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The horse's hooves thundered against packed dirt, each beat a desperate rhythm that matched Flame's racing heart.
Right now he'd take any kind of pain over the image burned into his mind.
Wemmbu. Chained. Those dark horns barely visible in the light of the podium, tail lashing weakly against stone floor. And LettuceK standing over him with that look—that look that said he'd already planned every detail of what came next.
When If I become king of this server, Lettuce had said, voice carrying through the entirety of the below of the podium where the entire server stood, My first act as king will be to swiftly execute Wemmbu.
Flame urged his horse faster, even though his legs ached from days of riding. Even though he didn't know where he was going anymore.
He just knew he had to get away.
"Come on, bro," he muttered to the horse, patting its neck. The animal huffed but obeyed, pushing through the exhaustion. They'd been riding for three days straight now, only stopping when absolutely necessary.
What mattered was distance. Distance between him and Lettuce. Distance between him and the same fate Wemmbu was facing.
The worst part? The absolute worst part was that Flame had run.
He'd seen Wemmbu there—his rival, his enemy, the guy who'd made his life hell on this server more times than he could count—and Flame had turned around and bolted like a coward. Didn't even try to break him out. Didn't even think about it until he was already miles away.
And by then...
By then it was too late.
Flame's hands tightened on the reins, his fingers sparking slightly. Small flames licked at his knuckles before he forcibly calmed himself down. Couldn't afford to spook the horse. Couldn't afford to leave a trail of fire for Lettuce to follow.
You could've saved him, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You could've tried.
"Shut up," Flame said aloud, startling a bird from a nearby tree. "Just—shut up, bro."
But the voice didn't shut up. It never did.
Soon, night fell, and Flame finally let the horse slow to a walk. They were deep in what felt like spruce forest now—he could tell by the scent of the trees, the slight chill in the air. The horse needed rest. Hell, Flame needed rest, but every time he tried to close his eyes, he saw Wemmbu's face.
Not scared. That was the thing. Wemmbu hadn't looked scared.
He'd looked determined. As if he knew he was going to escape. Flame hoped he did and that all that determination didn’t go to waste.
Flame slid off the horse with a grunt, his legs almost giving out beneath him. Three days of near-constant riding would do that. He led the animal to a small clearing he could barely sense, relying on the way sound echoed off trees to map out the space. Years of living with the blindfold had taught him to navigate, but it was still harder when he was this tired.
He tied the horse to a tree, made sure it had access to some grass, then collapsed onto the ground himself.
"One week," he said to the darkness. To himself. To nobody. "It's been one week since I ran, bro. Lettuce is probably already king."
His throat felt tight.
"Which means Wemmbu is..."
He couldn't finish the sentence. Didn't want to. Because saying it out loud would make it real, and if it was real, then Flame would have to accept that he'd let someone die. Sure, Wemmbu was annoying. Sure, they'd fought more times than Flame could count, always trying to one-up each other, always at each other's throats about something.
But dead?
Flame pressed his palms against his eyes, even though the blindfold meant he couldn't see anyway. The pressure helped somehow. Grounded him.
"He's not dead," Flame said firmly. "No way, bro. Wemmbu's too stubborn to die. Too much of a pain in the ass to just—to just let Lettuce win like that."
But even as he said it, doubt crept in like cold water seeping through armor.
Flame's hands clenched into fists.
"Stop it," he told himself. "Stop thinking about it."
But how could he stop? How was he supposed to think about anything else when he'd abandoned someone to execution? When he'd chosen his own survival over even attempting a rescue?
You didn't know if you could save him, his mind argued. You didn't even have a plan. You would've just gotten yourself captured too.
At least then you would've tried, another part of him shot back.
Flame rolled onto his side, curling up slightly. The ground was hard and cold beneath him, and he missed having an actual bed. Missed having a base. Missed having somewhere that felt even remotely safe.
Missed having someone to argue with, even if that someone was Wemmbu being an absolute menace about everything.
The horse nickered softly nearby, and Flame forced himself to take a breath. Then another. The animal depended on him. He couldn't afford to fall apart completely.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly. "Tomorrow we'll figure out where to go next. Maybe to Lomedy’s. It’s two days away from here. Lettuce won't look for us there for now."
Us. As if Wemmbu was still...
Flame squeezed his eyes shut tighter behind the blindfold.
Flame had managed maybe two hours of sleep before his mind decided to torture him with images he couldn't actually see but could imagine all too vividly.
He jerked awake with a gasp, flames erupting from his hands in panic. The horse whinnied and stamped nervously until Flame got himself under control, extinguishing the fire before it could spread.
"Sorry, bro," Flame muttered, going over to calm the animal. "Sorry. I'm good. We're good."
They weren't good.
Nothing about this was good.
Flame had been rationing his food, but supplies were running low. He'd have to risk going to a village soon, maybe trade for some bread and carrots. But villages meant people, and people meant potential witnesses who could report his location to Lettuce.
If Lettuce was even looking.
If Lettuce wasn't too busy being king to care about one runner who'd escaped.
One runner, Flame thought bitterly. Not two. Because Wemmbu didn't escape.
He mounted the horse again, not bothering with breakfast. His stomach was too twisted to eat anyway.
As they rode, Flame found himself talking. Just... talking into the void, filling the silence with words because the alternative was drowning in his own thoughts.
“Bro, you were a fucking idiot. The biggest asshole i’ve seen—“
His hands tightened on the reins.
The horse's pace faltered, sensing Flame's distress, but he urged it onward. Keep moving. Had to keep moving. If he stopped for too long, the thoughts would catch up and consume him completely.
"You're not dead," Flame said, forcing conviction into his voice. "You're not, bro. You're probably just—just locked up somewhere. Lettuce is being dramatic about the whole thing because that's what he does."
It was a thin hope. Gossamer-thin, barely there at all.
But it was all Flame had.
By the eighth day, Flame had stopped trying to convince himself.
The words felt hollow now. Empty. Wemmbu is alive didn't mean anything when he had no proof, no way of knowing. It had been over a week since he'd run. Over a week since he'd seen those chains, heard Lettuce's cold promise of execution.
Lettuce had probably already claimed his throne. Had probably already made his statement.
Had probably already—
Flame couldn't finish the thought. Not out loud. Not even in his head.
He couldn't handle that. Couldn't handle confirmation.
So he kept riding, kept moving, kept pretending like distance would somehow make this better.
It didn't.
Flame made camp that night in a small cave, barely large enough for him and the horse. It was risky—caves meant monsters, meant potential ambushes—but it was starting to rain, and he couldn't bring himself to care about the danger.
He built a small fire with his powers, just enough to take the chill off, then sat with his back against the stone wall. The horse dozed nearby, exhausted from the constant travel.
"Tell me about chaos," Flame said softly, addressing the memory of Wemmbu rather than the actual person. "You always said you were born from chaos energy, right?”
He could almost hear Wemmbu's response: Yeah, bro, obviously.
"If you're made of chaos," Flame continued, voice barely above a whisper, "then maybe you can't die. Maybe chaos doesn't work like that. Maybe you just... reform somewhere else. Start over."
It was fantasy. Wishful thinking. Flame knew that.
But he needed something to hold onto.
"Come on, bro," he said, and his voice broke on the last word. "Give me something. Give me a sign that you're still out there being a pain in everyone's ass. Blow something up. Start a fight. Do literally anything that proves you're not just—"
Gone.
The fire flickered. Rain pattered outside the cave entrance.
Nothing else happened.
Flame pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his forehead against them.
"I should've tried bro," he whispered. "I should've at least tried to get you out. Even if it was stupid. Even if we both would've died. At least then I wouldn't be—"
Alone.
The word hung in the air, unspoken but deafening.
Flame had never realized how much he'd relied on Wemmbu's presence until it was gone. Yeah, they fought. Yeah, they drove each other crazy. But there was something solid about their rivalry, something that made the server feel less empty.
Made him feel less empty.
And now?
Now there was just silence and guilt and the growing certainty that he'd lost something he could never get back.
The rain picked up outside, drumming against stone. Flame stared into the fire, watching the flames dance—his element, the one thing he should have control over, and yet he felt so powerless.
"It's too late," Flame muttered. "Even if I got strong enough, it's too late. The execution probably already—"
He cut himself off with a sharp breath.
Stop running and actually do something, a voice whispered in his mind. It sounded like Wemmbu, but Flame knew it was just his own guilt talking. So what if it's too late? Better than this.
Flame sat up straighter, staring at the fire with new intensity.
What was he doing? Running endlessly, achieving nothing, slowly wasting away into nothing? That wasn't living. That was just... existing. Barely.
And if Wemmbu really was—if he really was gone—then what? Flame would just keep running for the rest of his life? Let Lettuce win completely?
Let Wemmbu's death mean nothing?
"No," Flame said aloud, and there was steel in his voice for the first time in days. "No, that's not—I can't just—"
He stood up abruptly, pacing the small cave. The horse stirred but didn't wake.
There were people on this server who were better than him. Way better. PVP legends who could probably take Lettuce in their sleep. Flame had always been good in a fight, but good wasn't enough. Not for this.
But if he found someone to train him...
His fire flickered brighter as the realization solidified into something more concrete. A plan. Not a good plan, not even a safe plan, but a plan nonetheless.
"I need to find someone," Flame said, speaking faster now, the words tumbling out like they'd been building up for days. "Someone who can actually fight. There's gotta be someone on this server who's better than Lettuce, right?"
The horse huffed, and Flame took it as agreement.
"Yeah. Yeah, bro, there is. There's always someone better. I just need to find them. Convince them to train me." He laughed, sharp and bitter. "Shouldn't be too hard.”
But even as he mocked himself, the idea took root. Grew. Became something he could actually see himself doing.
He'd been decent in combat before the blindfold. And After? He'd adapted. Learned to fight without sight, relying on sound and instinct and his fire powers to compensate.
He could get better.
He had to get better.
"I don't know if you're alive," Flame said quietly, and the admission hurt like a physical wound. "I don't know if I'm too late. But bro, I can't—I can't just keep running. Can't keep living with this hanging over me."
The cave felt smaller suddenly. Suffocating. Like the walls were closing in with the weight of his choices.
Flame stood up again, more certain this time. He moved to the cave entrance, letting the rain hit his face. It was cold. Sharp. Real.
"If you're still alive bro," he said to the storm, to Wemmbu, to himself, "then I'm coming back for you. I'll train until I can take Lettuce down, and I'll get you out of there."
A pause. The rain drummed harder.
"And if you're not..."
His jaw clenched. Flames sparked at his fingertips before he controlled them.
"If you're not, then Lettuce is gonna pay for it. For you. For making me feel like this. For all of it."
The certainty in his voice surprised him. This wasn't hope—hope was too fragile, too easy to shatter. This was something harder. Darker. A purpose forged from guilt and rage and the desperate need to do something instead of nothing.
Flame turned back to look at his horse, at the dying fire, at the temporary shelter that represented everything he'd been for the past week and a half.
"Not anymore," he said softly.
He didn't know how long it would take. Didn't know if he'd even find someone willing to help. Didn't know if Wemmbu would still be alive by the time Flame was ready to face Lettuce.
But he knew he couldn't keep running.
Flame moved back into the cave, settling down near the fire. His body was still exhausted, still aching from days of travel and stress. But his mind felt clearer than it had since this whole nightmare began.
Wait for me, Flame thought, sending the words out into the void where Wemmbu might or might not still exist to receive them. Just—just wait a little longer, bro. I'm coming. I swear I'm coming.
The fire crackled. The rain continued. And slowly, finally, Flame let his eyes close behind the blindfold.
His last conscious thought wasn't of guilt this time, or regret, or the crushing weight of his own cowardice. It was of determination. Of the path ahead, however unclear it might be.
He'd find someone to train him. He'd get stronger. And then—rescue or revenge, salvation or retribution—he'd go back.
He'd face what he'd run from.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd finally do something right.