From high above a clear path, the island was an ink-stain against the violet sea.

  Two tiny, orange sparks—the torches—crawled like fireflies along a thin white vein of crushed coral.

  The constant, dry shhhhh-shuck of the fronds above was the only constant.

  Then, cutting through the wind, came the high-pitched, brittle skritch-crunch of feet on crushed coral.

  VOICE (Man 1 - invisible, muffled): "...always on my nerves. Every time the tide turns weird, the lunatics come out."

  VOICE (Man 2 - invisible, rhythmic): "Just keep your head down. I’m not getting paid in extra hearts to play hero."

  The two men stepped fully into a clearing where the orange glow of a distant hearth hit them. Their faces were etched with a weary indifference.

  The first one stopped, letting out a long, heavy sigh that made his chest sink.

  He ran a hand over his cropped hair, knocking loose a few grains of salt. "Killers, huh? There goes my night shift. I was about to ready the canoes for the morning haul, and now this shit."

  He raised a hand, gesturing broadly toward the dark grove behind them where the family was grieving.

  The second one stood a head shorter, his frame more compact and wiry.

  "A true stinger on the head for sure," the second man replied. "I'm lucky I finished mine on time. I haven't ate anything since morning."

  The silence of the island rushed back in, leaden and oppressive. The only sound was the distant, frantic cheep-cheep of a starling in the breadfruit canopy.

  The first guy turned his head toward the dark behind him, his eyes returning forward skeptic, catching a spark of orange.

  "I could use a strong drink after this."

  The other stopped scratching. His gaze remained fixed on the dark horizon. "Some of that Grisly Maka wouldn't hurt."

  The two men locked eyes—a slow, heavy look, a shared understanding. A tired, cynical smile broke across the first man's face as he delivered a heavy, resonant pat on the other's back.

  "Now you're speaking my language, brother."

  They both chuckled—a brittle, hollow sound that carried no joy, only the relief of a shared vice.

  As the men reached the bend where the grass thickened, just as they made the turn, a Whip-Thin shadow—unnaturally tall and lanky—streaked behind them. It moved like a smear of ink on a wet page.

  For a micro-second, the shadow stuttered. The edges of the figure vibrated with a "violet frequency," the limbs appearing in two places at once.

  Before the men could even turn their heads, the shadow was gone. It didn't run into the trees; it simply deleted itself from the frame.

  The lead man stopped. He stared into the empty space in the trees, unblinking, his torch-light trembling against the bark.

  "Did you...?" he started, but the words caught on the sharp edges of his throat.

  The other man didn't answer. He just looked straight ahead where the shadow had blurred past. "Keep walking," the short man hissed, his jaw a locked hinge of a guy who accepted the danger. "Don't look back. The grove is counting our breaths now."

  The other said nothing, his eyes already dissecting the shadows where the form vanished.

  He looked around one final moment toward the spot, then walked off. Their feet trailed into the darkness with a skritch-crunch, leaving only their flickering silhouette.

  A shadow's hand caught into a root’s gnarled bark. A face came into focus, darting her head to the departing men.

  Her hair was an obsidian tightbun coiled at the back. Weighted lines were carved into her cheeks—ridges of salt and stress.

  Teniko just stared at them. Her gaze turned forward, didn't blink. She closed her eyes as she lowered her head in regret of someone who had already counted the cost of the night.

  Low through the palms, catching the couple as they stumbled into the flickering torch-ring.

  A Man lead, his stocky, unremarkable frame now a liability in the narrow path.

  His skin was a map of brine-rinds and pale welts that glistened like fish scales under the sickly violet light.

  His chest heaved, a frantic gasp-rattle in his lungs that matched his feet.

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  Beside him, the Woman was skeletal. Her hair was matted with shoal-grit, and her jaw was a fixed pivot of locked terror, staring at the man’s heels.

  "Come on. Watch your step," the man whispered, his voice splintering. “We can't stay here for long. They will find us eventually.“

  He looked back at her with a flicker of optimism that looked out of place in the shadow-soaked night. "But we could take the boat, head to Arorae. Start a new life there. What do you think?"

  The woman didn't look up. Her gaze remained anchored to the dirt. The man’s face settled into a stony, mournful concentration as he turned back to the path.

  A few seconds later, a flambeau flared.

  The light splashed across the woman’s face. She gasped, her head snapping up. In the center of her wide pupils, a tiny, distorted reflection of a man’s face appeared.

  They both took a spasmodic step back.

  From the blackness behind a palm, The Grinning Man paced forward.

  His teeth were splinters of sun-bleached reef, and his face was a topography of furrowed creases earned from a lifetime of cruel amusement.

  He moved with a weighted-tread confidence.

  A Chortle: A breathy, gleeful laugh escaped him—Heh-Heh-Heh.

  The man pulled the woman tight, his heart hammering—a frantic Thump-Valve—as shock locked his joints. They whipped their heads toward the sound of another flame.

  A Serious Man emerged, a visage of chilled masonry. His eyes were apertures that didn't see people—only spare vitals.

  He was as motionless as an Ironwood trunk.

  On the right, an Amused Man tilted his head like a scavenging hawk. Sinuous and grease-coated, his gaze was stabbing, and his smile was over-extended, stretching the skin until it looked like ashen vellum.

  One by one, more fire-staves ignited out of the void—sudden blossoms of orange light that didn't appear from the paths, but from the deep hollows of the limestone pinnacles.

  The circle of fire-staves shrank closer toward the two people.

  The leader bridged the gap with a measured, predatory tread, each footfall grinding the white coral into dust.

  He stopped just shy of their trembling space, his silhouette casting a long shadow that swallowed the couple whole.

  "Two. Terrified. Killers," he mused, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "That’s a new one. A monster can’t have a soul. You really think we would've just given up on finding you?"

  He tilted his head toward the ring of fire-staves, his gaze sweeping over the topography of furrowed creases and chilled masonry faces surrounding them. "What will we do with them, boys?!"

  A venomous rumble rose from the circle—a collective, guttural muttering that lacked any mercy. "We burn them!" the voices hissed, the sound blending with the acrid pop of the torches.

  The leader turned back, a faint, mocking curve stretching his lips. The orange embers glinted in his irises like twin hells.

  The skeletal woman clung to the man, her face buried against his salt-crust shoulder, her breath coming in spasmodic hitches.

  The predator leaned in, his face inches from theirs, emphasizing his words with a slow, rhythmic nod. "Well, well. This isn't gonna be easy for you two. I guess you're out of luck today. You made them very angry. Going up in smoke is one of the worst ways to go."

  His knotted forearms coiled, readying the swing toward the couple's brine-filmed skin. But a resonant, steady pitch struck the air, halting his momentum. A blurry streak of motion punctured the ring of fire. It cut through the wall of orange light, coming to a halt in the center of the heated coral.

  Tako.

  "Wait. Everyone," he panted, his frame silhouetted against the dozens of flickering fire-staves. "Whatever you're gonna do to them, stop it now."

  The leader didn't lower his arm. He tilted his head at a sharp, challenged angle, his furrowed creases deepening under the torchlight. "Who said so?"

  Tako didn't flinch. He extended his arms, palms open, trying to bridge the gap between mercy and the venomous rumble of the crowd.

  "Look. What Chief Maluma said back there... he's just setting you guys up to kill your own neighbors. Just think about how insane this is.“ He gestured to the rest. “He's not doing this for justice, but for revenge."

  A jagged, staccato sound broke the tension. Ah, ah, ah, ah. The leader threw his head back, his laugh a series of dry barks. Tako’s stern face went rigid, his jaw locking in shock. The sincerity of his plea was met only with the leader’s finger, now leveled at him in a gesture of sharp ridicule.

  "Where did this guy come from?" the leader mocked. "A madhouse? You belongs in Tabwewa, boy!"

  The circle erupted. The men huffed and scoffed, their Rama torches shaking with their collective amusement. The sound was brittle, like dry husks grinding together.

  Suddenly, the leader stopped. The humor vanished, replaced by a stony, clinical coldness. He reached up, nudging the tip of his nose with a calloused thumb. "Tako, go home."

  Tako didn't retreat. He closed the distance, stepping into the leader's personal space. "But if we could just talks this out with them first th—”

  The leader didn't let him finish. He undercut him, leaning into Tako’s face until their breath mingled in the heat. "So they could keep doing it?" His eyes flashed with a piercing, predatory focus. "Step away."

  The leader's arm shot out—a heavy, lunging shove that sent Tako spiraling out of the frame.

  His finger was a jagged needle, stitching a line of doom through the air. "Block them!" he snarled, his voice a gravelly grind that seemed to spark against the silence.

  The Amused Attacker didn't just move; he uncoiled.

  The torch-head whirled, a blossoming orange fist of heat that punched toward the duo.

  The woman's shriek was a glass splinter, tearing through the canopy. "Aaaah!!"

  Tako’s head snapped in a frantic rhythm. His gaze collided with the Leader’s, and for a heartbeat, the air between them curdled with an acidic heat.

  The Leader’s chest began to heave, a deep, resonant thrumming that erupted into a heavy percussion of laughter. Ha, ha, ha, ha. His jaw unhinged, revealing the wide, predatory grin.

  The torchlight danced in his pupils—twin, flickering demons born from the salt and the dark.

  In the theater of Tako’s mind, the world suffered a Seizure.

  The frantic rustle of the palms, the crackle of the pitch, the whistling breath of the crowd—it all slowed into a singular, grinding heartbeat.

  —Is this it? Are they really gonna shed the goodness we've build for centuries for a dose of revenge?—

  He scanned the faces he had known for a lifetime. He looked at the victims. They were folding, their bodies collapsing into the white dust like wounded birds.

  The attackers surged forward, their hands a swarm of dark, oily motion, peeling the man away from the woman with a clinical, violent efficiency.

  —And here i thought the world made sense. People are just a bunch of evil rats.—

  Tako’s teeth ground together with a sound like crushing coral.

  The Leader turned back to him, the mockery etched into every furrowed crease of his face, his laughter a rhythmic hammer blow against Tako’s dignity.

  —This is not revenge. This is joyful manslaughter. If there was just something i could do, they would be the one begging for mercy, like the cowards they are!—

  The thought hit a wall. The words in his mind were severed by a sudden diffusion of the rama in the leader's hand.

  It didn't just go out; it suffocated. ---

  JOYFUL MANSLAUGHTER. This isn't your typical power fantasy. This is a 1130 AD prequel where the "power-ups" have teeth and the "system" is a moral autopsy. If you’re tired of generic worlds, stay for the Orange Pulse.

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  ?NEXT CHAPTER: THE ANATOMY OF MY ABSENCE