The scream came first.
Not distant. Not echoing. Close enough that Aarinen felt it before he heard it — a pressure in the chest, sudden and sharp, like the world flinching.
He stopped.
The plains ahead were no longer empty. A road cut through them, properly built this time: packed earth, stone markers, wheel grooves worn deep. Along it moved a caravan — three wagons, guarded, orderly.
And under attack.
The scream came again, this time cut short.
Steel rang.
This was not abstraction. This was not fate whispering.
This was a blade entering flesh.
Aarinen ran.
He did not think about choice. His body moved before the thought finished forming. Wind tore at his cloak as he closed the distance, laughter already bubbling up — not from humor, not from habit, but from impact.
Pain was coming.
That was certain.
The attackers were not bandits.
They moved too cleanly.
Six of them, dressed in layered black and iron-gray, faces partially veiled. They fought with discipline, not hunger. One wagon already burned, flames licking at its canvas. A guard lay dead beside it, throat opened with professional precision.
A woman staggered away from the second wagon, clutching her arm, blood soaking her sleeve.
One of the attackers turned — saw Aarinen — and froze.
Just for a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
The attacker raised a hand.
"Do not—"
Aarinen laughed.
It burst out of him, sharp and sudden, cracking the air like snapped glass.
The nearest attacker recoiled as if struck. Not metaphorically. Physically. He staggered back, hands flying to his ears, blood leaking from his nose.
The others hesitated.
Wrong move.
Aarinen crossed the remaining distance and slammed into one of them shoulder-first. Bone gave way. The man hit the ground hard, unmoving.
Pain flared along Aarinen's ribs as a blade sliced him across the side.
He laughed harder.
The sound changed.
It wasn't just noise anymore. It carried weight — a pressure wave that rippled outward. One attacker dropped to a knee, retching, eyes wide with terror.
"What is he—" someone shouted.
Another lunged.
Aarinen caught the blade with his hand.
Steel bit deep. Blood spilled.
He laughed again — and twisted.
The attacker screamed as his wrist shattered under impossible force.
This was not skill.
This was not training.
This was the curse doing what it was meant to do.
The remaining attackers retreated, dragging the injured with them. One paused, eyes locked on Aarinen.
"You're him," the man said, voice shaking. "The one who breaks shape."
Aarinen stepped forward.
The man ran.
Silence fell — real silence this time, broken only by the crackle of fire and the groans of the wounded.
Aarinen stood among bodies.
Three attackers down. One dead — neck snapped when he hit the ground wrong. That wasn't intentional.
It didn't matter.
He turned to the caravan.
The survivors stared at him like he was another disaster layered on top of the first.
A man climbed down from the third wagon, hands raised.
"We don't want trouble," he said quickly.
Aarinen looked at the burning wagon.
"You already had it," he said.
The wounded woman collapsed. Aarinen caught her before she hit the ground. Pain shot through his ribs again.
He laughed — softer now.
She looked up at him, eyes unfocused.
"Are you… real?" she whispered.
"Yes."
That didn't comfort her.
They put out the fire together. Two guards were dead. One child had been hiding beneath a wagon, silent with shock. Aarinen tore strips from his cloak to bind wounds, hands steady despite the blood loss.
When it was done, the caravan leader approached him again.
"They weren't thieves," the man said. "They were collectors."
Aarinen looked up.
"Collectors of what?"
"People," the man replied. "Specific ones."
Aarinen felt something settle in his gut.
"Who sent them?"
The man hesitated.
"They didn't say names," he said. "Only marks. Descriptions."
He swallowed.
"They were looking for someone who laughs when he bleeds."
Silence thickened.
Aarinen straightened slowly.
"Did they find him?" he asked.
The man shook his head.
"No," he said. "They found you."
That night, Aarinen did not leave.
He stayed with the caravan until dawn.
Not because they needed him.
Because he needed to understand something.
The world had stopped watching.
It had started hunting.
And this time, people died because he was near.
That was new.
That was dangerous.
That was finally — interesting.