Chapter 7: World of Echoes.

Deep rumbles aroused Aza'zel from his deep sleep. Slowly, he propped himself from the roadside and leaned his back against the familiar wall. After shifting his body for a bit, he finally got himself into a comfortable position.

It took many trials and errors over the past few days until he found a comfortable position where he could sit around while minimizing his presence in the world in motion.

The rumbling sounded again, and in response, Aza'zel brought his knees to his chest while his arms wrapped around his folded legs, feeling his stomach undulate and press against his thighs.

Hunger.

Aza'zel would have never thought that even hunger could feel so painful. He wondered why his stomach hurt him, even though it and he were one and the same.

Two dull days followed by three excruciating ones, all due to hunger. However, it seemed like the voices in his head had finally realized that were he to die, they would also die together with him.

With their help, Aza'zel's world of echoes slowly took form, though it was limited to range within earshot, and the constructs of his perception were ill-coordinated with the flow of real-time, much less efficient than optical sensory.

However, Aza'zel had also gained an advantage that even in the absence of light, as long as sounds and echoes existed, he wouldn't be entirely blind.

Just as his stomach tossed about violently, a jarring noise transmitted over, flipping into his world of echoes and visualizing into a swaying wooden wagon being pulled by two humanoid silhouettes.

As the wagon swayed, the voice of a crying child intruded the image, and Aza'zel quickly visualized a small humanoid silhouette blocking the road.

"Get the fuck away!"

Someone screamed, voice deep and threatening. Then, a sound not unlike bones shattering and a heavy object thudding on the ground sounded.

The cursing and everything else resumed as normal except for the immature voice of crying. That voice that was sharp as it was soft suddenly stopped.

Aza'zel froze, not knowing what had transpired.

A warm liquid touched his leather shoes. A dense, metallic scent wafted and assailed his nostrils. The voices in his head erupted, rioting.

He instinctively knew what this liquid was, what this smell was, and where it came from.

"My wagon!"

The rough voice from earlier crashed into Aza'zel's world of echoes like a tide, but the latter seemed to not have noticed nor the shout or the shadow of a spinning wheel launched his way.

Everyone at the scene; young men, rough men, scanty women, children, the decrepit and the remotely vigorous—all of them spared the crash site a fleeting glance before moving on with their lives.

It was only the man who had lost his wagon's wheel who kept track of this event. Not even bothering with the deformed body of the child by his side, he took long yet measured strides toward Aza'zel, his arms throbbing with a promise of violence.

However, his malevolent expression was quickly drowned by a wash of shock, disgust, and terror as he watched the young boy lean over, and with shaky hands scoop a handful of warm, crimson blood off the ground.

The moment Aza'zel moved, the wheel smashed into the wall behind him and crumbled to bits, but the young boy didn't seem to notice at all. Aza'zel didn't know what or why, but hunger and fatigue had long since dulled his rationale, and he was acting but instinctively at the moment, or perhaps it was the instinct of those voices taking shelter within his mind.

His lips parted gently, tongue trembling, and without an ounce of hesitation, he drank his fill.

One handful, another, and yet another.

His actions seemed borderline hysterical and desperate at the moment, but only two people in the sea of hundreds paid little heed. The wagon's owner and Caidir were from the shadows, yet both of them had horrifying pale expressions at the moment.

Driven by impatience, Aza'zel lunged on his knees and began to scoop blood even faster, not caring whether it was blood or dirt in his mouth anymore. He resembled a starved, feral beast who hadn't eaten for weeks.

The more he drank, the hotter his body felt, and his muscles began to twitch visibly as the voice celebrated eerily in his head.

Not enough! Not enough! Feast some more! Feast some more!

Reason had long since been silenced and held captive within his head. In no time at all, Aza'zel drank all the blood there was to scoop, and whatever he hadn't drunk either congealed up into deep crimson clusters on the ground or sunk below.

Despite having drunk his fill, Aza'zel felt his throat so parched that even breathing hurt a little. The gums in his mouth stung, a searing pain wreaking havoc as his canines protruded like fangs, pristine white they were.

The pain knocked Aza'zel's rationality back in place as his head snapped up. Although his eyes were hidden behind a piece of cloth in the shadows of his hood, the huge man across felt as though this young boy was looking straight into his soul.

The man reached into the belt of his pants, thick digits coiled around the handle of a broken machete, yet this weapon that was no stranger to blood failed to provide an ounce of security to his head.

Gulping, he cautiously reached into the wagon, fetched a silk bag with bits of loaf bread peeking through, and tossed the bag at Aza'zel while shouting, "You little beast, stay away from me! Here, go somewhere and eat!"

Aza'zel subconsciously hugged the silk sack when it bumped lightly against his chest, the smell of fresh bread assailing his senses despite his confusion.

Moments later, memories of what had transpired a moment earlier filled his mind, together with a lingering taste of blood that almost flipped his stomach and brought its contents to the ground.

Seeing as the young boy leaned back into his corner of the wall, the man assumed that this matter had ended here and so, he planned to turn tail and take whatever he could from the wagon and run.

It was at this moment that a voice familiar yet unfamiliar to Aza'zel, as immature as it was, echoed from behind the robust man.

"Hey, Bulldog! You're causing trouble for my people and want to walk away scott-free? When did something so good exist in this world?!"

The man's hair stood on end as he whirled around to see another young boy, though this one had spiked red hair and a long scar running diagonally over his face, rendering his right eye useless, while his left shone with a brilliant blue.

"Mind your own business, Saxon! Since when was he one of your people?! Do you take me for a fool!"

The young boy's smiling face immediately took a drastic shift as his lips thinned over, a dangerous glint in his healthy eye as he spoke coldly, "You know, Old Butch was short on meat these days, and you look pretty well-fed to me, Bulldog…"

The man trembled all over, but he didn't dare say a word even as thick beads of sweat rolled down his eyebrows.

Saxon's face resumed that smiling expression as he comforted the man with a pat on his thick shoulder, laughing all the while. "Good lad! Now, off you go! Leave the wagon and everything else behind as compensation to my friend here."

Saxon then turned his head to look at Aza'zel, but what he saw stunned him. Aza'zel had his face tucked into the sack, swallowing bits and pieces of loaf ravenously.