The last Cursewright

The snow was painted with blood.

The bandits turned around unconcerned from lifeless body but....

Then he laughed.

"Hehe… hah… HAH!"

Azel stood up with that laughter, wild and cracked like splitting wood. The sound crawled through the cold air, twisted and wrong. The boy was drenched in dried blood. His robes were torn, his skin pale with frost. But his wounds—deep gouges across his chest and stomach—were gone.

Every head turned toward him.

Azel was laughing so hard his body shook. Then—with a sickening pop—his neck snapped to the side. His skull cracked, his head slumped low, nearly hanging off his shoulders.

The laughter didn't stop.

Crack. Crack. CRACK.

Three bandits dropped instantly.

One's neck twisted around backward. Another collapsed, his chest caved in like paper. The third fell to his knees, clutching his skull as it pulsed and burst open like overripe fruit.

The rest panicked.

"What the hell?!"

"He's cursed! That kid's cursed!"

"Kill him! Kill him now!"

Steel scraped from scabbards. Arrows were notched. One rushed Azel with a spear, another threw a dagger.

None of it mattered.

Azel didn't dodge. He didn't block. He just kept laughing. His head dangled loosely from his shoulders, eyes glowing faint with the curse's hunger. His flesh knitted itself back together, even as blades cut into him.

A sword cleaved into his side. Blood sprayed. But the skin sealed shut.

Forbanna stirred inside him.

"You're losing control."

Azel grinned, blood dripping from his lips. 

Five more bandits charged—and five more were incinerated in an instant.

Black fire erupted from Azel's body like a living creature. It screamed with voices of the damned, consuming everything it touched. Flesh blackened. Eyes melted in their sockets. Screams filled the snowy woods as fire swallowed men whole.

The flames didn't just burn—they erased.

Bones cracked and collapsed to ash. The snow hissed and turned red.

The leader, a man named Draven, stumbled back in horror. His sword clattered to the ground.

"He's not human. He's the cursed one. A Cursewright…"

"Doesn't matter! He's outnumbered! He's just a freak—"

"Then why are we the ones dying?!"

They tried to run. They turned to flee through the trees—but it was too late.

A transparent wall rose from the ground behind them, shimmering like glass, stretching from tree to tree.

They slammed into it. It didn't budge.

"Fucking break damn it!"

Azel stepped forward, his eyes lifeless, his robes scorched and billowing with smoke.

"Welcome, to my slaughterhouse."

Then the walls caught fire.

No ordinary fire. Black again—but alive. Hungry. It moved with purpose, chasing the men down, cornering them against the flaming barriers.

The screaming returned.

One man clawed at the wall until his fingers were gone. Another slammed his fists into it until his arms broke. A third dropped to his knees, begging to be spared.

The flames didn't care.

They ate. They devoured. They dragged souls into the pit of hell. The cursed fire tore through armor, flesh, spirit, until nothing remained.

Draven, the leader was the last to stand. He staggered backward, the fire closing in.

He turned to Azel, his face blistered, one eye burned away.

"You monster…"

Azel tilted his head.

"You shouldn't have touched the noble."

"We didn't know—he wasn't supposed to—"

"Was it fun when you killed other people?"

"I—"

The flames struck.

They didn't burn Draven quickly. They wrapped around him like ropes, pulling his body into the air. His skin peeled back slowly, piece by piece. His screams cracked the frozen sky.

And then—

BOOM.

A shockwave burst from inside the wall.

The high-pressure flames exploded outward, shattering the barrier. Smoke and fire rushed in every direction, ripping trees from the roots, blowing blood and body parts across the clearing.

When it was over, there was silence.

Steam rose from the snow.

Blood splattered the trees. A finger dangled from a branch. Bones crunched underfoot.

And in the middle of it all, Azel stood alone.

His robe was torn, his body burned, but he stood. Breathing. Alive.

He walked across the field of corpses to the body of a nobleman lying motionless in the snow. His chest was covered in blood, a dagger still stuck in his stomach. His face was pale, lips blue from the cold. He was barely alive.

Azel knelt and pressed his hand to the wound.

Dark veins snaked across the man's skin. The injury closed slowly, forcing the organs to repair. Azel gritted his teeth—he wasn't healing with Forbanna's help this time. This was his own cursed magic, raw and draining.

The noble's breathing steadied. He fell unconscious, but he was safe.

Hours passed.

Snow continued to fall, blanketing the battlefield. The carriage wheels creaked along a narrow road, pulled by a silent horse. Azel sat at the front, reins in hand, his burned fingers twitching slightly as he guided the carriage forward.

Behind him, the noble groaned.

He stirred, eyes fluttering open. The ceiling of the carriage blurred, the pain in his stomach dull but present. He sat up slowly, struggling to piece things together.

Azel didn't look back.

"You're awake." 

The noble blinked.

"Where…?"

"On the road. Safe. For now."

The noble stared at him.

"What… what happened? The bandits…"

Azel smiled faintly, a tired, broken smile.

"Problem solved."