"I want to trade."
As Anik dragged the lifeless body of the thin, muscular man, stunned silence gripped the caravan.
Every witness—whether his caged tribesmen, Anik's own Tribe Leader, or even the hardened raiders—stared in disbelief.
The tattooed man, still kneeling on the Tribe Leader, fixed his gaze intently on Anik.
A child—no older than twelve, his face still soft with youth—had just slain a battle-hardened raider without sustaining fatal injuries. It was unthinkable… unless…
"Alright, kid," he rumbled, "spit it out. What's this grand trade of yours?" A cruel smirk twisted his lips.
"Don't tell me you're trying to bargain with that corpse. Hell, I didn't even know that one's name."
Raucous laughter broke out among the raiders—
—a harsh, discordant sound.
They were a patchwork band of killers: some stolen from lesser tribes for their skills, others former slaves who had traded their shackles for bloodshed.
The elite among them bore the markings of the main raiding tribe, but most had abandoned their birth names long ago, living only by the brutal callsigns they'd earned in the wastes.
The worst were the slaves-turned-raiders, men so broken by their past that they now chained others to feel power.
Their warped logic hung in the air like a stench: If I was never free... then neither will you be.
Anik stared at the dead warrior's body, then spoke in a hollow voice:
"He called me... Barbarian."
A collective gasp ripped through the raiders.
Steel whispered as blades cleared scabbards, every man poised to strike at the slightest command.
The tattooed man smashed the Tribe Leader's face into the dirt and rose with predatory grace.
"So what if you are?" he growled, taking slow, deliberate steps forward—
—then exploded into motion.
One instant he was five paces away.
The next, his knee buried itself in Anik's gut with a sickening crunch.
Blood sprayed across the dust as Anik folded.
But when Anik looked up—eyes burning crimson—the tattooed man saw it.
The change.
His lips peeled back in a feral grin.
"One move," he whispered, fingers twitching toward his axe, "and I will slaughter every last one of your people."
Anik froze mid-motion, his crimson eyes darting to his tribespeople—their faces a mixture of fear and desperate hope.
His small hands clenched into fists so tight that crescent wounds bloomed across his palms, blood dripping between his fingers like crimson tears.
A dangerous arrogance surged through him.
This strange power pulsing in his veins—this ability to control blood—made him believe he could single-handedly slaughter every raider.
But the cruel truth settled like a stone in his gut: power without wisdom is a death sentence.
The world's darkness doesn't bend to a child's will, no matter how extraordinary.
The tattooed man's grin widened as he saw the realization dawn on Anik's face.
"This," he purred, gesturing to the terrified tribesmen, "is how you make a trade, little beast."
He leaned down until his breath ghosted across Anik's blood-smeared face.
"Slit your own throat now..."
His calloused finger pointed at the tribe leader,
"...or watch me peel their skin inch by inch. Choose."
Anik's crimson eyes trembled with conflict.
His survival instinct screamed against suicide, yet sacrificing his tribesmen was equally unthinkable.
Trapped in this impossible choice, he reached a desperate conclusion—
—he would refuse both options.
Suddenly, his glowing eyes flared brighter as he activated his Incite of Blood in an unprecedented way.
Unlike normal Barbarians who fueled their rage, Anik—blessed by the forgotten Seraph of Death—awakened something far more terrifying.
His power over blood was a lost art, unseen since the eradication of the Death's Church.
Run... I have to run... he thought desperately.
"You don't get that choice," the tattooed man sneered.
"For every second you're gone, I'll execute one of your people."
Anik collapsed to his knees, his brief confidence shattered.
I thought this power made me strong.
I believed I could save them.
I should have fled when I had the chance.
His gaze swept over his tribespeople—some weeping, some burning with silent fury, most resigned to their fate.
Then he saw Kanaz's face—pleading, begging him to survive.
Then, like kindling catching flame, defiance blazed in his heart.
NO!
I'll save them all!
I'll save myself!
I'll fight until my last breath!
With a fierce grin, the unarmed Anik charged forward, his indomitable will his only weapon.
The tattooed Barbarian smirked in anticipation, his own eyes flashing crimson as he prepared to meet the attack, his veteran experience dwarfing Anik's raw power.
Their collision seemed inevitable—until a cataclysmic fireball erupted between them, sending both combatants reeling backward.
An irritated voice cut through the smoke:
"How many damn hours do we have to wait for this caravan to move?"
A woman draped in sheer crimson fabric emerged from the smoke, her every movement exuding lethal grace.
Intricate tribal tattoos snaked across her exposed skin, pulsing with barely-contained power.
As she approached, all the raiders immediately dropped to one knee in unison.
"Ma'am!" they shouted in fearful reverence.
The tattooed man—Mad Dog—scrambled forward and prostrated himself before her.
His entire body trembled under her sultry yet terrifying smile, knowing full well that displeasing her meant instantaneous, unknowing death.
With a sharp crack, her palm connected with his face, fingers curling under his chin to force his gaze upward.
"Explain yourself, Mad Dog," she purred, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness.
"Why is my return being delayed?"
"S-sorry, Ma'am!" he stammered.
"The slaves...they caused trouble...we got held up because of them!"
The Lady's hypnotic gaze swept across the chaotic scene until it landed on a peculiar sight—
—a young slave whose severe burns were healing at a visible rate, the charred flesh knitting itself back together before her very eyes.
Her smile deepened with dark intrigue as she observed this miraculous regeneration.
A Blessed... or a Demon?
The Lady sauntered toward Anik, her crimson eyes gleaming with dark curiosity.
"Who do you pray to?" she murmured, her voice like silk over steel.
Anik stared up at her, trembling.
In his mind flashed the memory of his desperate plea—to an unknown entity that had called itself the Seraph of Death.
"I... I pray to the Seraph of Death!"
The Lady threw her head back and laughed—a sound both intoxicating and terrifying.
"Oh, child," she purred,
"don't jest with me. The Death Church fell in the last epoch..."
Her seductive smile twisted into something far more sinister.
Her tattoos burned like molten lava, pulsing with eerie light.
The air around her grew heavy, suffocating.
"Tell me, little one," she whispered, each word a blade against his resolve,
"who. do. you. pray. to?"
Anik's breath hitched.
"I—I swear! I prayed to the one who called himself the Seraph of Death!"
The Lady studied him in silence, her gaze peeling back layers of his soul.
After what felt like an eternity, she exhaled, amused.
"Fine. Believe what you will."
Then, with a predator's grace, she leaned closer.
"Do you want to be free?"
Anik glanced at his tribesmen—their faces etched with despair.
And Kanaz, her childhood friend, holding tight to the cage bars.
His voice cracked.
"I want... all of us to be free."
The Lady's lips curled.
"Hmm... no. We need them."
She tapped a finger against her chin, then licked her lips—slow, deliberate.
"But here's my offer: Serve me. Only me. And I'll let these slaves live."
Her gaze slid to the Tribe Leader, lingering.
"If not..."
She didn't finish.
She didn't need to.
Anik's fate hung in the balance—her silence louder than any threat.
With trembling lips and no other options, Anik gave a reluctant nod under the Lady's terrifying gaze.
Her face suddenly blossomed into a radiant smile—the pure, dazzling joy of a maiden experiencing first love.
An unnatural wave of euphoria washed over the gathered crowd.
Slaves forgot their chains, their faces slack with vacant contentment.
Raiders dropped their weapons, gazing at the Lady with lovestruck devotion.
Even the air itself seemed to hum with forced serenity.
Like some divine herald of affection, she beckoned Anik closer.
"What is your name, little one?" she cooed.
"I... I have no name," Anik whispered.
In a disturbingly maternal gesture, the Lady knelt and took Anik's grimy hands in hers.
With tender care, she brushed dirt from his cheeks and stroked his hair—each touch sending waves of artificial comfort through his small frame.
Anik, oblivious to the unnatural peace blanketing the camp, instinctively leaned into her false affection.
"From this day," she declared, fingers tracing his jawline, "you shall be Hound. My beloved child."
Some primal part of Anik's mind screamed in protest, but the overwhelming sense of artificial bliss drowned the warning.
His furrowed brow smoothed into a beatific smile as he whispered the words she longed to hear:
"Yes... Mother..."
A handful of slaves shook off the Lady's unnatural influence, their eyes clearing to reveal a horrifying scene.
Though the Lady radiated angelic beauty, the sight of their young tribesman willingly following one of their captors ignited furious betrayal in their hearts.
They didn't understand the psychic manipulation—they only saw a traitor walking hand-in-hand with their enemy.
"TRAITOR!"
"FILTHY TURNCOAT!"
The raiders' laughter rang like shattering glass as they watched the familiar spectacle unfold.
This cruel theater of broken bonds was their favorite entertainment.
Confused tears streamed down Anik's face as he walked beside his "mother."
The venomous shouts from the cage made no sense—
—wasn't this happiness?
Wasn't this love?
Each accusation stabbed his heart with inexplicable pain.
"Hush now, my Hound," the Lady murmured, pulling him into a smothering embrace.
Her silk robes muffled his quiet sobs as she steered him away.
"They're just jealous of your special place with me."
The crimson carriage awaited them—its plush velvet interior smelling of cloying perfume and power.
As Anik drifted into unnatural sleep against the Lady's bosom, his last conscious thought was the fading echo of his people's cries, mingling with her honeyed whisper:
"Sleep, my precious. Mother will never let you go..."