if he had done something wrong. Had he signed his death contract? Was the dragon toying with him to find a scapegoat? And that scapegoat, unfortunately, turned out to be him. He stiffened.

'Curse it, no one acted, neither should I have. Why isn't he saying anything? I thought… I thought he was…'

"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!"

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