Rycoo
Rycoo
15 Vues
0 J'aime
Ryco tried to run away from his past, but it was like smoke that stuck to him constantly.
The whole world seemed to go dark for him until there was only silence left. His eyes remained closed but the Crimson inside him was still glowing fiercely—too fiercely—he could feel it pressing against his chest as if it wanted to escape.
A very weak breath came out of his mouth. “…Not again.”
His voice was so low that it could hardly be heard.
He leaned forward slightly, as if the weight on his shoulders had shifted from memory to something physical.
He was sitting with his knees pulled to his chest and his hands lying loosely at his sides. No one passing by would have thought that he was not resting. He was not resting. He was choking on air every couple of seconds. His jaw was clenched, release, clenched again. The silence didn’t calm him. It was suffocating, thick and heavy, like it knew what he had lost.
Memory overwhelmed him.
Fire.
Fierce, insatiable fire spreading over the dry earth.
A village being ripped apart. Flags being torn off. Doors being broken.
To a foreigner, it would have seemed like a war scene.
To him, it was the place where it all went terribly wrong.
He was standing solo among destroyed gravestones, his sword was dripping.
Five corpses lying at his feet.
The people he had led. People who had trusted him.
His stomach turned. His fingers shook.
He didn’t need the memory to show him the way. He already knew how it ended.
“…Stop,” he spoke silently to no one.
The memory didn’t heed his words.
His breath cut short, as if something inside him refused to let the moment go.
The scene changed—
—and then it disappeared, leaving only the night.
Ryco breathed out—slow, and not very even.
The woods around him seemed to be not right. Very quiet. No insects, no wind, not even the usual rustle of leaves. The air was lying dead on his skin, like the world was holding its breath and waiting for him to break.
Branches stood rigid, unmoving, like they were listening.
His hand went up to his temple.
“Why can’t I remember everything?” he whispered.
The question was ignored.
It was silent.
Even the trees were silent.
He waited for an answer anyway, as if someone else might speak through his own mind.
Something shifted.
Not sound.
Not movement.
Pressure.
The Crimson inside him pulsed once—sharp, decisive—and the world reacted.
The ground beneath him trembled faintly, as if something far away had collapsed. He didn’t see it. He didn’t hear it. He only felt the aftershock crawl up through his spine, like the land itself had taken offense.
His breath hitched.
For a brief, terrible moment, he knew—without knowing how—that something else had paid the price for him still being alive.
Then the pressure vanished.
The Crimson dimmed.
The silence deepened.
Too deep.
Ryco’s skin prickled.
Not fear.
Awareness.
From somewhere beyond the treeline, something vast and ancient acknowledged him. Not with eyes. Not with sound.
With judgment.
He didn’t look. He couldn’t. Every instinct told him that if he did, something irreversible would be confirmed.
The presence lingered just long enough to be known.
Then it withdrew—sinking back into the earth, taking the pressure with it.
The forest remained.
But it no longer felt neutral.
Ryco swallowed, unaware of what he had traded to still be breathing.
He forced himself to turn his eyes to the farthest point of the sky—toward Whitevein.
The lights were weak, barely shining through the fog, but they were the closest thing to safety that he had. Or the closest thing that he could pretend was safety.
“Not much time,” he said in a low voice, tasting blood.
“I will be so strong… strong enough to kill them. One by one.”
A moment.
“Do you hear me?” he whispered to the darkness. If only his enemies were there, hiding just out of sight.
“I’m coming.”
His fingers curled against his leg, a small tremor revealing how badly he wanted those words to be true.
The words kept him steady. They always did.
He had no place to call home anymore. No team. No way that wasn’t marked with loss.
All he had was a reason. Sharp. Simple. Brutal.
He was not looking for forgiveness.
He was not expecting change.
He was just going to survive long enough to kill the Eight.
“I won’t lose anyone this time.”
The promise was very much like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding hanging in the air.
He swallowed, the bitterness of old failure rising like bile.
He pushed himself off the ground.
His cloak was hanging from him—dark, shabby, and worn so many times that it was barely holding its shape.
A knife was at his waist, the metal color was dulled by too many fights.
His figure was like one which has been toughened by long travels, hunger, and rigorous training with no rest—lean muscle built out of necessity rather than discipline.
He plucked at his side once with his hand, supporting himself.
“…Move.”
The wind was pulling at him, unsure, as if it wanted him to