Age of Beast Tamers and Exorcists

'We have had enough of the evil beings tempting us all this while,' the right side thought, squeezing the stick in his hand. 'We stay indoors for fear of them all! They can move around our kingdom, but we can't.'

The gruff-voiced villager glared straight in front of him, eyes blazing with a determination even Zmey was taken aback to see.

'But I won't let a godforsaken beast dictate my life for me, either. If we have to fight through thick and thin, to protect ourselves and our family… to at least face off one beast if we can't do the same to the beings of darkness that for long plagued us… it's worth it. Tell me about it, dragon Ashbane!'

The cloaked figure stood there, trying to brush aside the image in his head, the image of the crowd standing with their pikes, eyes straight at him… But it was no use.

The villagers all stared at him, standing ahead.

Some, like the man on the right, stood their ground with the same strange fierceness, though there was certainly a difference in their resolve; everyone had their distinct countenances.

Yet, in the midst of it all, no one has taken an action.

In a literal sense, they could have at least continued relaying the dragon's rumor. However, that the one in question had boldly claimed his own identity made the story another chapter.

The wind whistled. Snow specks danced in the air. Pale faces stared through the atmosphere's thinnest part, an unseen source gluing chapped lips over one another.

A groan pierced through from Zmey. He let out a jesting chuckle.

"Then what? If I tell you now, what could you possibly do?"

A chorus of gasps rang through the snowy range. Zmey raised his head to meet them, eye to eye, one man to a hundred others.

To simply inspect the chaos, as he told himself, or rather… to take a different action. Even he couldn't tell at this point.

A few villagers met his gaze, eyes wide open and mouths agape while staring into his cloaked soul in a way that unnerved Zmey to the point he was tempted to look away.

Some of them clenched their pitchforks and shovels tighter. He wasn't sure which of them were more off putting to watch.

But what? What about these mortals putting Zmey on the edge of his seat?

What about their cowardly stances that made him feel like he was dying again, just like the countless lives of pain he had endured over and over again?

Then it hit him.

It was pure terror to confront a beast as deadly as the rumored Western dragon; yes, very.

But for some, every single breath they take in was the best chance life had given them. So should they surrender it to a creature that threatened them at their doorsteps? Or should they make a stand, take a chance and fight back with the little that they've got?

It was their will, their meagre will to live that shook Zmey to his core. For he knew that somewhere along the way, sometime in his past lives, he had lost his.

But he couldn't let it show. No, any sign of emotional vulnerability was a target to these villagers. They were desperate, desperate to do anything they can to defend themselves, and desperation is deadly.

Zmey's eyes moved from one sturdy house to the other, shrewd but with a hinting composed underlay. A hint of a snicker crossed his face as fast as a moving boomerang.

He straightened his shoulders, stood up straight like he had never done before, his eyesight bored into a distant pair that something seemed to fall out of place the moment they locked into contact.

Zmey glanced one last time at the crowd, just for a moment. They looked terrified, child-like shadows curling behind windows and even some aged ones having unshed tears around their eyebars.

His teeth gritted.

He caused them to be in this state.

He took a deep breath. Then two more.

'No other choice, just this…' Zmey thought. He had to, if this would be the last act he would put on.

Silence dragged through the air. He raised his voice as loud as he could, over the unforgiving snow, over the villagers' heads.

"Being considerate? Mercy? I guess you already know I don't feel things like that.

There's always a smoldering heat beneath my skin that pushes me to crave something else. Just like you, earthly creatures, have a craving for food and assortments, I do have the same for life forces. I need them… to sever the heat burning inside me!

Do you think your life matters? Do you think any of you matter to a beast? Ah, what a joke!"

A wide grin glued onto his face, his cheeks digging into his face.

A female's voice suddenly hollered, broken and indented, but still having an underlying strength that continued pushing words from her throat. Her hair, in a side-swept fishtail, cascaded down her creamy embroidered gown as the woman stood at the window of the third house to Zmey's left.

"Wh-why do you think our lives don't matter? If we would like to live on, doesn't that deem you wrong? Do you–"

Zmey raised a finger, seizing the words from her throat in an instant.

"Woman, are you even arguing with me?" he snapped.

He sighed, drawing back what little remained of his composure.

"Worthless. Disposable… What did you just say? What would you like to do? There's this 'thing' that's threatening you, all of you–"

He motioned to the crowd, the wave of his hand coursing through the dead silence.

"And you know that despite your numbers, you guys are still at a disadvantage.

Yet, all you can do is ask, sitting there helplessly and begging to be spared. You don't even think you're a colony of ants or any other mindless, cog-in-the-machine species.

No, you don't; you always say you're something more, and you still do nothing. How unappealing."

He shook his head curtly. He drew in a breath and raised his voice once more. This time, he couldn't afford to give in to his anger.

"Every single body part developed in your mother's womb would perish to ashes under my breath, all under three seconds.

I can call myself the Grim Reaper's successor, just like I did to five thousand people, just like I did to many others… and I could do the same for every one of you. It requires just a–"

Zmey paused, his eyes flitting to that third house. A loud bang, echoing through the snow-ridden streets.

He had, for a second, thought the emotionally tortured villagers had just launched an attack. Till he saw something entirely different.

The entire village seemed to hold its breath.

The middle-aged lady knelt on her house's entrance floor, miniscule stones perched on her knees. All the other villagers locked eyes on her in astonishment or protest. Zmey's brows creased seeing her, his eyes following the parting of her lips.

She clutched her gown at knee level, her sobs tearing through her throat as she spoke. "Please spare us all. Spare us, please. I wish to do anything to secure the lives of my family. Our families. Please… even if you feel nothing, even if you must take my life, just this once, spare–"

Zmey cut in, voice deep. "In this dire situation, why are you still worried about others? You have been thrown at the face of death, meticulously watched for a mistake to be devoured. Why do you still care about them, when you didn't even consider your own life beforehand?"

He could observe the desperation and frustration laid on the lady. She couldn't speak but clutched her teeth while holding her breath, eyes closed. Zmey waited, his breathing now cautiously shallow. The gall to speak out like this!

The fear and begrudging respect that coursed through the crowd's veins as they all stood in the snow, poised for the next word!

Some, like the right hand, remained relentless; just a minimum hesitation stayed that kept them from charging at a beast threatening to end them at its breath.

Zmey knew it – these few were anxious at their own pace, too, but they were just like the armies he used to lead, being a battle commander in his second reincarnation.

Through thick and thin, they never would allow enemies past their defenses. When he was in the scalding hot ground doing his thing, his men had stood boldly, holding back their enemies and their red signal flags.

There were times when he had met stronger opponents and highly skilled fighters on battlefields, but with his armies, they conquered their fears and became victorious.

Fear was first inevitable, but with just a simple push, an ounce of strength could emerge from anywhere.

'…I will use them. It's probably my last chance to die in peace.'

The lady's immediate eye contact took him by surprise. The moonlight that had just been rising in the sky, the snowfall dying and the atmosphere growing warmer, glinted in random flashes across her face.

It was watery, her corneas faintly red and her neck as though sweat enveloped it.

Zmey noticed her kind of expression — rage and hesitation. And he instantly thought of one simple strategy – to take advantage of those feelings.

But when her lips parted, his and her eyes locking, her mouth hung open with only ragged breaths escaping. Zmey creased his brows and crossed his arms in disapproval.

"What now? Did you lose that push on seeing my face? Haven't you realized you can never escape from who you are? Your emotions are you, and you can't escape from them. See? And this is someone who wants to kick me in the face–"

The lady's eyes flared.

"We all know we amount to nothing before you. There's no power anywhere! I know it… the Western Dragon's power exceeds the combination of the few exorcists we have here in Frosthaven," sourness gradually enveloped her voice. She tightened her fist.

"Tamers here probably don't have what it takes to contract a high sorcerer like you. But none of that matters now! No tamer or exorcist matters here! Our taxes all go into their pockets, yet they left us to our fate when those evil spirits scavenged our lands. They never answered… they didn't care, and that's why we all waste away in fear!

All we demand… all we seek from your noble hands is to give us a chance. Consideration gets to you like fire to water; we are ready to prove our worthiness to you!"

"Are you sure?" Zmey interposed, his voice low and edged with frankness. He stared into the lady's eyes as though a hungry predator. "Aren't you the only one demanding a chance…?"

Zmey turned his head from the woman, voice cut off mid-sentence. At first it was a small sound, a singular voice amidst the melting snow.

But it grew louder, then louder once more. The sound of the rakes, pikes, and boots on the ground, pounding against the snow like the drums of a soldier's march.

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