Prometheus' Flame (3)

By some instinct, Prometheus felt that he must have been very good at killing in the past. Otherwise, there was no explaining why slaughtering the Walking Corpses came so naturally to him.

The speed at which he swung that one-handed hammer and smashed the corpses' heads was no slower than when he forged iron blanks—if anything, it was faster. Though the Walking Corpses were many, not one of them could get close to him and Tia. Every one of them turned into a headless monster from some horror story on the way over.

Was that a good thing?

He did not know. But for a moment—he felt a surge of joy rising in his heart, as if he had been born to do this.

He was meant to kill them.

The sudden thought sent a chill through Prometheus, and he began to suspect his former identity even more deeply. Who was I before? Why do I feel pleasure?

He received no answer. Only a vaguer, more abstract concept rose from the depths of his heart.

Killing the enemies of mankind is your duty, the concept said—but the voice it used was not the one Prometheus had always used when whispering to himself. It was an unfamiliar voice.

This voice was powerful, steadfast, and carried a sincerity like furnace fire. With unprecedented force, it dispelled all the gloom hidden in his heart. Prometheus froze slightly, and even the motion of swinging his hammer slowed, drawing a cry of alarm from the girl in his arms.

"Uncle Prometheus, it's going to grab you!"

Tia was right. This Walking Corpse was far more agile than its kind, and its hands had somehow degenerated into a pair of hideous claws, thick green fluid dripping continuously from those rotten fingers. Being scratched by it probably