Borik caught up to them once the village was out of sight.
He kicked his horse forward and cut across the path, forcing the young master to pull hard on the reins. Dust sprayed as the horses slowed.
Borik didn't bow this time. He swung down from his saddle and crossed the distance in three strides.
Before either of the other men could react, he grabbed the young master by the collar and yanked him from the horse unto the ground.
The boy hit the ground hard, the breath knocked clean out of him.
"What the hell was that?" Borik snarled.
The other two men stiffened but didn't move. They had already learned when to look away.
Borik was one of the strongest and most ruthless fighters in the tribe they wouldn't dear go against him.
Borik hauled the young master halfway up, just enough so he could hear him.
"Who the fuck do you think you were, commanding us like that?" he said. "Do you have any idea how you made us look back there?"
The young master kept silent only staring at the angry man. His silence infuriated Borik more.
Borik shoved him back down.
"You're a disgrace to the tribe. Retreating in front of a Weyian rat."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping.
"Listen here, kid. When we get back, I'm reporting this to the village chief. He deserves to know what kind of coward he has for a son."
The young master's hands clenched in the dirt. He still didn't say anything.
Borik straightened, spat to the side, and turned back to his horse.
"Mount up," he said to the others. "We're done wasting time."
They obeyed immediately. Above them, unseen, Ishar watched in silence.
Originally, he had assumed the young master held real authority. But in this world only the strong held power.
The Olan did not believe in heirs. They believed in strength. A leader was not chosen by blood or birth, but by survival.
The weak ruled only until someone stronger decided otherwise.
The bigger the fist, the louder the voice the more people are compelled to listen to you.
So what if your father was the village chief. It didn't mean you would be too.
If you didn't have the power to back your position you open yourself to hate and suppression.
As for why they listened to the young master at the weigh village. It was to keep up appearances.
Ishar's gaze lingered on Borik. At the mention of the village head he remembered something Strigoi had mentioned in passing.
Their current village head had once been no one of note, just another warrior among many.
Then one season, he disappeared into the wilds for months. When he returned, his body was marked with strange, dark tattoos that no one recognized.
No one knew who had carved them into his skin, or where they came from.
What everyone knew was this: he was no longer human in the way the rest of them were.
Strength poured out of him like heat from a fire. He challenged the sitting village head openly.
By dawn, the old leader was dead, alongside every man in his household
.
He took the former leader's seat as head of the village alongside his wives and daughters for himself, as was his right under Olan law.
The women tried to resist him but he forced himself upon them.
From that day on, any woman he desired became his, and none dared say otherwise.
Years passed. Children filled the village dozens of them bearing his blood. Sons especially.
One night, one of his own sons tried to strike him down. The attempt failed. What followed was not justice, but warning.
He ordered that the assassin alongside half of his sons chosen at random be burned alive on the stake.
Even for the Olan tribe this act was too brutal. No one knew why he did it but the message was clear.
If he showed no mercy to his own blood, there was none to be hoped for by anyone else.
After that, betrayal vanished from the Olan like a forgotten word.
Ishar followed them unseen and undetected until the sun fell and the silver light of the moon illuminated the night sky.
On seeing it was night they finally stopped, the men made camp in silence. Borik claimed the tent without question, the other three falling in beside him.
The young master was left outside, as he always was, tasked with keeping watch.
The boy sat by the fire alone.
The crimson glow painted his face in trembling light, sharp and uneven.
He stared into the flames for a long while, unmoving. Only when the camp settled into the slow rhythm of sleep did his shoulders begin to shake.
He sobbed quietly, biting down on the sound so as to not wake anybody.
With a stick, he poked at the fire, scattering sparks that rose and died before they could become anything else.
Ishar watched from the dark.
At first, he had intended to take the boy by force. The boy was young, his will not yet fully formed. It would have been easy.
But seeing him like this gave Ishar pause.
Instead, he turned his attention to the 3 crows.
"Bring me a rat."
They vanished and returned swiftly, dropping a squealing shape at his feet.
The sound ended abruptly, cut short by a thought from Ishar. His telekinesis was growing stronger.
Ishar slipped into the lifeless body.
The rat twitched. Then rose. Its movements were clumsy at first, unfamiliar, but control came quickly.
Once he found his footing, and his voice he scurried toward the fire. He stopped beside the boy.
"You're nothing like the young masters I used to read about."
The boy sprang to his feet, swinging the stick wildly.
"Who's there?!"
"Down here." Ishar calmly replied.
The boy looked down.
A rat sat by the fire, its head tilted slightly, eyes far too intelligent.
Most people would have screamed on seeing a talking animal. This one did not.
Instead, the boy simply stared.
Then, slowly, he sat back down, this time positioning himself opposite the rat rather than beside the fire.
"You're the thing I sensed," he said quietly. "Back in the tree. In the Weyian village."
The rat's lips pulled into a smile. It was not comforting.
"Smart boy," Ishar said. "Yes. I am the thing you sensed."
"What do you want?" the boy asked.
"How would you like to have revenge," Ishar replied, "on the three men sleeping in that tent?"
The boy's eyes narrowed warily. "You're a devil?"
The word caught Ishar's interest. So the concept of devil's exists in this world.
And unlike in his previous world chances were high they actually were real here.
"No," he admitted. "I'm not. I only wish to help."
The boy scoffed. "Cut the crap. No one helps anyone for free. You're a devil, and I'm not making a contract. Now get out!"
He hurled a stone.
The rat barely scrambled aside as it struck the dirt where Ishar had been.
Without a word, Ishar retreated into the shadows.
Moments later, the tent rustled.
Borik emerged, bleary-eyed, carrying a chamber pot. The smell reached the fire before he did.
He dumped it onto the ground and pointed drowsily at the boy.
"You. Empty that."
Borik yawned and turned back toward the tent.
The young master remained where he was, staring at the chamber pot in open disgust. Fists clenched.
The fire crackled beside him. Slowly, he bent to lift it—then stopped.
"…Devil," he whispered. "Are you still there?"
From the edge of the firelight, the rat emerged once more.
It stood upright and gave a small, deliberate bow.
"At your service," Ishar said mildly. "Though I am not a devil."
The boy exhaled through his nose.
"Whatever. I don't care what you are."
He looked toward the tent. Toward the shadows of the sleeping men.
"My condition is this," he said. "I'll give you my soul in return you kill the three men in that tent... And you kill my father."
The rat was silent for a moment. Then it spoke again, voice calm. Almost pleasant.
"No. I want your body. You may keep the soul."
The boy stiffened. His hands clenched at his sides.
"You really aren't a devil?" Ishar nodded. Making the boy to relax as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
"I'm going to die, aren't I?" he asked after processing what Ishar not being a devil meant.
Ishar did not lie. The rat nodded.
The boy closed his eyes. The fire reflected in his lashes, trembling. For a long time, he said nothing.
"My mother is pregnant," he finally said. "Please protect my unborn sibling."
Ishar agreed.
The boy exhaled shakily and sat down by the fire. He closed his eyes, hands resting on his knees.
"So… how does thi—"
The words never finished. Ishar abandoned the rat's body and surged forward.
The sensation was like a fish plunging into deep water—no resistance whatsoever.
The boy's body stiffened.
He fell sideways onto the dirt, muscles locking, breath tearing in and out of his chest in sharp, uneven gasps.
His limbs jerked as if seized by something unseen. Pain rippled through him in waves he could not voice properly.
His muffled cries carried through the camp.
Inside the tent, movement stirred.
"What's all the ruckus about?" a voice from the tent muttered.
The flap was pulled aside. Shapes emerged into the firelight, bleary-eyed and irritated.
One of the men spotted the boy writhing on the ground and cursed under his breath.
"Damn brat," he said, crouching down. "What's wrong with you now?"
He reached out, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder to turn him over.
The boy's body went still. Too still. Then his hand moved.
It struck the man's arm away with sudden force, clean and precise. The man stumbled back in surprise, swearing.
The young master lifted his head. When he looked up, his eyes were open, but there was nothing familiar in them anymore.
No fear. No confusion. Only a quiet, unsettling calm.
The fire crackled between them, casting long shadows as Ishar, now fully settled behind the boy's gaze, rose to his feet.
Ishar had successfully transmigrated into another world.