THE KING WHO HAD NO MAGIC

CHAPTER 7: THE VILLAGE IN OF THE LOST

"Step faster, Jack. The beacon you lit is a dinner bell for the Inquisition," Silas rattled, his straw limbs clicking as we broke through the dense thicket of the Death-Mist.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Every breath felt like I was inhaling crushed glass, my chest still vibrating from the Black-Iron core I’d absorbed. The Star-Steel hilt in my hand felt heavy, pregnant with a blade that hadn't yet been born.

We cleared a ridge and the mist suddenly thinned, revealing a hollow filled with lopsided shacks and tents made of scavenged hides. It smelled of woodsmoke and desperation.

"A village? In the middle of this hell?" I rasped, my voice sounding like grinding stones.

"The Village of the Lost," Silas said, tipping his burlap head. "Failed mages, broken knights, and anyone else who couldn't pay the Crown’s 'talent tax.' It’s the only place the mana-hounds don't go. The desperation here is too bitter, even for them."

As we descended, the inhabitants crawled out of their hovels. They were hollow-cheeked, their eyes sunken. Many had scarred forearms—the mark of "Siphon-Burning."

"Who goes there?" a man shouted, wielding a rusted pitchfork. His mana-veins were grey, dead. "We’ve got nothing left! The collectors already took the month’s quota!"

"Lower the iron, Garen," Silas called out. "I’ve brought a friend. Or at least, a very hungry shadow."

Garen looked at me, then at the glowing golden tattoo on my arm. He spat on the ground. "Another one of Malakor’s rejects? Or a spy?"

"I’m the man who’s going to kill him," I said.

The village fell silent. Then, a hollow laugh rippled through the crowd.

"Big words for a man carrying a hunk of scrap metal," a woman sneered, leaning against a post. "We’ve heard it all before. Then the collectors show up, and the heroes start screaming just like the rest of us."

"The collectors are here?" Silas asked, his red eyes dimming.

"At the elder’s hut," Garen whispered, his bravado vanishing. "They’re behind schedule. Malakor wants a 'bonus' for the Knight’s Trial festivities."

A piercing scream shattered the conversation. It came from the center of the camp. I didn't wait. I moved, the Null-Pattern making me a blur of motion.

I rounded a corner and saw them. Three men in crimson robes—the Tax-Mages. They held a small girl, no older than ten, by her hair. She was kneeling in the dirt, a glass orb pressed against her throat.

"Please!" an old man—the Elder—begged on his knees. "She’s too young! She doesn't have enough mana to fill a lamp! It’ll kill her!"

"The quota is absolute, old man," the lead collector said, his voice dripping with boredom. "If the mana isn't in the blood, then we take the blood itself. It’s simple alchemy."

The glass orb began to glow a sickly, pulsing red. The girl’s face turned gray as her life force began to drain into the vessel.

"Let her go," I said, stepping into the light.

The lead collector didn't even look up. "Another peasant with a hero complex. Marcus, handle this nuisance."

The mage named Marcus turned, a sneer twisting his lips. He raised a hand, a ball of concentrated fire forming in his palm. "Kneel, trash, or burn."

"I'm tired of kneeling," I said.

Marcus launched the fireball. I didn't dodge. I stepped forward and caught it.

The crowd gasped. The fire didn't burn me; it spiraled into my palm, vanishing into the Void-Grasp. I felt the heat settle in my gut, fueled by the Black-Iron core.

"What... what are you?" Marcus stammered, backing away.

I closed the distance in a single stride. I didn't use a weapon. I grabbed his throat. "I'm the tax collector."

I didn't just drain his mana; I drained his warmth. His arrogance. His very light. Marcus withered in my grip, his crimson robes sagging as he turned into a husked version of himself. I tossed him aside like a bag of dry leaves.

"You!" the lead collector roared, dropping the girl and drawing a silver-encrusted staff. "That was royal property! You’re committing treason against the Crown!"

"The Crown is a debt I'm here to settle," I said.

The lead mage began to chant, the air around him shimmering with high-level defensive wards. "You think you’re strong? You’re a freak! A Hollow! You’re nothing but a vacuum that will eventually implode!"

"Maybe," I said, walking through his fire-wards as if they were cobwebs. "But you’ll be long gone by then."

I reached for the staff, but a sudden, booming horn echoed from the ridge.

"The Royal Guard!" the girl’s mother wailed. "They’ve brought the Siphon-Engine!"

A massive, iron-clad carriage pulled by six armored beasts crested the hill. Atop it sat a device made of spinning rings and glowing crystals—a machine designed to strip the mana from an entire square mile.

"You’re too late, hero!" the lead collector laughed, even as I held him by the collar. "The engine is active! It will pull the soul right out of your body!"

The machine hummed, a low-frequency vibration that made the very ground groan. I felt the pull. It wasn't like the Hydra; this was artificial, violent, and relentless. It started to yank at the Black-Iron core in my chest.

"Jack! Get out of there!" Silas yelled from the shadows. "You can't fight a machine with physics!"

I looked at the girl, shivering in the dirt. I looked at the villagers, who were already collapsing as the engine began to harvest their remaining life.

Something inside me snapped. The "hunger" didn't just grow; it evolved. The gold light of the tattoo on my arm flickered once, then died, replaced by a darkness so deep it seemed to swallow the sun.

"You want my mana?" I whispered.

I looked at the lead collector. He stopped laughing. He stared into my eyes and let out a strangled whimper.

"Your eyes..." he choked out. "They’re gone..."

I let go of his neck. I didn't need to hold him anymore. The darkness was pouring out of my sockets, spilling down my face like ink. It wasn't a spell. It was the mark of the Void—the sign that the seal wasn't just cracked; it was shattered.

"Give me everything," I commanded.

The Siphon-Engine groaned. The spinning rings began to spark, then reversed their direction. The dark light from the machine, instead of pulling from the village, began to flow directly into me.

The lead collector tried to run, but the darkness from my shadow reached out and latched onto his ankles.

"Wait! Please!" he screamed. "I have a family! I have a title!"

"I have a grudge," I said.

The engine began to glow a violent, unstable violet. The sky above the village turned black as a midnight sea, and the ground began to liquify under my feet.

"Jack, stop!" Silas screamed, his voice barely audible over the roar of the Void. "You’ll kill them all! You’re not just eating the magic anymore—you’re eating the reality!"

I didn't stop. I couldn't. I watched as the young girl looked up at me, her eyes wide with a new kind of terror. She didn't see a savior.

She saw the end of the world.

And through the darkness, I saw a single figure standing on the roof of the Siphon-Engine, clapping slowly.

"Bravo, Jack," Malakor’s voice carried through the storm, clear and cold. "You’ve finally shown them what you really are. Now... shall we see who the real master of the Void is?