Hézo
The next morning, Hézo returned to the farm, the weeding tool on his shoulder, Onyx tied at the entrance of the estate.
The sun was already high in the sky, bathing the fields in a harsh, blinding white light. The air was dry, heavy, saturated with the acrid scent of turned earth and sweat.
Hézo knelt in a furrow and began clearing the rows, his hand sliding skillfully between the stalks to pull out weeds. A few steps away, Morio pulled off his shirt with a theatrical flourish, tossing it carelessly onto a post. His torso was slick with sweat, muscles taut under the crushing heat.
— Feels like a forge in here, he grumbled. Like we're roasting inside a blacksmith's oven…
Hézo stifled a laugh without looking up.
— You're doing this for the girls, huh?
Morio shot him a look sharp enough to cut, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
—What? Don't tell me you think you're the only one melting here! Or… you think you're the only one with a dream body, is that it?
— I didn't say anything! (Hézo burst out laughing.)
— You thought it loudly, that's enough.
They exchanged a knowing grin. Morio, ever confident, threw a meaningful glance toward a group of young women walking by with baskets of harvested crops. When none of them spared him the slightest look, he lifted a hand and gave them a charming little wave.
The young women stared back briefly, bored, unimpressed, before turning away without slowing down.
— Damn untouchable goddesses… Morio sighed.
He collapsed dramatically onto the ground, palm pressed against the hot earth like a warrior slain in battle.
Hézo laughed, but as his gaze slid instinctively over Morio's bare torso, he frowned. Marks crossed his friend's tanned skin, not the usual scratches or scrapes from farm work. No, these told a story.
One, deep and ragged, looked like the bite of a monstrous jaw. Another, narrower but ominous, started at his lower abdomen and arched up toward his flank, as though a blade , or an enormous claw, had cut through him.
— Where… where did those scars come from? Hézo asked, suddenly serious.
Morio lifted his head and followed his gaze. He tapped his shoulder where the faint dents of teeth still warped the skin.
— That? A little souvenir from a forbidden night. A witch. One of the worst encounters of my life. And the reason I wanted you safe the other night.
Hézo swallowed hard. There was nothing exaggerated in Morio's tone.
— And how did you survive that?
Morio let out a bitter smile.
— I wasn't alone. A friend was with me. She saved me. Well… her, and a Hugan who happened to be nearby. Pulled me back from death, apparently. I spent more than a week in the hospital, barely conscious. Can you imagine?
Hézo nodded, jaw tight. He knew deep down he wouldn't have survived such wounds, not alone. Not in the middle of nowhere. And yet… he needed to face these beings. To confront fear, pain, death. To become stronger. To survive. A cruel paradox, but a necessary one.
— But you're different, right? Morio said after a moment. You're a Black Warrior, Hézo. Those things… they can't touch you.
Hézo lowered his gaze, uncertain.
— Maybe…
Morio studied him, then smirked.
— If you want to face these creatures, I can help you. I heard about a place. An abandoned house in Edo. It draws logubres like honey draws flies. Attacks were reported there recently.
Hézo lifted his head, intrigued.
— I know exactly which house you mean.
— Do you? Good. Well… maybe 'good' isn't the right word.
Suddenly, a rough voice cut through the air:
— You two! If you keep chattering like concubines, your pay's gonna melt faster than this damn sun!
One of the farm overseers stood there, chest puffed, gaze stern.
Morio groaned, got back to work. Hézo followed, his heart heavier, his thoughts already drifting toward that house… where answers or nightmares awaited.
***
That evening, Hézo set out toward the abandoned Sina house. He had taken Morio at his word. From his inn in the east district, it took him more than an hour of galloping to reach Edo's western district, where the city seemed to wither under the weight of silence and neglect.
As he approached the cursed neighborhood, something invisible thickened in the air. The atmosphere grew dense, suffocating. The air smelled rotten, laced with a metallic tang, as if the dried blood of the dead had seeped into walls and cobblestones. Onyx snorted, uneasy. Even the animal knew this place wasn't for the living.
Hézo stopped before the rusted gate. He didn't tie Onyx. He needed to be able to flee. A voice deep inside him screamed: You might not walk out of here.
He pushed the gate, which groaned long and loud, as if the house were waking at his arrival. A cold wind came from nowhere and bit at his neck. The silence was total, thick, sick. Even the insects had fled.
Inside, darkness swallowed everything. The living room was little more than ruins: gutted furniture, shattered glass, debris strewn across the floor. But Hézo felt something. Something present. Lurking. Hungry. He drew his sword.
A shadow moved at the edge of his vision, indistinct, crawling. He stepped forward carefully, each step creaking on rotten boards, eyes alert, senses sharp.
Then, suddenly, a shape slipped between two broken walls. His breath caught.
There was no doubt now: a logubre haunted this place.
— Show yourself… he whispered, voice taut, his palm slick on the hilt.
A breath. Behind him.
He spun. Nothing. Only the shifting shadows of cracked walls.
He backed away slowly. A sensation. A presence right behind him…
He turned again…and his heart skipped violently.
A little girl stood before him. Or something shaped like one. Her translucent body floated, hazy, barely real. But her head… her head bristled with multiple black eyes, blinking out of sync. Each gaze pierced the soul.
She screamed. A shriek so sharp it rattled the very walls and Hézo's guts.
— She killed us, she whimpered, her voice warped, layered as though several voices spoke at once.
Hézo stepped back, breath unsteady.
— What the…
But the little girl changed.
Her body tore apart with a sickening crack, turning into a black, writhing mass, a swarm of shadows rushing at him.
Hézo screamed, falling backward. The darkness swallowed him whole.
He suffocated. The blackness seeped inside him, through his nose, ears, mouth, eyes. He fought to breathe, but the air had turned to viscous shadow. He drowned in nothingness.
His sword struck blindly. Useless.
— She is only a murderer, hissed the creature, all around him.
Hézo fought back. He understood. The logubre was born of blood, of slaughter… of all the dead souls trapped here. He wasn't facing a beast, but sorrow made flesh.
He had to strike differently.
In a desperate spark of clarity, Hézo drove his blade into his own thigh.
The pain was searing.
Blood gushed, staining the metal.
He struck.
The shadow screamed, drawing back. Hézo felt air rush back into his lungs. He coughed, gasping.
— You're blaming the wrong person! he shouted.
The logubre faltered.
— Wura isn't responsible! Hézo cried. She was just a child!
The dark mass stilled. Several eyes opened, curious. Hesitant.
Hézo seized the moment. He slashed with his blood-soaked blade. The darkness split with a piercing wail.
But it didn't die.
It reformed. Larger. Angrier.
A shriek tore the air.
Hézo understood. He had no chance.
He turned and bolted, bursting through the doorway, leaping across the dead garden, past the gate without looking back.
He climbed onto Onyx, and the stallion galloped away in panic.
At the last moment, Hézo looked over his shoulder.
The little girl stood there. Motionless on the threshold. All her eyes open. All fixed on him.
Then she dissolved like cold smoke.
Heart pounding wildly, Hézo clung to Onyx. He had brushed death that night. And now he knew:
He wasn't ready to face such a logubre.
Not alone. Not yet.
***
Hézo had ridden without stopping, muscles tight, nerves raw. An hour later, he finally reached the inn, breath ragged, face pale but gaze clearer. The chill of night had calmed the frantic beating of his heart.
Sitting in the shadow of an empty porch, he let his thoughts settle.
The Guild… How could he find it?
If he ran a clandestine organization, where would he hide? Somewhere out of sight. A remote valley, a mountain hollow, maybe an island lost in the inner sea…
No. Too isolated. Impractical even for its members. It needed to be accessible, yet hidden in plain sight.
As the thought crystallized, Hézo tugged Onyx's reins to turn down the last street toward the inn…but froze.
A ripple in the air.
Muffled sounds, shadows sliding along the walls. Something was happening.
He dismounted silently and pressed himself against a low wall, watching from afar.
A group of people in dark cloaks approached the back door of the inn. Their movements were confident, almost ritualistic.
Thieves? No. Too organized. Too calm.
Then a familiar figure appeared.
The innkeeper.
— You're from the Guild? he whispered.
Hézo's heart leaped. A smile flickered on his lips. So this was it…
The Guild didn't hide in a cave or on a mountain top. No. It nestled where no one would ever think to look, in the belly of something painfully ordinary.
The innkeeper raised a storm lantern and guided the group, opening a discreet door at the back of the building. One by one, the cloaked figures disappeared inside.
Hézo held his breath. He wanted to follow, but he couldn't risk being seen. He stayed hidden, eyes fixed on the door.
But now he knew. He was close.
He circled around and tied Onyx to the beam in front of the main entrance, as usual. Then he walked in as if nothing had happened.
To his surprise, he saw the innkeeper return through another door behind the counter. Subtle, nearly invisible in the woodwork.
Hézo understood instantly. There was an inner passage. The way into the Guild.
He masked his satisfaction with a polite nod, greeted the innkeeper casually, and went upstairs to his room, mind racing.
Behind these walls might lie the Guild's web.
And soon, he intended to slip into it.