Chapter 2
At dawn, beneath a pristine blue sky, Emanuel received a simple task from his mother: to take a bundle of clothes to the neighboring village and trade them for flour and oil.
It was a peaceful day—so peaceful that even the silence seemed to hum through the fields. Children ran down the dusty roads, dogs lay sprawled in the shade, and the elders sat at their gates, speaking of daily matters.
The village felt like a forgotten handful of souls, spared from the storm that had swept across the earth.
Emanuel kissed his mother’s forehead, slung the sack of clothes over his shoulder, and set off, unaware that his footsteps carried him away from the last peace he would know for a very long time.
Emanuel disappeared between the cliffs, heading toward the next village.
Not long after, a stranger climbed the rocky path toward Emanuel’s village. His long, heavy cloak—blood-red and trimmed with white fur speckled in black—fluttered in the mountain breeze.
Underneath, he wore steel-forged boots up to the knees, pants woven from silver thread, and a golden tunic with long sleeves—an immaculate garment that shimmered faintly in the cold sunlight. At his left hip hung a short Damascus steel sword—dark and deadly.
The villagers greeted him, wary and tense:
“Who are you, traveler? We can offer you water to quench your thirst, bread to calm your hunger, a roof and a bed to rest your body.”
The stranger replied calmly:
“I have not come for that. You follow Jesus of Nazareth as the Son of God. For that, I shall destroy you—here and now.”
Shocked by his words, the villagers pleaded:
“Please… don’t take our breath from us. Leave us be. We do no harm. We follow the God of love—the Lamb, the Holy Spirit, and His Father.”
The stranger looked at them with glowing yellow eyes and a faint, disdainful smile.
“It must be done. Do not resist. It is for the greater good.”
Panic spread. The villagers scattered, trying to escape this man who exuded a power too terrifying to challenge.
What followed was a massacre—cold and precise.
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With small steps and flawless control, the stranger used his short sword to deflect attacks from the few who dared to defend their homes. His sword struck with surgical precision—no fury, no rush. Just pure efficiency.
He disabled some by severing tendons, leaving them pleading for mercy on the ground. But they received no answer—only the silent deliverance of death.
One man tried to flee. The stranger caught him easily, slammed him to the earth, and crushed him underfoot.
“There are three more beds in these homes than people I’ve slain,” he said slowly. “After I kill you, two will remain. Tell me where they are.”
Trembling, the man gestured toward the mountain path—toward Emanuel’s trail.
Unknown to the stranger, an old man named Lot had managed to hide in a narrow crevice among the rocks.
The stranger finished the last villager, then calmly wiped the blood from his hands as though it were part of a daily ritual. He adjusted his cloak with care.
Then he turned... and looked directly toward Lot’s hiding place. He paused. Smirked with contempt. Laughed—short and dry.
He entered a house. In the fireplace, a small flame still flickered. On the table, an iron pan glistened with leftover cooking oil.
Tearing a piece of cloth from the dress of a dead woman, he wrapped it tightly around a stick pulled from a broken fence. He dipped it in oil and lit it in the fire.
The makeshift torch burned easily.
Outside, he touched the flame to a pile of hay against one house. The wind helped—it carried the fire to the thatched roof, which exploded into flame.
One by one, the houses caught fire. Wood crackled. Smoke choked the sky.
Without another word, the stranger disappeared into the mist.
Emanuel hurried along the mountain trail, carrying a sack of grain from the barter. The sun shone gently, and the wind whispered through the pine trees like a forgotten song.
As he descended into the valley, he noticed a thick column of smoke rising from his village.
His heart clenched. Dropping the sack, he ran—stumbling over rocks and branches in desperation.
Reaching the village, he fell to his knees.
Before him lay a nightmare.
The stone and wooden homes were ablaze, smoke curling into the heavens. The scent of burning flesh and spilled blood hung heavy in the air.
On the narrow dirt roads, the villagers' bodies lay scattered—twisted, broken, their empty eyes staring skyward.
Agony pierced Emanuel. As he moved through the smoldering ruins, he recognized the faces of those he loved—elders, women, children... his own parents—all slaughtered without mercy.
Suddenly, from between the rocks, a weak voice called out:
“Emanuel... Emanuel...”
He turned and saw a slumped shadow—Lot, the elder of the village, covered in blood and torn clothes.
Emanuel rushed to him, lifted him gently.
“What happened, old man? Who did this?”
Lot wiped the blood from his lips.
“A... a stranger,” he gasped. “He wasn’t human… or if he was, he carried a curse. He wore a blood-red cloak and carried a shining sword. He only said: ‘It must be done. Do not resist.’ Then… he killed us. All of us. Alone.”
Lot broke into sobs, weeping like a child in Emanuel’s arms.
With tears in his eyes and fists clenched, Emanuel whispered a vow:
“I swear before God and His heavenly host—I will do all I can to destroy those who serve darkness, disguising themselves as slaves of light.”
With bloodied hands and a broken back, Emanuel buried the villagers. By the time he covered the last grave, night had fallen—cold and silent.
The stars sparkled above—mute witnesses to his pain.
He knew he was no longer safe. He knew evil, once unleashed, would not stop until the world was consumed.
“We must go, Lot,” he said hoarsely. “To Israel. Perhaps there… we’ll find answers.”
Without looking back, the two disappeared into the dark mountain night—two shadows, swallowed by the wilderness.