ROTTLEBLOWERS "Non Omnis Moriar"

He awoke in tall grass. Clods of damp earth from where he lay clung to his right cheek. He was pale and exhausted, his face covered in a thick, black stubble of short stubble. He touched his face with a trembling hand and ran it through the few days' growth of stubble. He wiped the dead, flaking skin from his lips. His dull, blurred gaze rested for a moment on his hands; they, too, were pale, except for the nails. The fingers beneath the nails were blue; they had drawn his attention.

(Damp earth, cold)

He rose on flexible legs. A thick fog enveloped the entire area. He adjusted the high collar that hugged his neck to his jaw, pulled out his hood, and pulled it over his tousled, jet-black hair. He brushed the dirt from his leather jacket and denim trousers. The hard-soled boots were comfortable, but they felt heavier than usual (they were probably soaked). He didn't feel it, just as he didn't feel the cold. All he felt was weakness and heat, probably heat, or so he thought (probably). He rubbed his eyes and staggered forward.

How long had he been traveling, how many battles had he fought, how many creatures had he sent to the other world?

He'd long since lost count.

Until now, he had been the pursuer; now he was the hunted.

He'd already encountered a hunter hunting him (when was that? A few minutes? A few days? Years? Centuries ago?) and it nearly cost him his life. He'd lost all his possessions except the clothes he was wearing. If it weren't for the years he'd learned to use his wits and assess his chances, his bones would now be bleaching in the desert sun, where the greatest hunter on earth—the Reliable Killer—had come for him. He knew full well that she wouldn't fail and would catch him this time either, but he wanted to live while he could. Perhaps he could postpone this moment long enough to rest peacefully before his death.

At sunset, he reached the hill where the church had probably stood long ago. All that remained were the remains of the walls and a huge black cross, its sooty shape casting a sinister shadow, pointing the way to the gigantic necropolis stretching to the horizon just beyond the gently rippling sea of ​​tall grass bathed in the orange hue of the setting sun. A light breeze stirred the grass in delicate waves, shimmering with the reflections of dusk.

He felt sick. He staggered and fell to one knee, vomiting.

Several spasms racked his body (he felt no pain), forcing dirty blood from his throat, which gushed from his mouth. He wiped his lips and stood up. He was still pale, but he felt better. He touched his collar; it was slightly damp with blood. He took a deep breath and moved with a little more confidence towards the cemetery.

Before the last rays of sunlight faded, he noticed several figures moving among the graves. The sky had filled with clouds. It had become truly dark. He jumped over a small stone wall and moved forward immediately. The moon was peeking out from behind the clouds, illuminating the monuments, slabs, and crosses with its cadaverous light.

The air was damp and had an unpleasant, swampy smell, and the ground was very muddy in places. Suddenly, he sensed something else in the air, a hint of something he had feared so much. The scent stung him unpleasantly, and a terrible thought (Death) was forming in his mind. He knew this scent well (Death), had often reveled in it (leaving it behind him, on battlefields, communing with it) (Death), and he was afraid.

The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, and only now did he examine it more closely. It was unpleasant, as if dirty (someone had smeared blood, dirty blood, on it), and he shivered (he couldn't tell if it was cold). As he passed a large slab, something struck him in the temple. He staggered. The next blow was harder, and he staggered back and fell onto the damp grass. His head was pounding slightly.

(Nothing hurt.)

A large figure stood over him, and that unpleasant stench (death) hung around him. The figure looming over him moved toward him, rather clumsily, but with considerable speed.

At the last moment, he rolled to the left, avoiding being crushed by his attacker's body, which fell to the ground with a loud splat. A wave of stench (death) hit his nostrils again.

He rose quickly and tensed his muscles, ready to attack, or to repel it. The darkness of night enveloped him, adrenaline pumping within him. Regardless of the hunter following him, for the first time in a long time, he stopped thinking about escape; he wanted to fight, he craved blood. He felt like a warrior again.

The moon, finally managing to once again emerge from the clouds, dispelled the darkness. Where his attacker's body should have lain, only the damp, mounded earth gleamed. The sparks that had gleamed there faded as the clouds once again covered the moon with their blanket. The unpleasant smell (of death) also slowly dissipated in the increasingly cold night air.

He was certain he shouldn't sleep that night. He had some doubts about the nature of his attacker, but he feared he knew who he was. People like him were never alone. The moon had finally emerged from behind the clouds, surrounded by hundreds of stars. It was a little brighter, but he felt no better. The smudged, bloody face of the moon, which glared down at him, offered no comfort.

He decided to look around for something he could use to defend himself. He slowly and carefully searched the cemetery, wandering among the crosses and tombstones, the cracked monuments overgrown with moss and fungus. He moved slowly and gently, not wanting to attract attention, not wanting to awaken evil. He wasn't sure if it slept here, but better safe than sorry. Behind him hung a disgusting orange moon.

A few rotting wooden crosses lay lying there, chipped fragments of stone tablets, crosses, and statues. None of it was suitable for hunting even a rabbit, let alone fighting someone as large as the one who had attacked him a few hours ago.

Suddenly, he spotted a small wooden hut. He ran toward it, heedless of the danger that might be waiting for him somewhere nearby (probably underground, if his guess was correct). He pulled on the damp latch, and the rotten door opened with an unpleasant creaking sound.

The shed was small and completely cluttered with various rather useless tools.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of earth being shoveled behind him. The chilly night air immediately filled with the smell (of death), which crept into his nostrils and lungs. He quickly reached into the shed, grabbing the first stick he found, which turned out to be a shovel. He noticed this as he pulled it toward him and then swung it, striking the head of the lanky figure standing behind him. Simultaneously with the clang of iron and the crack of damp wood breaking, a few drops of foul-smelling goo landed on his face. The steel part of the shovel, which had broken off on impact, embedded itself in the ground several meters away. He stood frozen, clutching a piece of damp, rotting shaft in his hand. Before him stood a lanky human figure, two heads taller than him, dressed in tattered rags. She turned her face (a skull caked with scraps of rotting flesh) toward him, gleaming with decay in the moonlight. The stench (of death) of decaying flesh was unbearable. Teeth (or rather, what remained of them) and fragments of skull protruding from beneath torn or flaked flakes of skin gleamed white beneath the rotten mask that had once been a face.

"Rottenblood," he shouted (said? Thought?), and immediately felt finger bones digging into his cheek, and tender, rotten, death-smelling flesh spreading where he'd been struck. He fell into the mud (his cheek didn't hurt at all) and received a kick in the stomach, sending him crashing into the steel blade of a shovel embedded in the ground (that didn't hurt either). The walking corpse was already standing over him when he grabbed the shovel and, rising, ripped open the belly of the approaching monster. A foul-smelling goo gushed from its entrails, the stench unbearable. The Rottenblood gaped, and nothing emerged but the foul steam rising from the monster's decaying entrails. The revenant had already begun to reach out its paws toward the snow-pale fugitive when the dull clang of steel and the sound of a spine breaking echoed, sending the monster tumbling to the ground.

Intoxicated by the stench, furious, and seething with adrenaline, it lunged at the corpse, repeatedly driving the rusty shovel into the Rotfiend's neck until it was completely severed from the rest of the body.

The stench began to fade (or perhaps I was losing my sense of smell). It rose, tossed the shovel aside, and headed back toward the shed.

Inside were a number of shovels, spades, rakes, hammers, and pickaxes, all mounted on a rotten, decaying shaft. All rather ineffective in combat, except perhaps a rusty scythe, which had been reduced to a single blade. However, it quickly sharpened the blade and, from the shovel, which it also sharpened at the end, fashioned a handle that was securely attached.

A fine mist had already begun to lift from the ground. He knelt down beneath one of the monuments and dug his new weapon into the earth. He waited for sunrise or the appearance of new rotters. Dawn was near (I don't feel tired, not even the slightest bit sleepy). His complexion was still chalky, but he felt his strength returning; perhaps he felt even better than he had ever felt before (in his life).

"Excuse me, sir," a child's voice appeared right next to him.

Was he delirious? A boy stood next to him. Dirty and tearful, and completely alive (what is he doing here???).

He looked at the boy (what the hell is he doing here? Where are his parents?).

"I want my mother," the boy cried tearfully, throwing his arms around his neck and snuggling into him.

He embraced the boy (how long has he been in this cemetery? How had he survived? Why hadn't the Rotters noticed him?)

"In the morning, boy, in the morning, I'll take you to your mother," he croaked.

"Promise?"

- Yes, I promise - he lied, he might have to kill him (better me than the Rotters).

He took off his jacket and covered the boy, who immediately fell asleep. He couldn't sleep (I don't think I can), he kept watch, waiting for the rotters. He felt them (death), heard their guttural growls, heard them circling somewhere nearby. But none of them approached; they circled (gathering). He counted a dozen of them already, but new ones were arriving. They didn't approach, though, as if afraid of something (a child? Strange). He decided they were safe for now. He allowed himself to think back to his encounter with the hunter.

He felt the heat of the scorching desert sun again, could almost feel the sand in his boots chafing his feet. He could barely drag his feet. His horse had died several days ago, he was running out of water. But he still had more than a week's head start if the man in the habit was still chasing him on foot. (Back then, I was sure he was after money.)

"Just before he started chasing me, I took a whopping 10,000 pieces of silver for the head of the leader of the Inedite caste. If I hadn't tripped over the innkeeper's son, I would have lost mine myself. Decapitation in the inn wouldn't have been my preferred way of leaving this world (there was no way). I dealt with everyone and ran out of the inn. There stood a man in a long black habit, with a hood pulled low over his head. He was probably more surprised by our meeting than I was.

"Your head (soul) will still belong to me," he growled, "even if I had to take it myself."

He lunged at me with a long steel stick. I was the best, and that big bastard disarmed me and beat me up pretty badly in two minutes. He pressed the handle of the cold steel to my apple and brought his face close to mine. That was the first time I smelled that awful stench (of death) from someone, coming from his mouth. I saw only his white teeth and A fire burning deep in his eyes.

"This is too easy. Run," he hissed, "try to please me.

What was I supposed to do (die of fear?) I ran.

I ran.

But I didn't have a week's advantage (I did have living water with me, though). He appeared before me out of nowhere, leaning on his obsidian sword. That day I learned his nature. Behind him stood a stone cross (a cross in the desert?). I hadn't noticed it before (nor had I).

"I allow you to strike the first blow," his voice boomed in my ears, "I will not defend myself."

I abandoned all my weapons so they wouldn't weigh me down. All I had left was a one-and-a-half-handed sword (what will I do if I don't kill him in one blow?). I threw myself at him with my shoulder (he was about three meters tall), pushing him onto the cross. I knew how to fight Half-Ogres, and this one was exceptionally thin (Half-Ogres aren't as fast as he is). I ran through him with my sword, which sank into stone, no blood spurted, but he…

- Ha, ha, ha – he burst into loud laughter – ha, ha, ha, maybe you'll be good, ha, ha, ha.

It wasn't his laughter that terrified me, but his hand that touched me. With his white bones, he made a mark on my forehead (anointed me).

"Now you're marked, you won't escape, you belong to me, ha, ha, ha. (I ran away).

Ha, ha, ha," I heard behind me as I ran (then I realized he meant my soul). The most perfect hunter, the perfect and reliable killer (that stench). DEATH!

"Ha, ha, ha," I felt a cold touch on my neck, warm blood flowing from the cut in a wide stream. "Ha, ha, ha, you're mine."

I fell, the bag with a few drops of living water that had been hanging around my neck hidden in the crimson of the cut. The water spilled out, bringing me back to life.

I stood up and kept running.

"You're still running, you're fit. I marked you and I will find you. And then you will die to live for me."

I was supposed to die that day in the tavern, so he was surprised. He'll get his hands on me sooner or later (I prefer later), but I'm not going to make it easy for him."

He touched his neck; it was stitched together with a strap, not healing, not rotting, dead. Only a strange, dirty, black blood oozed from it.

At dawn, he woke the boy, took his hand, and let him lead him.

"To Mom and Dad," he said.

"I want to go to Mom and Dad," he whispered, sobbing. "Please," he stopped.

"But where are they?

" "Here," he pointed to the grave.

"Anna and Emil Saviel, may they rest in peace." (The innkeeper, the innkeeper's son.)

"Olivier Saviel has joined the ranks..."

"I'm scared," he whispered (the little angel?)

. "What's going on here?" he began to dissolve into thin air (the ghost?) "?...

" "He's coming, I'm afraid of him... (who the fuck??)

The stench (death) is already here.

"You promised, today, Mom, Dad," the voice of a child who's gone, "you promised..."

There was the stench (death) of the rotten.

There were about twenty of them, average for such a necropolis.

He didn't think about it, he lunged at the nearest one, who reached out with their rotten paws, and just as quickly, they landed on the ground, severed by the blade of a scythe. A moment later, his deliciously rotten head lay beside him.

The undead had managed to huddle together. He plunged into them, slashing at the rotten bodies with his scythe and hacking at the bones with a sharpened spade. The rotten creatures' bony fingers dug into his flesh (heh, heh, heh, no pain). The stench of their rotting bodies (death) choked him (I don't give a damn). He was having a wonderful time, no fatigue, no pain. Death. Destruction. (FURY). He was doing what he loved: destruction and slaughter. Dismembered bodies and slabs of rotting flesh lay all around.

He was panting, burning with a fever of fury. A boy stood beside him.

"Will you take me to them now?

" "I don't know..."

"You will take him," a man in the habit (death) stood on the grave before him.

He pulled back his hood, his skull gleaming flawless white in the sunlight. He extended his staff, black as night, toward him.

"You are fit," he said.

A blade (a scythe), the grim reaper's weapon, gleamed at the end of the staff.

He extended his hand (I understood now)

. "You are fit," he repeated, and handed me the scythe. "Now lead him."

He took it in his hands and touched the tip of the blade to the boy's forehead. A sudden flash of light transported the child to another dimension.

"Thank you," he heard the fading voice of the innkeeper's child.

"You will be my hunter. The boy was a pure, lost soul who started this whole mess. Therefore, he had to participate in its end. You will hunt down monsters with souls as black as pitch. They are almost as dangerous as I am, and they will do anything to avoid going to hell! Are you ready to accept this burden?

" "I am...

" You didn't want to die; you preferred to return to life, or rather, eternal agony, rather than cross over to the other side. Know that I appreciate this and grant you power almost equal to my own. Allowing you to remain on the brink of life and death at the same time.

Thank you, and I appreciate it.

So go ahead, make me proud.

(I set off)…