When I wake up, my head is a fog. A bog, a swamp, a river to cross — I groan out of my futon and rip it off me, heading to the eternal flame. It cooks from the hollow center of the pillar, raised on a dais of old magic. Dead magic to be sure — no elder nor clan has been able to reproduce it. My rations dwindle. I am nearly out of soot-tea. I pour some into the pot above the flame, along with lukewarm water, and begin to stir. The wall is fixed now — no signs of my battle with Hui from yesterday. I expected that much: the tower has this tendency to heal its own wounds. More old magic. 

I try not to think. It doesn’t work. As soon as I take one sip of the tea, my mind clears slightly and, burdened with the memories of yesterday, I seek the wind. I go outside, to the antlered precipice of my tower and dangle my legs from its edge as the frigid air hits.

It is early dawn. 

The sun, a great celestial spirit that our world orbits near, rises quickly on this day. 

I hold my head and listen to the sound of my own breathing. 

What now?

I chuckle. The sound of my own voice is far too familiar to me, for it echoes slightly off the walls of my abode. “I don’t know. It's been so long since I’ve had… nothing. Not a goal to look forward to, not an interaction to think of.” 

You idiot? You’ve always had nothing. You’ve created something from that nothing. Hope. Rage. Now… well what’s next? 

I take a sip of the soot tea and it feels bitter upon my tongue. A familiar bitterness. 

Familiar. 

I want something unfamiliar. Something new. New faces, new lands, new names. I — 

“I don’t want to be a slave any longer.” 

But, I guess that all depends on what Hui Long does next. 

‘I’ll fix it, Raiten,’ she had said. Well, for my sake, I hope she does. She owes me that much. 

The wind howls. And I do what I’ve grown so used to doing. 

I wait. 

…

 Monsters peer over the valley. I spot them midday and my stomach turns. I have no more amulets — no more avenues of fighting. I’ve been in this situation thrice before. Both times, I experienced immense pain before finally killing my foes. The thought of that pain frightens me — no one likes watching their guts being ripped open. 

But that is the curse of immortality. 

As they near, the sun comes down. The air stifles, becomes stale. 

Their eyes glow in the gloom. 4 pairs of red eyes. 

I shiver. Eldritch wolves. Of all the things — it had to be them. 

I head inside my tower and put some water to boil. With the rapid efficiency that only comes from panic, I chop up some garlic and my remaining ginger, mixing them into a bowl and pouring hot water to create a smelly paste. 

The torch stump is my only weapon. I take it, smother it in ginger-garlic paste, and light it aflame with the eternal fire. The scent is putrid. The ginger-garlic doesn’t do much but discomfort them. Still, I need every advantage I can get. 

The flame sputters and dances. I toss the torch from hand to hand and stand back outside, watching the wolves as they sniff my tower. 

Antlers cover them like armor, magically imbued with powers of eldritch forests. They must feel some connection with the tower — the last time I faced them, they did the same thing. Most of the foes I faced tried venturing past the tower, into clan lands. I was curse-bound to stop those, forced to venture out of his tower, break an amulet, and smite their lot. The wolves always came to me though — no thanks to the old magicks of this cursed Thunder Tower. 

And now they begin to climb. 

“Come on you bastards,” I say, trying to give myself some modicum of strength. “Come kill me. I have nothing this time, but I’ll still burn the lot of you.” 

They tear the distance between us, red eyes nearing, claws puncturing into the tower to scale it. 

The first one is finally close enough for my fire to illuminate: two antlers from its head curl back, three upon its hide, two for each side of its body. This one is elegant — its antlers look purposeful, even artful. It is a dangerously fascinating creature. Most of them are not made like this — their antlers sprout from their bodies like arrows from the bloated corpse of a battlefield. This must’ve been a lucky one. Good genetics. 

It snarls low, speaking in the runic language of the eldritch. I do not understand it. 

I get the gist though. 

So, I turn and run into my abode, setting the torch momentarily back in its wall stand. 

The wolf gives chase, climbing onto the orange-antlered precipice of my tower. When it leaps through the small entrance of my home, it is met with searing, boiling water. It howls as I throw the pot of water at it. Fur scorching. Then, as it backs into the wall, I heave the pot’s ends with my burn-scarred hands and throw it at the wolf. The pot hits slow and strong, chipping one of its antlers. It stumbles, still not dead. Screaming something in eldritch. I wince – the sound is grating. 

The torch is my last weapon. I take it back now and kick the wolf over with great effort, for despite its pain it is a heavy creature and it resists even now. 

So I burn it. 

With my foot upon the thing, I drive the torch into its face and, though the gray fur does not catch, the sound of searing is enough consolation. It whimpers and squirms. Its flesh blackens. I press the torch harder, into its eyes, against the antlers, down its snarling maw and into its throat. The scent of burning flesh fills the room. 

It dies with great effort. 

I am already tired. I pick up one of its broken off antlers and set it aflame, holding it like a dagger. 

Three more wolves snarl at my door, spouting more eldritch, no doubt raging. 

But their rage cannot compare to mine. Theirs is the rage of moments, fleeting putrid moments. 

Mine is the rage of years.