The ignition materials caught at precisely the calculated moment—ninety-three minutes after dawn, when morning sun through the granary's eastern window had heated the oil-soaked cloth past its combustion threshold. John felt the moment of ignition from forty meters away, not through sight but through the sudden change in air pressure as expanding heat displaced cooler atmospheric mass, through the specific crackling sound of grain dust igniting in cascading reaction, through the smell of smoke that reached him three seconds before the first shout of alarm.
He was already moving.
The slave quarters emptied in chaotic response to the fire alarm—bodies stumbling from sleep, voices calling questions, Marcus somewhere behind him asking what was happening. John didn't answer, didn't slow, just moved through the quarters' exit with the controlled speed he'd practiced for eleven nights, navigating by acoustic map and spatial memory that told him exactly where every obstacle existed.
Forty meters to the forge. His bare feet struck packed earth in rhythm he'd optimized for maximum speed with minimum noise—heel-toe-push, heel-toe-push, breathing synchronized to stride pattern to maintain oxygen efficiency. His heart rate elevated but remained controlled, adrenaline present but managed through discipline that six centuries of existence had made automatic.
Behind him, the granary fire was consuming structure with the aggressive hunger of flame meeting optimal fuel conditions. He heard the roof timbers crack, heard someone—probably Garrett based on the voice's depth and authority—shouting orders about water chains and property priority. Heard the estate mobilizing exactly as he'd predicted, every available person being pulled toward the crisis.
Thirty meters to the forge. His spatial awareness tracked four distinct human positions between his location and destination—two slaves running toward the fire, one overseer approximately sixty meters west moving in the same direction, one presence that might have been Brennick himself emerging from the main house. None of them positioned to intercept his path.
Twenty meters. The forge structure appeared in his perception as acoustic dead zone—the heavy stone construction and metal contents absorbed sound rather than reflecting it, creating distinctive signature. He adjusted his trajectory three degrees left to align with the entrance, his feet finding the slight rise in terrain that indicated the threshold.
Inside. The forge's interior was exactly as he'd mapped it during his authorized visit three weeks prior. Metal plates stacked against the western wall, tools hanging from overhead rack, the cold forge itself occupying the structure's center. John moved to the metal plates—iron stock for equipment repair, each plate approximately one meter square and six millimeters thick, weighing maybe twenty kilograms.
He needed three plates. More would be better for curse mark shielding, but more would slow him below sustainable carrying speed. Three was the optimized number his planning had determined.
Lifting the first plate was harder than his practice attempts had suggested—his arms shook with the weight, and his breathing immediately labored. Three months of bodyweight exercises had improved his strength, but there was significant difference between thirty-two push-ups and carrying twenty kilograms at speed. He got the plate positioned against his chest, left arm hooked underneath for primary support, right hand steadying it from the side.
Second plate. He had to set the first down to lift the second, then had to figure out how to carry both. The solution was awkward—first plate on his back, held by his right arm reaching around, second plate against his chest supported by his left arm. The position was unstable and the combined forty kilograms made breathing difficult, but it was mobile.
He managed four steps before his legs nearly buckled. The weight distribution was wrong, putting too much strain on his lower back where old injuries hadn't fully healed. He adjusted, redistributing mass, finding a carrying position that his body could sustain.
Third plate. Impossible. He couldn't carry three and maintain the speed he needed. Two would have to be sufficient.
The eastern boundary was seventy meters from the forge. John exited the structure and began moving, his enhanced spatial awareness mapping the terrain ahead while his conscious attention focused on maintaining balance and forward momentum.
Fifteen meters. His breathing was ragged now, each inhalation pulling against the weight pressing his chest. His feet found every irregularity in the ground—stones, roots, depressions that threatened his balance. He stumbled twice, caught himself both times, kept moving.
Thirty meters. The curse mark on his chest pulsed once—not activation but warning, the sensation of approaching threshold. The metal plates he carried were blocking some of the detection field from the boundary stones ahead, but not completely. Not enough.
Forty-five meters. The pulse intensified, became sustained pressure. John was approaching the boundary, close enough that the curse mark was registering proximity even through the iron mass. He needed to get closer, needed to reach the specific tree he'd identified during his reconnaissance—an old oak with low branch extending over the boundary line at height of approximately two meters.
Fifty-five meters. The curse mark was burning now, not the full activation that would paralyze him but warning escalation that indicated he was testing its limits. His chest felt like it was being compressed, breathing reduced to shallow gasps that barely supplied sufficient oxygen.
Sixty meters. He could perceive the boundary line through changes in acoustic reflection—the forest on the opposite side was denser, created different echo patterns. The oak tree was ten meters ahead, its branch reaching toward him like offering.
Sixty-five meters. The curse mark activated partially—his legs locked mid-stride, muscles seizing in response to the mark's paralysis function. But the paralysis was incomplete, fighting against the interference from the metal plates. His right leg released after two seconds, his left after three. He stumbled forward, barely maintaining balance under the combined weight.
Sixty-eight meters. He could perceive the oak's trunk now, could map its branch structure through how air moved around the solid mass. The target branch was exactly where he'd calculated—two point one meters above ground level, extending twelve centimeters past the boundary line.
He set the metal plates down at sixty-nine meters, their weight dropping from his exhausted arms with relief that made him gasp. His chest was heaving, heart rate elevated to levels that made his vision—his acoustic vision—blur at the edges as his brain struggled to process sensory input while managing oxygen debt.
The rope was concealed in his waistband, three meters of stolen cordage that he'd practiced with for four nights. He formed it into a loop—not a proper lasso, his hands weren't skilled enough for that, but a simple loop with slip knot that would tighten under his weight. He made three attempts to throw it over the branch, his spatial awareness giving him perfect information about distance and angle but his exhausted muscles unable to execute with necessary precision.
Fourth attempt caught. He felt the rope settle over the branch through the vibration transmitted down the length, through the slight change in how the rope hung in his hands.
Behind him, approximately three hundred meters distant, someone shouted. Not fire-related—this was different tone, alarm rather than instruction. Someone had noticed his absence. Someone was raising alert that a slave was missing during the crisis.
John pulled the rope, testing the branch's integrity. It held his weight—he'd calculated that it should, based on the branch's thickness and the oak's species characteristics, but calculation and reality were different things. The branch flexed but didn't crack.
He wrapped the rope's end around his left hand—his weaker hand, because he'd need his right free for what came next—and stepped back three paces. Then he ran forward, planted his right foot at the sixty-nine meter mark, and jumped.
The curse mark activated fully the moment his feet left the ground. Paralysis hit like electrical shock, every muscle in his body locking simultaneously. But momentum carried him forward even as his body seized, his grip on the rope maintaining through involuntary muscle contraction rather than conscious control.
He swung over the boundary line, his body a rigid pendulum unable to adjust or compensate. The arc carried him past the vertical, apex three meters beyond the stones that marked the boundary. The curse mark continued burning against his chest, trying to enforce paralysis that would make him fall, but he was already past the detection field's range.
He hit the ground on the opposite side hard, still paralyzed, unable to break his fall properly. His right shoulder took the impact, pain radiating through the joint. The paralysis released three seconds later—far side of the boundary, the curse mark couldn't maintain the effect. His muscles unlocked in sequence: arms first, then torso, then legs.
He was across. Free side of the boundary. The estate behind him, forest ahead.
John forced himself upright, his shoulder screaming protest. Behind him, he heard organized movement—multiple people converging on the forge area, voices shouting orders. They'd found his escape route, were tracking his path. He had maybe three minutes before they reached the boundary.
He ran into the forest, leaving the rope hanging from the oak branch, leaving the metal plates where he'd dropped them. His feet struck forest floor that was different from the estate's packed earth—softer, irregular, covered in decomposing leaves and hidden obstacles. Within twenty steps his bare feet found something sharp—probably stone, possibly broken branch—and he felt skin tear. Blood made his left foot slippery, made his next step uncertain.
He didn't slow. Behind him, the pursuit was organizing. He heard hounds—not domestic dogs but something else, creatures with deeper voices, with sounds that carried aggression even from two hundred meters distance. Brennick kept hunting beasts for exactly this situation, animals trained to track escaped slaves.
John's spatial awareness extended fifty meters in optimal conditions. Running through unfamiliar forest with injured feet and exhausted body pushed his perception to maybe thirty meters reliable range. Not enough. He needed more distance, needed to extend the gap between himself and the pursuit.
The forest was old growth, never cleared for agriculture. Trees grew close together, their canopies blocking most sunlight and keeping the understory relatively clear. Good for running but also good for pursuit. John needed terrain that favored his specific advantages—narrow passages, dense undergrowth, anything that would slow larger bodies more than his.
Twenty meters ahead, his perception detected a change in the forest structure. The acoustic echo suggested denser vegetation, possibly thornbush or similar barrier growth. He adjusted his trajectory toward it, his bleeding feet leaving trail that the hounds would follow but buying him seconds.
The thornbush was exactly what he'd perceived—dense wall of vegetation with thorns long enough to tear fabric and skin. But at its base, approximately forty centimeters above ground level, there was a gap. Probably created by animal traffic—foxes or badgers using the thornbush as shelter created passages through the densest growth.
John dropped to his stomach and crawled through the gap, thorns catching his shirt and tearing new cuts across his back. The passage was narrow—barely wide enough for his malnourished frame—but navigable. He emerged on the opposite side after six meters of crawling, his hands and arms bleeding from contact with thorns he hadn't been able to perceive accurately enough to avoid.
Behind him, the hounds were getting closer. He could hear them clearly now—their panting, their movement through the forest, the specific sound of creatures that weren't quite natural, that carried something wrong in their vocalization. Mana-corrupted beasts, probably. Animals that had been exposed to concentrated mana until their biology warped into something more dangerous than baseline species.
His perception mapped their positions: three distinct creatures, moving with coordinated pattern that suggested pack tactics, approximately ninety meters behind him and closing. They were faster than he was, would overtake him within two minutes at current speeds.
Unless he found terrain they couldn't follow.
Thirty meters ahead, the forest floor dropped away—not cliff but steep slope, descent angle maybe forty-five degrees covered in loose soil and exposed roots. Dangerous to navigate, risk of falling and injury significant. But the hounds were large—he'd perceived their mass through how they displaced air—probably too large to descend safely.
John didn't hesitate. He approached the slope and half-slid, half-fell down the incline, his hands grabbing at roots to control his speed, his feet finding purchase where possible and skidding where it wasn't. He reached the bottom after fifteen meters of descent, his hands torn from gripping rough bark, his body covered in dirt and blood.
Above him, the hounds reached the slope. He heard their frustrated vocalizations—they'd stopped at the edge, unwilling or unable to follow. One attempted the descent, lost its footing immediately, tumbled ten meters before catching itself on an exposed root, then retreated back to the top with sounds that suggested injury.
John had bought himself time. Not much—the pursuit would find a different route, would circle around to intercept—but enough to extend his lead.
He ran along the bottom of the slope, following the natural drainage channel where water had carved path through the forest floor. His feet were numb now, pain receptors overwhelmed by accumulated damage. His breathing was wrong—too shallow, too fast, his cardiovascular system pushed past sustainable limits.
A kilometer. He needed to maintain this pace for at least one kilometer, needed to get far enough from the estate that organized search would become difficult. Then he could find hiding place, could rest and treat his injuries and plan next movements.
Five hundred meters from the slope, his spatial awareness detected something ahead. A presence—single human, stationary, positioned directly in his path. Not moving randomly but waiting, positioned with intentionality that suggested prediction rather than chance.
John altered course, angling twenty degrees left to avoid the presence. But the presence moved too, repositioning to intercept.
Trap. Someone had anticipated his escape route, had calculated where he'd emerge, was waiting.
"Stop running, blind boy." The voice came from the presence ahead, male, carrying accent from the northern military academies where they trained officers for The Order's enforcement divisions. "I know you can hear me. Know you can perceive more than you pretend."
John stopped, his spatial awareness mapping the man at twenty-three meters distant. He was armed—sword or similar blade creating distinctive acoustic signature when it moved through air. His stance was combat-ready, weight distributed for rapid movement. His breathing was calm, controlled, suggesting someone comfortable with violence.
"Garrett talks about you sometimes," the voice continued. "The blind slave who's too weak to be useful, who just sorts grain and takes punishment without complaint. But I've been watching you, John. Watching how you navigate the estate like you know exactly where everything is. Watching how you position yourself during punishment—optimal angles to minimize actual damage while appearing helpless. You're not blind. Not really. And you've been planning this for months."
John's mind calculated possibilities. The distance was too great to close before the man could draw his blade. Running would expose his back. His only weapons were the metal shard hidden in his waistband and the element of surprise—which he'd just lost.
"My name is Soren Blackwood," the voice said. "Third-rank guard, assigned to Brennick's estate for the past eight months. And in those eight months, I've been bored to tears with the mundane work. Until you. You've been interesting." Something in his tone shifted, became eager. "I wanted to wait until you made your attempt. Wanted to see if you'd succeed. And now here we are."
Soren's presence shifted forward three steps, closing the distance to twenty meters. "I'm going to kill you now. Not because you escaped—honestly, I respect the attempt. But because killing you will feel good, and I haven't felt good in months."
John's enhanced perception detected Soren's Uncos activating—the specific frequency of mana channeling that indicated power manifestation. The effect was immediate and visceral: Soren's emotional presence intensified, became predatory. His heart rate accelerated not with fear but with anticipation. His breathing changed, became hungry.
Bloodlust Uncos. An ability that enhanced the user's combat capabilities by amplifying their desire to kill, turning psychological restraint into strength. The more someone with this Uncos wanted to harm their target, the faster and stronger they became. It was rare ability, generally considered unstable because users had tendency to become addicted to the emotional state it provided.
Soren moved. The distance between them collapsed from twenty meters to five in less than three seconds—speed that exceeded normal human capability, driven by Uncos-enhanced physiology and genuine desire to kill.
John's ki perception tracked the movement, predicted Soren's trajectory, identified the attack vector. Soren was coming straight in, no deception, relying on superior speed to overwhelm defense. His blade was already drawn—a thin sword, maybe cavalry saber or similar weapon designed for speed rather than heavy cutting.
John moved left, perpendicular to Soren's approach. The movement was correct in theory—lateral displacement to avoid linear attack—but his exhausted body executed it too slowly. Soren adjusted mid-stride, his blade sweeping horizontal at chest height.
John dropped to crouch, the blade passing through the space his torso had occupied one second earlier. He tried to roll forward under Soren's guard, to get inside the sword's effective range where the blade's length became disadvantage.
But Soren was already compensating. His knee came up, caught John in the chest as he rolled, sent him backward. Not full force—Soren was playing, testing response. But enough to drive air from John's lungs and put him on defensive again.
"Good instincts," Soren said. He sounded pleased, his Bloodlust Uncos making every successful attack intensify his emotional state. "You've had training. Not formal—your movements are self-taught—but effective. Where'd you learn to fight, blind boy?"
John didn't answer. He was back on his feet, circling right, trying to use the forest terrain to limit Soren's mobility. His perception mapped trees in their immediate vicinity—three within five meters, trunks thick enough to provide cover.
Soren attacked again, faster this time, his Bloodlust feeding on his success. The blade came in low, aimed at John's legs, trying to cripple rather than kill. John jumped backward, his heel catching on exposed root. He stumbled, caught himself, but the momentary imbalance was enough.
Soren was inside his guard, the blade coming around in horizontal slash that would disembowel if it connected. John twisted, the blade edge catching his right side instead of his stomach, cutting through fabric and skin but missing critical organs. Pain bloomed hot and immediate, but he used the momentum of his twist to get distance.
Three meters of space. Both of them circling now, Soren stalking with the patience of predator that knew its prey was wounded, John calculating increasingly desperate options.
"You're fast," Soren said. His breathing was elevated now, not from exertion but from excitement. "Faster than you should be for someone your size and condition. That's ki enhancement, isn't it? You've been training more than just escape plans." He laughed, the sound carrying genuine delight. "This is exactly what I needed. Real challenge. Real threat. You've made my entire eight months worthwhile."
John's side was bleeding freely now, his already depleted energy reserves draining through the wound. He had maybe two minutes before blood loss and exhaustion made effective defense impossible. He needed to end this encounter—not through victory, that wasn't realistic, but through escape or by making himself too costly to pursue.
The metal shard in his waistband. Four centimeters of sharp steel, inadequate as weapon against someone with Soren's skill and Uncos enhancement. But better than nothing.
Soren attacked again, and this time John didn't try to evade. He moved forward into the attack, inside the sword's arc where the blade couldn't build cutting momentum. Soren's surprise was visible in how his body language shifted—he hadn't expected his prey to attack.
John's right hand grabbed Soren's sword arm at the wrist, his grip weak but positioned correctly to direct rather than resist the blade's movement. His left hand drew the metal shard from his waistband and drove it upward toward Soren's face.
Soren twisted, the shard missing his eye by centimeters, catching his cheek instead and tearing a gash from jaw to temple. He roared—not pain but fury—and his free hand came around in backfist that caught John's temple.
The impact sent John's spatial awareness into chaos, his acoustic mapping fragmenting as his brain tried to process the shock. He stumbled backward, barely maintaining consciousness, his left hand still clutching the bloody metal shard.
Soren touched his wounded cheek, looked at the blood on his fingers, and smiled with expression that carried no humor. "Perfect. You've marked me. Now this is personal."
He moved faster than before, Bloodlust Uncos feeding on his wounded pride and amplifying his capabilities beyond John's ability to track. The blade came from John's left, too fast to perceive clearly, and John only knew it was there when pain exploded in his right hand.
He looked down—not with eyes but with his spatial awareness—and perceived the blade pinning his hand to the forest floor, driven through his palm between the bones of his second and third fingers. The pain was absolute, overwhelming every other sensory input.
Soren stood over him, his free hand still touching his wounded cheek. "That's for the face, blind boy. Now let's finish this properly."
He raised his boot, positioned to deliver crushing stomp to John's head that would end the encounter permanently.
John's left hand still held the metal shard. His vision was fragmenting, consciousness threatening to slip away from pain and blood loss. But in his previous existence, Kami Van Hellsin had survived five hundred years of drowning through pure refusal to accept death.
That will remained.
His Uncos—the weak, barely functional power he'd detected months ago—activated for the first time under conditions of extreme duress. He didn't know what it would do, hadn't tested it properly. But emotion was fuel, and John had fury and desperation in abundance.
The manifestation was sudden and disorienting. Light erupted from his left palm—not metaphorical light but actual photonic emission, concentrated beam of luminosity bright enough to be painful even to sighted individual in forest's shadowed environment.
Soren screamed. The light had caught him directly in the eyes from distance of maybe half a meter. His Bloodlust-enhanced sensitivity made the effect worse, turned what should have been temporary discomfort into genuine agony. He stumbled backward, his hands going to his face, his sword remaining embedded in John's hand.
John didn't hesitate. His right hand was pinned, possibly permanently damaged, but his left was free. He grabbed the sword's grip with his functional hand and pulled. The blade didn't move—it was driven through his palm into the soil beneath, anchored by earth and bone.
He pulled harder, his body weight behind the effort. The pain was beyond description, but pain was irrelevant compared to survival. The blade shifted, pulled free from the soil but still through his hand. He angled his arm, changed the vector, and pulled again.
His palm tore. The blade hadn't been positioned perfectly between bones—it had caught the edge of his third metacarpal, and pulling it free meant the bone fractured and the flesh ripped in ways that would never heal properly. But the blade came free, his hand separating from it in spray of blood that painted the forest floor.
His right hand was ruined. Three fingers might still function, maybe. The other two hung at wrong angles, attached by skin and tendon but not by functional bone structure. But he was mobile.
Soren was recovering, his hands still pressed to his face but his Bloodlust driving him through the pain toward continued violence. "I'll find you," he screamed, his voice raw with fury and something that might have been arousal—the Bloodlust Uncos turning pain and rage into perverse pleasure. "I'll hunt you across this entire fucking continent! You think you can wound me, escape from me, make me look like a fool? I'll dedicate my life to finding you! I'll track you for years if necessary! Nobody does this to me! Nobody escapes!"
John ran. His right hand was useless, blood streaming from the torn palm, three fingers trailing behind him like broken attachments. His left side was bleeding from where Soren's blade had caught him earlier. His feet were torn from running barefoot through forest. His energy reserves were completely depleted.
But he ran anyway.
Behind him, Soren continued screaming promises of vengeance, threats that carried weight of genuine commitment. The Bloodlust Uncos had latched onto this encounter, turned it into obsession that would drive Soren's actions for however long it took to complete.
John's spatial awareness was failing, his brain unable to process sensory input while managing pain signals and blood loss. He ran in approximate direction away from Soren's voice, no longer mapping terrain properly, just moving through darkness that was now literal rather than perceptual.
His consciousness was fragmenting. He'd lost too much blood, sustained too much damage. His body was shutting down, prioritizing core functions over awareness.
But before the darkness took him completely, one thought crystallized with perfect clarity:
He was free. For however long he survived—whether that was hours or days or years—he was free.
And even death was preferable to chains.