1|| Crisis
A young man embarked on an endless journey, traversing the world through both day and night. He confronted the harsh extremities of cold and heat, and he witnessed the turmoil of war as well as the tranquility of peace.
His most distinctive feature was his hair, a striking shade of blue reminiscent of the Arctic Pole, crowned upon his head and adorned with layers of frost. His skin bore the pallor of a corpse, while his lips, instead of being flushed with red, were tinged with a haunting blue hue.
Like his hair, his eyes reflected the deep, endless ocean, but there was neither the playfulness of the waves nor the fury of a storm at sea. His eyes, frozen in time, seemed devoid of care for the world’s offerings, as if nothing truly mattered.
For him, the ideal scenario was a world frozen in stillness, devoid of change. Change, he believed, was malevolent, bringing with it unforeseen circumstances. In a world where adaptation determined survival, he harbored a visceral aversion to the very concept.
Though he couldn’t quite pinpoint why change filled him with such loathing, a persistent unease gnawed at the back of his mind. Something had changed long ago, he was certain of it, and that change had spelled catastrophe. In his view, it was far better for the world to cease its relentless turning.
He couldn’t recall the details, but an unsettling awareness remained - his lost memories held darkness and despair. Despite this foreboding knowledge, he felt an inexorable pull to seek them out, like a moth flying into a flame knowing it would burn alive, so he did.
As the man’s icy gaze drifted sideways, it wasn’t due to any extraordinary sight that had caught his attention. Instead, it was his acute hearing that had detected a subtle sound—a human cry, a desperate plea for help.
It wasn’t the cry for help itself that stirred his emotions; they were caught in the never-ending grip of an icy age. His primary motive was the search for human civilization, and this cry served as his first tangible clue.
The man with the cerulean hair strode purposefully toward the source of the noise, each step causing the ground to crack beneath his feet and the leaves to freeze at his touch.
Twigs and branches, grass and insects—all succumbed to the relentless chill. Although it had been a warm, sunny day at the beginning of autumn, wherever this being ventured, the deepest of winters unfolded in his wake.
***
“Stop it!” Laraya’s voice echoed with desperation as two men held her arms tightly behind her back.
Slap.
A sharp, echoing slap resonated through the forest—a palm colliding with Laraya’s cheek. Tears welled up and trickled down her aching face as her head hung low. Her raven-black hair cascaded, partially concealing her bruised and battered body, but not enough to hide the tattered clothes and the marks on her skin.
“How many times did I tell you to shut up?” scolded another man who stood in front of her.
Laraya was all too familiar with these men. It was often those closest to you who could inflict the deepest wounds. Dereck, Kanam, and the one confronting her now—Stan. She had joined them on a mission to gather firewood for the impending winter, unaware of their sinister intentions.
“You damn assholes! How many times have you done this!?” Laraya lifted her head, her disheveled black hair parting to reveal her furious gaze—deep brown eyes that refused to yield to fear. Beneath her torn clothes, her chest heaved, and she muttered curses through gritted teeth.
Slap.
Another slap followed this time from Stan’s other hand. Darkness momentarily engulfed her world, but when her senses returned, a metallic taste lingered on the tip of her tongue. Blood trickled from her lips.
Before she could hurl more curses their way, Stan’s hand clamped onto her chin, forcing her head upward. His emerald eyes bore into hers, their intensity cutting through the haze of pain. Stan had always been one of the most sought-after men in their village, leaving Laraya bewildered as to why he had sunk to such depths and turned on her. What had driven him to this?
With a hint of annoyance in his voice, Stan spoke, “Listen to me carefully now. There’s the easy way and the hard way. Either you are obedient, and we’ll take good care of you, or you continue to be recalcitrant, and I will torture you until you beg me to use your body. Either way, you die, but you get to choose how you die.”
His deranged laughter pierced the forest, echoing through the trees. Stan’s hands tightened around Laraya’s neck, his grip like a vice. “Don’t let her go again. I don’t have time for this shit,” he directed his companions, and Laraya felt her arms locked in their unyielding hold, rendering her completely immobile.
Stan’s free hand cruelly traced the path of her tears as they meandered down her face, descending to her neck before settling on her chest.
Laraya was about to protest when the air was forcibly expelled from her lungs, leaving her gasping for breath. She attempted to crouch down, but she was firmly held in place.
“… just stay silent. This is your last warning.”
Again, his fingers ventured toward her chest, mercilessly ripping away her tattered clothes. “Wow. Look what we have here,” Stan’s voice dripped with lust, causing Laraya to shudder. The cold autumn air embraced her bare torso as tears continued to fall. She longed to shield her body, but Dereck and Kanam´s grip prevented any movement. She wanted to scream, but her neck was being crushed, and all she wished for was to go home.
Stan began to touch her, his fingers tracing her skin, but his touch offered no warmth. Instead, Laraya was overwhelmed by a sense of disgust and fear, causing goosebumps to prickle her skin. Eventually, he released her neck, only to grab other places.
“It’s sad that we have to kill you afterward. I would have loved to keep you chained in my house, but sadly, the old man doesn’t agree,” Stan spoke of disturbing plans that eluded Laraya’s comprehension in her torment.
Laraya’s eyes widened in shock and confusion. Old man—everyone in the village referred to the village head by that name. When her parents had passed away, he had been the one who took her in and cared for her. He was like a father to her. Why had Stan mentioned him?
“Stan!” Dereck’s voice carried a warning tone.
But Stan merely laughed in response. “What? She’s dead meat anyway, and I love my girls broken…” He stopped addressing Dereck and refocused his attention on Laraya. “Everyone knows, Laraya.”
She clenched her teeth as his grip tightened. “Old man has chosen you personally.”
Despair took hold of her young heart. “Stop lying, you fucking bastard. Let me go!”
Finally free from Stan’s touch, she watched in dread as he opened his own pants.
“Do you think it was a coincidence? Coming to gather firewood in the forest with us? Like we need the help of a weak bitch…” His laughter rang out callously, as if he believed no one would come to her aid anyway.
“Stop...” Laraya struggled to accept the horrific reality unfolding before her. The villagers couldn’t possibly be involved in something so atrocious as selling their own people. Stan must be playing with her mind. Stan was sick!
“Yes, that’s it. Doubt them. You know we’re all bastards. I’ll even give you a tip.”
“Stan, stop it. Just do it already,” even Kanam attempted to intervene.
“Shut up, both of you. One more word, and I’ll kill you after I’m done with that bitch. Do you understand!?”
Silence.
“Why would I, a strong, young man, still stay in that godforsaken village at the end of the world, huh? To play family with all of you? Screw that. The village has an agreement with us…”
“S-Stop…” Laraya pleaded desperately, not wanting to hear his next words. It was as though the agony she might experience was far more excruciating than anything he could inflict upon her body. “That’s not true…”
“They let me fuck some ripe girls from time to time…”
“That’s not true!” Laraya couldn’t accept what she was hearing.
“...and instead, we work for them a bit longer.”
Stan’s grin widened as he began to explain, and it seemed like his face was splitting apart. He looked more like a monstrous creature than a human being; there was no humanity left in him.
Laraya’s body trembled uncontrollably, and her sniffles turned into full-fledged sobs. Tears flowed from her eyes like rivers.
“Mhmm, I love it when they cry,” Stan purred, licking his lips, his trousers already at his ankles.
“P-please stop… help me…” Laraya’s voice was weak, broken, and filled with desperation.
“Turn her around,” Stan ordered.
Dereck and Kanam obeyed, and soon Laraya was facing a tree, the earthy smell doing nothing to soothe her mind.
“Nooo… someone help me… help,” her voice was feeble, shattered, amidst her sniffles.
“That’s it, shout for help… No one will come… even if they hear you!” Stan shouted his last words to emphasize his point.
Laraya still couldn’t bring herself to believe him, so she screamed, “Help!... S-someone help me!”
Her cries grew louder, reaching their zenith when she felt Stan’s hand pulling down the last piece of fabric covering her bottom. “Help…please help me!”
Wasn’t there anyone? She didn’t care who, anyone to hear her voice. A passerby, a guard, another group searching for firewood—anyone! She heard her own voice echoing through the forest and felt fingers on her skin that sent shivers of dread down her spine. Her heart pounded against her ribcage as if it too wanted to break free and escape. But like her, it was held in place.
Laraya was now completely naked, from the tips of her toes to the scalp on her head. The air grew colder with each passing second, and the incredibly frigid breeze made the cold blood in her veins feel almost like a warm spring by comparison. She shivered uncontrollably, and she sensed that the arms holding her were trembling too.
“What the hell, I can’t do it like that. It’s too freaking cold. Fuck!” She heard Stan’s frustrated shout from behind.
At least nature seemed to have heard her cry for help, even though it would only delay the inevitable.
“Huh? Who are you?” Stan’s voice rang out again, but she couldn’t see who he was addressing. Had someone finally heard her?
