The sun barely pierced the morning mist as I approached the first village under my influence. Roads twisted like veins through the countryside, empty except for the occasional merchant cart or stray animal. Voraciel pulsed faintly on my back, alive, patient. The whisper pressed against my mind: "…kill." Not a command. Not a demand. Observation first. Patience always.
The militia I had mapped days before remained unaware of my presence. Guards walked predictable paths, merchants followed routines, villagers went about their days without fear. Ordinary. Predictable. Mistakes stacked like kindling, waiting for the right spark. Observation is always cheaper than interference.
I climbed to a rooftop overlooking the central square. Below, guards patrolled in patterns I had memorized. Supply routes and alleys intersected with perfect predictability. Shadows bent subtly, responding to intent. Voraciel hummed faintly. The whisper pressed again: "…kill."
Not yet. Patience. Observation. Calculation. Intent.
A patrol of five entered the square. They were cautious, alert, more so than ordinary soldiers. Trained for small engagements. Mistakes were smaller, subtler. Timing off by a fraction of a second. Step placement slightly misaligned. Overconfidence in their numbers. Predictable, but challenging.
I observed, cataloged, and waited. Shadows shifted faintly along the edges of the buildings. The whisper grew impatient: "…kill—Crimson Tide."
Not now. Not yet. This required more than subtlety. The technique I had relied on so far—effective, controlled, silent—would not suffice. Voraciel pulsed, warmth spreading through my arm. The faint hum of power responded to my intent. Bloodlust surged, restrained by calculation. I could feel the edge of something new forming, waiting for necessity.
Night fell. Lanterns flickered along streets, stretching shadows across rooftops and alleyways. I descended silently, moving toward the patrol from the rooftops. Each step was deliberate, controlled, precise. Voraciel responded to the faint pulse of intent, alive, waiting.
I positioned myself behind the patrol. Shadows bent subtly, guided by my thought. "…kill—Crimson Tide."
The first man faltered. The second froze mid-step. Controlled. Efficient. Precise. Yet their formation remained mostly intact. The technique alone would not suffice. Bloodlust flared. Necessity demanded more. The whisper hissed at the edge of thought: "…kill—unleash."
For the first time, I felt the power of Voraciel push against my restraint. The subtle warmth intensified, spreading into my chest, my mind, my soul. Intent focused, calculation merged with pure instinct. I spoke aloud, letting my voice carry over the alleyways:
"Bloodlust—Raven's Fang."
The technique erupted like a storm. Shadows stretched unnaturally, twisting into tendrils of darkness, striking at the patrol. Every misstep, every hesitation amplified. The militia had trained for coordination, for teamwork, for strategy—but they were unprepared for this. Shadows struck with intent, guided by calculation and bloodlust. Each movement precise, lethal, unavoidable.
By the time the last soldier fell, the square was silent. No alarm had sounded. No cries for help. Voraciel pulsed faintly, patient and alive. The whisper softened: "…wait." Not now. Not yet. Observation had remained paramount. Patience had endured. Power had been awakened.
I surveyed the village from a rooftop. Supply routes, guard rotations, alleys, rooftops—all cataloged, controlled, influenced. Shadows bent to my intent. The whisper lingered at the edge of thought: "…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience first. Observation always. Calculation guides intent. Bloodlust can be weaponized, but only when necessary. Voraciel hummed faintly, alive, responsive, waiting.
I returned to my room at the edge of the village. Cheap sword at my side, Voraciel sheathed. Bread purchased. Coins counted. Routine maintained. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Invisible. Yet the thrill lingered. The whisper had acknowledged my presence. Alive. Patient. Watching.
The first large-scale confrontation had been survived. The militia had been neutralized, controlled, cataloged. Villages remained predictable. People were ordinary. Mistakes were everywhere. Shadows stretched across towns, roads, and fields, guiding the world toward my intent.
"…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience first. Observation always. Calculation. Intent.
The world sleeps, unaware. And I am just beginning.