Soul Cycle

Chapter 1

The vast night sky stood purple, the flashing stars waltzing along with the light of the waning crescent moon. It stood high in the sky, light shining through like a twisted smile through the gray of the wispy clouds. Clouds that brought with them a chilly breeze, a break from the warm drafts that were felt not long before. It was the first wind chill of the coming season, a hint that the daylight was receding and the summer was gradually turning to fall. But that cold breeze was not one to be threatened by, the night was still gracious nevertheless. The wind offered a nice relaxation, an escape from the heat one could be feeling, whether that be physical or mental.

It was nights like this that Lestav Macbeth loved the most. To him, living in the cold was better than living in the heat. Chilly weather was easier to control, there was no limit to where you went or how many layers you put on to shield from the frosty bitterness, but in scorching heat, there was very little to ensure that you would stay comfortable. Lestav loved the cold because he hated the heat. That is what he told himself at least. It would never have occurred to Lestav to dig below the surface, that it was that icy chill that gave him the relief of calmed nerves, nerves that seemed to boil over in a constant cycle of hate and resentment. Even if it was just for a second, it cooled him down and cleared his mind.

When Lestav was facing the heat, his thoughts were vaporized and it made a fog in his mind. A cloud of judgment that buried all his reasonable thoughts out of sight and out of reach. Lestav was vulnerable to the heat, as much as he hated to admit it, but for years his body was weakened by the heat, all his internal systems didn't have what it took to allow his body to cope and shift to the atmosphere around him. It was like throwing an unathletic person into a competition heavy activity. They wouldn't be able to function and they would hurt themselves trying. Heat waves blurred his vision, obscuring and spinning his world, resulting in an unbearable dizzying nausea. He was less aware of the world around him, more susceptible to the dangers that threatened to jump at him. It was that, that was why he hated the heat. It made him scared. And if there was one feeling that Lestav would never let himself feel, the one feeling he scorned the most, that was fear. There was no room in him to be afraid, he could not afford to let the smallest sliver of fear peek through his hard-bitten facade. Not in the line of work he worked in. Show even the slightest bit of weakness and there's a good chance you would die, or something far worse...

But a cold chill also felt good when you were stained with fresh warm blood.

Lestav stood, breathing heavily over the body of...something... Taking into consideration how mutilated the body was, (Lestav tended to go overboard on his hunts), its corpse looked human... but through more careful observation, you would find features that distinguish it to not be. Pushing aside that the body was cut and mangled beyond recognition, the corpse's features were a little unsettling. For instance, its limbs and fingers were too long and too thin. There were veins bulging like a river's delta on its legs, arms and face. Long sharp fingernails that curled in like tiger's claws. Its face was bashed in, but it had too many unsettling sharp teeth. Its eyes were sunken in and a ghastly white, on its forehead, small bumps in various sizes jutted out, like mountains' peaks, bumps that could very easily be considered horns. Its legs bent back in a broken, animalistic way. Its feet were far too large and deformed... It was... Inhumane...

It was a demon.

Lestav's chest moved up and down at an unsteady pace, but it began to slow as he inhaled the cool air into his lungs. He stood like that for a few moments, catching his breath before he pulled his iron knife from the head of the demon. Warm blood flowed from the hilt, dripping off the very edge like a leaky faucet. His other hand went up to wipe the blood from his face, which didn't do a lot to help considering that his hands were also stained with blood. Not that it mattered. As long as Lestav had tricked his mind into believing he had wiped the blood away, he would be content, and as long as he was content he would not be bothered by the other problems at hand. He wouldn't be bothered by the waterfall of blood flowing from his temple, or the deep oozing scratches that painted his body like he were a canvas, tearing large rips into his clothes. He was not bothered by the screaming of his body as pain surged every nerve, not bothered by the nauseating fatigue or hunger, not bothered by the specks that sparked around his vision like broken lights. As long as that cold breeze continued to live, he wouldn't feel the painstaking urge to die.