Art of Reversed Evil

Aaaaaaah—aaaaaaaah—aaaaaaah. Huff… huff. "Aaaa—aaaah!"

"You bastard, where are you going? Hahaha — you think you can run?"

"Heh. Today we won't just catch you; we'll make you pay for what you did to our clan!" Huff… huff.

The swamp swallowed sound and light, but not the chase. Feet slapped wet soil; cloaks flapped like wings. Men shouted, blades rang against armor, beasts snorted in the half-dark. Heah—swish—swish. Aaaaaah—aaaaah.

"Fu Yang, stop right there! Tell us about the inheritance you took and we might spare you."

"Hump. Bastard, always running like a rat. Whoever catches him alive gets my personal reward."

He ran because running was what he knew. He ran because the world he had been thrown into teemed with men hungry enough to bite their own.

( Hmph. Do you think I'm a fool? Since the day I transmigrated into this shitty world, I thought I'd be a hero like in those novels I read. But reality hits hard. Not only does everyone try to surpass me, they steal what I have and frame me afterwards. Bastards.) Swish—swish. Aaaaaah.

They closed like a net. Heavy boots, heavier intentions. "Hmph—caught you, rat." Mmmm. Swish—swish. "Aaaah—this bastard killed him." Thump.

Blood was a bright lie on the marsh grass; the wounded man lay useless between them. The leader's voice cut through the racket, controlled and cruel. "Don't forget—he may still have tricks. Be careful." He inspected the trembling form, then spat. "Fu Yang, hand over the inheritance. Maybe I'll let you live, or I'll give you a painless death."

Huff… huff. Fu Yang's chest rose and fell in the ragged rhythm of a man who had run for three lifetimes. He let them circle him like wolves. He let their eyes measure him and find him small. In the dirt and reek he smiled without moving his mouth.

He thought, cold and quiet. (I lived three hundred years running, stealing, murdering. I've seen the true face of men.

We call beasts dangerous; we fear snakes' venom. But humans—humans are hidden beasts. They'll tear you apart for a sliver of gain. A poisonous snake kills you outright; with people, the poison is slower and far crueller.) A laugh leaked out, dry as old leather. Huff. Hahahahaa.

"So this is where I die— in this filthy swamp." His voice was flat, almost amused.

"At least I thought I'd die somewhere peaceful. Of course — my rotten luck."

He looked up. Stars blinked coldly above; the crescent moon smiled like someone who enjoyed another's misery. "Mmm, even the heavens relish my suffering. Fine—let me entertain you some more."

They tightened the noose. One of them reached for him, fingers rough. "You think you'll fool us with talk?" the leader hissed. "Hand it over." A boot kicked at Fu Yang's ribs. The boots wanted confession; they wanted a body they could parade. They wanted the inheritance—whatever trinket or secret had sent these men after him tonight.

Fu Yang let the boot pass over him. He let the pain be, the humiliation, the smell of rust and throat. "I, Fu Yang, have no regrets. What I did was my choice. Today I will not die at the hands of others."

Silence answered, edged by surprise. Do they think him mad? Good. Let them think that. He felt something hard and cold at his side — not a blade, but a small device wrapped in leather, the inheritance they sought. Secrets fit in small places.

Booom.

The sound came from Fu Yang's chest like an accusation. Fire bloomed, bright and obscene, as if the moon itself had been struck. Screams were cut to pieces. Men were thrown like rag dolls. The swamp swallowed bodies and fired back steam. For a second the world narrowed to heat and the taste of iron and the thought that came loud and pure: if they wanted to end him, he would decide the terms.

"What a madman—he detonated himself!" someone howled through the smoke. "I'll say only one thing fu yang : may you suffer ever more in hell"

churned mire, barking orders with a voice that tried to hide fear.

"Search the carcass. Do not leave a thing. There must be something left......

And the dark night erupted with noise.