First Step in the new World

The world felt like a dark haze, suffocating and cold, as if she were submerged in something thick and unyielding. Her body ached, her wrists raw from the rough ropes that bound her to the post. The pain no longer registered; it was just part of the background now, like the constant gnawing hunger in her stomach, the weariness in her limbs, the ache in her heart. At that moment, she could no longer remember a time when things had been different.

She didn't feel fear anymore. Fear was a luxury she had abandoned long ago. Fear implied there was something worth fighting for. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. She had been born into a life of suffering, destined to work until her body gave out, to fade away in some forgotten corner of the world. Disease, hunger, exhaustion... whichever came first. It didn't matter. She was nothing.

Her beauty had only been a curse. It had never been a gift. It made her different, and different was dangerous. People had hated her for it, without ever understanding why. No one cared to remember the reasons they despised her kind, and now she didn't care to ask. She had long ago given up on trying to make sense of it all. Beauty? Strength? It was all the same. It never mattered in the end. She had been given away, exchange for some food for her dying family, kidnapped from her old life and sold like livestock, nothing more than a thing to be used. She didn't even know where she was anymore, nor did it matter. The road to this place had been long, and her soul was tired.

Her captors, those man who had stolen her away from whatever remained of her broken life, didn't even look at her as a person. They looked at her as a tool, an object. They didn't care about her name, her past, or even her existence beyond her body. She was just another piece of property to be used, abused, and discarded.

She could hear their cruel laughter, their disgusting words, but she couldn't bring herself to respond. It was too much effort. Too much pain. She had given up on trying to fight or scream or resist. What was the point? It wouldn't change anything.

Her eyes, dull and lifeless, stared at the ground as the bandits argued among themselves, deciding which one would have the first turn with her. She felt nothing—no anger, no fear, no sadness. Just an empty, cold void. They were right to use her, weren't they? This was all she was good for. What did it matter if they were monsters? She was already nothing.

She couldn't even bring herself to hate them, not anymore. Hate required feeling something, and she had stopped feeling a long time ago. Her life had been nothing but a series of events that led to this moment, and this moment was nothing. It would end in nothing.

As they continued to argue, her gaze drifted upwards, blankly, until she heard something—a noise in the distance, something breaking the stillness. A shout. It was a voice, a human voice, loud and clear.

"Surrender!"

It didn't make sense. She didn't care enough to make sense of it. Someone was coming. Someone had heard them. Someone was trying to stop them, maybe even save her. But it didn't matter. No one could save her. It was too late. She was already broken.

Still, her heart skipped a beat. She didn't know why. Maybe she wanted to hope, just for a moment. Maybe it was just a reflex. But hope was a dangerous thing, and she couldn't afford it. She had learned that long ago. No one came for people like her. Not when they were used up, broken, and worthless.

She closed her eyes, letting the sound of the voice fade into the background, just like everything else. No one was coming. There was no one to save her. There was no escape. She would die here, just like she had always known she would.

And that was all.

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The weight of the blade in James' hand was all too real, its cold steel contrasting sharply with the warmth of his bloodied trembling palm. He had done it. The first bandit lay at his feet, blood pooling beneath his body as James stood over him, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His heart pounded violently in his chest, a cacophony that drowned out everything else.

The sight of the man's throat, now slashed open, was almost surreal. The body was still warm, the blood still dripping from the wound, but James couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't real. This couldn't be real. He had never imagined this, never wanted to do this. Yet there he was, standing over the first body, his blade still slick with blood, as the cries of the remaining bandits reverberated in his ears.

For a brief, horrible moment, he thought he might vomit. His body stiffened, nausea rising in his throat, but he swallowed it down. There was no time for weakness. He had to finish what he started.

James forced himself to stand as blood dripped from the blade. He didn't want to look back at the girl, but he couldn't stop himself. Her wide, hollow eyes were fixed on him, watching as he moved from one lifeless body to the next, like a grim reaper. Bound to that post, helpless, her face was pale and gaunt from exhaustion and fear. Her gaze pierced through him, heavy with unspoken words, a haunting reminder of what he was becoming.

But he couldn't stop. Not now.

The second bandit was easier. His grip on the dagger was firmer now, his hands more steady. He didn't hesitate. The cut was clean, quick. The blood sprayed, splattering his boots, but James barely flinched. The numbness was beginning to set in. The next one came just as easily. Then another. And another.

Each swing of the dagger felt more distant, more mechanical, like he was no longer making decisions, but simply going through the motions. The faces of the bandits blurred. The screams, the begging, the pleading of the bandit the guard were with became noise, just noise. The sound of his heart in his ear was to much for him to listen to anything else at the moment.

The seventh. The eighth. By the time he reached the tenth body, it no longer felt like he was killing. It was just something he did—another task to complete. The blade had become an extension of his arm, moving without thought, slicing through flesh with a practiced precision that chilled the last remnants of innocence still clinging to him.

His mind barely registered the blood, the stench, or the deaths that followed. Each bandit's head fell with a sickening thud as their throats were sliced, yet James felt completely disconnected from the reality of it all. He was just following through, completing the grim task set before him. The first had been hard—a battle between the man he had been and the man he was becoming. But the rest? They were nothing.

The girl was still watching him, her eyes empty, her face pale. Her gaze made his stomach twist with something deeper than guilt. It was almost as though she was expecting something from him—some form of redemption, or perhaps just acknowledgment that she had witnessed it all.

But there was no redemption for someone like him, was there? He couldn't even save her. He couldn't undo the horrors they had put her through. He had killed, just like them.

When the last of the bandits fell, James stood over the bodies, his breath heavy and shallow. He wiped the blood from his blade one last time, the silence of the camp settling in like a shroud. It was done.

But as his gaze met the girl's once more, he couldn't escape the weight of her stare. She wasn't crying. She wasn't begging for help. She was simply watching him, her expression unreadable. In that moment, James felt as though he had lost something irreplaceable.

He had saved her, but at what cost?

The blade that had taken lives would haunt him for the rest of his own.

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The captain's sword swung with practiced ease, cleaving through the last of the bandits that had dared to stand against them. The remaining three men had put up a fight, but it was no use. The captain and his guards were far more skilled, and the chaos James had caused earlier had disoriented them. Now, with the final bandit crumpled at his feet, the captain wiped the blood from his blade and turned to his men.

"Good work," he muttered, his voice low but with a hint of satisfaction. The battle had been quick, but brutal. They had executed the plan without hesitation, and it had paid off. But even as he spoke the words, a grimness lingered in his eyes. The camp was silent now, the only sounds the wind rustling through the trees and the occasional crack of a twig underfoot.

James stood off to the side, still struggling to steady his breath, his hands trembling as he gripped the dagger now smeared with blood. His clothes were stained, the dark patches spreading like a grim reminder of what he had done. A strange sense of disconnection settled over him, as if his body had carried out the actions, but his mind hadn't fully caught up.

The captain gave him a sharp nod, acknowledging his part in the plan. "You did well," he said, his voice quieter now, as if there were no one left to impress. "But don't think too much on it. You followed orders. We'll deal with the aftermath, and you'll be moving on soon enough."

James didn't reply. He couldn't. The captain's words felt hollow, and he wasn't sure if they were meant to comfort him or dismiss him entirely. Either way, the reality of what had happened hit him like a wall, and he could feel his stomach churn again, threatening to betray him.

The girl was still tied to the post, her gaze heavy as she observed the aftermath of the bloodshed. She hadn't moved, hadn't said a word. Her eyes were the only thing James could focus on, those wide, vacant eyes that seemed to pierce straight through him.

The captain glanced over at her, his expression unreadable. "Untie her, she's a slave anyway, she can't run away.", he ordered, his voice authoritative, though there was no malice in it. He wasn't doing this out of kindness, but practicality. "Girl, put your clothes on", he said in a final voice. The girl had been a captive, a victim in all of this. She would be left in the hands of the guards for now, and perhaps, in the future, would be handed over to someone who could find a way to use her, to put her back to work as the slave she is.

James a little stunned, swallowed hard and approached the girl, his movements stiff. She didn't react when he cut the ropes that bound her to the post. She didn't even flinch when her hands were freed, as if she had already resigned herself to whatever would come next.

While she put a piece of rag on. Her gaze never left him. And for the first time since the fighting had started, James felt an overwhelming sense of guilt and disgust flood through him. He had killed those men to save her, but now he couldn't shake the thought that he had become just as monstrous as they were.

The captain clapped James on the back, snapping him out of his thoughts. "We've got a long way to go," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "This is only the beginning. We gather everything those bastards were hoarding and head back to the wagon. Everyone needs to carry their share of the gear we're bringing back." His grip on James's shoulder tightened, his gaze firm but not unkind. "And you," he added, his voice steady, "will learn to live with what you've done."

James didn't speak. There was nothing left to say. He could only nod and follow, knowing that no matter how far they traveled, the weight of what he had done would follow him every step of the way.

As the guards began to pass near the girl, one of them—an older man with a sharp gaze—suddenly froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. He took a step closer to the young woman, inspecting her more closely, his eyes flicking from her delicate features to the pointed tips of her ears, now barely visible beneath the mess of her hair.

"She's... an elf," he muttered under his breath, his gaze hard. Yet, no one else seemed nearly as shocked.

The other guards, kept their professional composure. Their faces were unreadable, and no one acknowledged the revelation aloud. It was as if they were already used to such things. There was a brief pause, but the moment passed quickly as they returned to their duties—clearing the area, checking the bandits, and tending to the aftermath of the battle.

James, standing nearby, couldn't understand why the guard's words caused such a ripple. The girl was obviously in a dire state—bound, helpless, and likely traumatized by the ordeal—but there was no visible reaction from the others to the guard's revelation.

Confused, James glanced around at the others, but they acted as if nothing had changed. It was as if the identity of the girl had no bearing on the situation at all.

One of the younger guards, a man with short-cropped brown hair, seemed to catch James' eye. He noticed the confusion on James' face, and for a brief moment, the guard's gaze softened. He didn't speak, but his expression said enough. James could see that the situation was far more complex than he had initially understood.

He had never heard of living, breathing elves before. To him, they were little more than stories told on the Internet, on Tv or children story. In his world, elves were only legends that belonged to a time long passed. So naturally he was curious.

But now, seeing this girl—her striking features, the elegance in the way she held herself even in her helpless state. James couldn't deny that something was different about her. She didn't fit the mold of a common slave you might see in those Tv show's about ancient time. She didn't look like someone who had been brought to this point through misfortune alone. She looked... otherworldly.

Still, the guards didn't seem to care. They moved around her with an almost casual indifference, as if her presence, her very existence, was something they had come to accept. It was as if, for them, the fact that she was an elf didn't matter, or worse—was something to be ignored.

James hesitated, staring at her for a long moment. Her gaze met his once again, but this time, it seemed as though there was something in her eyes—something deeper than just the emptiness he had seen before. There was a flicker of recognition, of understanding, but it was fleeting, like a dying ember in the night.

The aged man approached, and James snapped out of his reverie, forcing his focus back on the task at hand.

"She's an elf. That alone says enough. Treat her like she's not here. It's for the best," the older guard said, his tone flat, as if that simple statement justified everything. The captain nodded but remained silent. The girl was not to be spoken about, not to be acknowledged. To them, she was invisible—nothing more than a piece of property.

And James, still struggling to make sense of the culture shook around him, couldn't help but wonder why. Why was she being treated this way? Why was she hated simply because of what she was?

But no answers came, and the silence that fell over the camp was deafening.

As the guards continued their work, moving with efficient professionalism, James couldn't shake the feeling that there was something far larger at play here—something much bigger than just the battle with the bandits, or the girl they had rescued. Something he still couldn't understand. Something about elves. Something about hatred.

And, for the first time, he wondered just how much he would need to learn about this world in order to survive.