Age of Beast Tamers and Exorcists

As the sickly, fleeting smell of smoke wafted through his consciousness... Zmey Ashbane realised that, more than anything, he wanted to die.

The room was burning. Crimson flames were licking his arms, singes of pain clawing at his scarred forearms.

Just like the damned souls he had put out behind him. This had been the way each punished him, he knew.

He had read somewhere, probably in a life where he had the nobility to be at least well-educated... that the worst way to go was to burn alive.

But here, with his senses fading, Zmey knew that dying like this, dying any sort of way, was better than living at all.

In truth, as he sat there, his back against something rough and wooden that tore his skin... Zmey knew he wanted to end his suffering since the start.

The beginning of this madness, if you could even call it that. He was nauseous and sick, just like the aroma that clouded his vision and bit at his lungs. Sick and tired of it all.

'You would expect,' he contemplated, watching the world around him cave in. 'You would expect that living would be a good thing.'

Why couldn't he live in a world where reincarnation gave chances, not destroy them? He gritted his teeth as flashes of the ritual enclosed his mind, over and over as the flames circled in and—

Screech!

The whistle almost knocked him out of his senses. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, screaming like Zmey was doing now.

It clawed at his temples, falling back from the now-burning log his back was leaning against. That damned noise – he couldn't take it any more.

He couldn't take any of this.

The ritual's reality had always made Zmey want to laugh and kneel in defeat at the same time. Eight times. He had lived eight times and died eight times.

He had fought in battles and terrorised dozens for yet another victory. He was once a slave too. But was it worth it? In all his lives, had Zmey ever truly lived?

He couldn't tell.

And, by the law of the Ninefold Resurrection that he had grown so familiar with, Zmey Ashbane had one life left.

Zmey opened his eyes. Darkness enveloped him, the way it usually was whenever he'd die in his lives; that wasn't a surprise. But this time—this time, something about the scene was different.

In front of him stood a gate, almost laughably plated with gold... and carved with intricate, ethereal designs.

After all he's done, Zmey had as much chance of going to whatever blessed realm there was as bulls flying out of his arse.

Though the shining frame drew him in, it felt familiar. Even the blazing lamps flanking the doorframe seemed like an invitation... beckoning him to open the door.

Zmey filed through the memories circling his psyche. He searched for anything he might have learned about this door.

If he hadn't learned about the Resurrection in his original life, he would have assumed this door was for his final resurrection only.

But nowhere in the ritual books had they mentioned it. Frankly, he couldn't comprehend what the damned thing meant either.

'There's nothing else to do,' Zmey chided... trying to keep the anxious thoughts from rooting him forever in the void. 'I'll have to open the gates, and—'

He couldn't believe he was saying this. 'I must see for myself.'

He regretted his decision as soon as he opened the door. There was the screech again. This time, it pulsed, louder and louder, to match Zmey's agony.

The damned note made it hard to hear anything else, not even his own ragged breathing. It felt as if it were demanding attention, not to Zmey, but to something else beyond the void.

Regardless, it might as well be demanding his attention. Because Zmey was almost certain he was going deaf from the madness-inducing shrieks. Whether he liked it or not.

So, alone in the pitch-black darkness, Zmey Ashbane grinned. Grinned as wide as he could, because if he wasn't grinning, he would weep.

For he knew that in this final life, he'd have to die as well, death by the hands of his loved one, if not himself. The curse of reincarnation.

He thought back to his previous lives; the ones where he hadn't killed himself out of despair. In each one, Zmey had to die.

The same person in a different soul reincarnates, as he had.

His killer from his previous life had plunged into the next. The same pain he had to endure. Ashbane still remembered each of their names.

Yet, he knew they weren't at fault. Or, Zmey was the one who never blamed them.

Some days, he even found himself missing the presence of his ill-fated killer.

Ashbane's mind flashed with visions of his reincarnations. A dark vignette clouded the corners of his vision.

There was the ritual again, the one that cursed him to this fate under the very full moon he used to admire from afar.

He still recalled the metallic scent of blood and the ingredients. All to kick him into endless sorrow.

Zmey paused. He could still feel his surroundings. He could see the faint shadows of himself and the burning log on the pavement as both burned.

Was he still not dead?

Was this his last supply of adrenaline, fighting to keep his charred body alive? The distant flames, the sultry air, all of it as it faded away for a final time…

A gargantuan Western dragon, inflaming roofs and buildings of countless villages... its scales glinting in the setting sun like firelight... its wings dissipating into clouds in its path as evening gave way to a shrouded, dark sky—it was too cruel. It had been too cruel.

Zmey gasped. The almost-real illusion made him feel smoke clogging his throat. But instead, it was the reality of seeing a dragon that was only true in folklore.

The scene shifted once more.

A bulky-armed, pale-skinned young man sat on a throne built of a sort of dark stone. Rich, velvet carpet lined his path. Golden designs flanked each end—alike to the ones on the door.

Pagodas with cream-tinted windows lined the sides of what he presumed to be a throne room. The clouds shrouded them as banners decorated with dragons billowed in the breeze…

'The red dragon is the young man,' Zmey concluded, drawn in with irresistible curiosity.

'My next reincarnation.' But that was impossible.

If he were to gain the young dragon-man's memories, then why get transported to such a place?

This was not the usual way. Everything would have transferred when he held something related to his reincarnation medium. He had to say, this life was unlike any other.

As his vision darkened once more, Zmey couldn't help but wonder if he was content with this life or if he despised it. Every life he had lived wasn't real, and neither would this one be.

Zmey decided he didn't care, didn't care if this man was a beast or a human.

Either way, becoming a dragon with such a cruel history was a role made for him. After all, Zmey was a defect in the end—someone who had to die. He made up his mind.

If I descend to Earth as a dragon, then I would die with little difficulty. Then… then I can finally rest!' He clenched his fist.

There was one more vision, one more before Zmey knew he had to face his ninth and final life.

A young boy... one with stringy, chestnut-brown hair and a curious, scarred face... smiling at someone Ashbane couldn't see.

Zmey felt something tug inside his chest as he realised that this was his original life.

Back when he was himself—Orin Stonewood. Son of the best blacksmith. The top martial arts student at his family's establishment, Zmey could rattle on and on.

'Forgive me, dragon,' Zmey pleaded, pleading as his consciousness faded once more. 'I can't live this life when the people I trust are out to kill me. Only I… only I can understand the pain…'

As he closed his eyes, he accepted whatever meaningless fate lay ahead of him. He had whispered a silent apology. His final condolences to the smiling boy standing in the midsummer light.