Prologue
It was the year 1953, and the blizzard had worsened ten times at the mountain ranges of Siberia. The Huskies were beginning to retreat to their warm caves, safe from the turbulent storm. The weather and scenery seemed perfect for the Russian soldiers of who had just finished their training. White, icy mountains towered over them like skyscrapers and the snow lay still, covering the entire plateau as far as the eye could see. Soft, dainty snowflakes became the size of giant, icy cotton balls, raising the height of the snow with each passing moment. The sky was a dark, grey color even though it was deep into the twilight of the day. With each breath, the cold air stung the nostrils of the soldiers as they made their way about the camp.
The huge black boots that went with their uniforms made a noise similar to the crunch of cereal, and massive, black, fur coats dragged along the snow behind them. The camp wasn’t in the most organized manner, but it was good enough to keep them surviving. Numerous green, tattered tents surrounded a blazing bon fire of orange flames that smelled of the cheap liquor and blood-stained clothes that were used to keep its form.
Near the dimming fire, three soldiers stood with rifles and tanks of gasoline at their feet, trying to warm their freezing bodies. The grey, circular goggles were moved to the top of their heads, enabling them to see the environment more clearly. Many of the men were beginning to retreat back to their tents while the three remaining soldiers stayed to keep watch; one being the commander, Mikhail Gorgenbach. Among the three, he was the tallest and broadest. His brown beard was as thick as his fur coat and tired, blood-shot eyes peeked from the shadows of his helmet as he poured himself another cup of lukewarm coffee.
“How did the scouting mission go,” Gorgenbach sighed as he took a sip from his cracked mug. It was one of the only useful items left in the camp that could be used. “I hope the rumors have been confirmed.”
“Affirmative sir,” stated one of the soldiers who went by the name Uri. He was a newbie who was drafted into the war from Moscow. “All of the other surrounding training camps are completely destroyed as the rumors stated. From what we could tell, the bodies were mutilated with slash marks and the ground was littered with severed limbs.”
“Do you think it could’ve been the wild animals?” Gorgenbach asked. It was a possibility that the animals were attacking the soldiers over territorial reasons, but even he knew the chances of that were slim.
“Actually sir,” said the other man who was called Gregori, “the limbs were severed by cleans cuts and none of the soldiers were shot.”
“Impossible!” yelled Gorgenbach as he threw his mug to the ground, “There’s no way anyone could’ve gotten close to our men with blades! There must be another reason!”
Commander Gorgenbach began to turn back to his tent in pure annoyance but stopped dead in his tracks as if he was lassoed from head to toe. Uri and Gregori heard their leader's heavy boots crunch to a stop, and also turned around only to lose their breath at the sight that explained the reason for Gorgenbach’s frozen state. In the darkness of the raging blizzard, two, shining cerulean eyes were seen six feet above the ground.
The men were too afraid to move or even pick up their rifles, it was the way the eyes shined in the shadows; the way they pierced through the soldiers’ souls and gleamed with pure blood lust. With all this in mind, they began to think it was a white tiger because of the almond shaped pupils, but when the figure began to approach them, bringing the sound of snow crunching under boots, only then did they realize it wasn’t a beast, but a man. No, it wasn’t a man, as the figure approached the orange light; they saw a boy who had to be at least seventeen years old. He was tall, with caramel skin that had to be a pigment away from copper with short-cut, silver locks that clung to the sides of his face and forehead do to the wet snow. A black vest and baggy military pants were stained with blood as he stood; falling snow beginning to retreat from his form, as if not wanting to even graze the teenager whose bloodlust glistened and sparkled with every breath he took. Like a tiger ready to tear apart its prey, he strangled the three men with fear.
Both of the boy’s hands were hidden by the shadows, but with a single step into the bon fire light, the soldiers could see what he was holding. In one hand, he dragged a blood-soaked corpse that was covered in slashes and deep gashes. The corpse was a soldier of another camp as far as the commander could tell, but that was all he could see before a gleam of light caught his reddened eye from the other side of the boy. He didn’t have to wait long to see what it was, because the boy's hand had already begun to move. He wasn’t trying to hide what he held in his bloody hand. No, it was as if he wanted the commander to see what would cause him and his soldiers’ demise. It was a Katana, silver and shining, about three feet long, and dripping with crimson liquid.
“Who are you, and what did you do to my men!” Gorgenbach yelled as he slowly began to reach for the gun by his feet. Uri and Gregori had begun to follow his example with eager haste, ready to take down what appeared to be an enemy. Slowly, they took aim, frigid fingers slipping against the frosty metal of their weapons. Fifty yards turned into forty-five, and then into thirty; slow heavy steps quickly turned into swift, fast-paced ones as the boy dropped the mutilated corpse and began to run towards the soldiers of the Soviet Union. Gunfire erupted like volcanic lava and sprayed across the campsite at the incoming enemy, but no evasion to the bullets was made. Instead, they slammed and smacked into the boy, as if he let the fragments of lead enter his body with an exited invitation. The sword was raised high into the air, sending a glare of cold fire from the fire that blinded Gregori, forcing him to lower his weapon and shield his eyes. In that instant, time slowed, and the boy leapt at the defenseless man and met the soldier's death with icy steel.
Crimson blots splattered the boy’s caramel skin and white snow as Gregori fell to the ground in two bloody halves like a slab of meat thrown on a meat locker floor. Uri screamed in pure fear and turned to run, but his cowardice earned him a blade that impaled his back and forced its way through his chest. The boy smiled as the man jerked and gagged as his lungs began to fill with blood. Uri’s face twisted in agony and gnashed his teeth together as the warrior twisted the sword and ripped it from the man’s back, sending a fountain of blood into the dying fire, causing it to flare up in ferocity and dance in passion. As the body fell, the blue-eyed fatale turned to the commander, blood dripping from his arms and sides of his face. Gorgenbach wasn’t ready to give up; he had a wife, and a little boy waiting for him in Samara. Already out of ammo, he grabbed a 45-caliber from his holster and pointed it at the monster, but only empty air and descending snowflakes remained, in place of where the boy was just standing. The commander looked around frantically, but was still unable to find the beast that killed his men; then, like a rain-drop, a dab of warm sticky fluid fell onto his rugged cheek. In a flash, the gun pointed in the air, but the speed of the commander's arm stood no chance against the swift slash that hacked off his arm. The pain was intense, Gorgenbach’s features turned crooked and his knees turned lop-sided and buckled until he was face down in the icy powder which had already begun to soak in his vital fluids.
“What are you?” Gorgenbach asked, trying to get a final glimpse of the being the stood before him. A slender hand slowly picked up the gun that once belonged to the commander, aiming it at the gasoline tanks that lay silent around the fire. Other soldiers were already witnessing the scene, but were overtaken by terror as the rifles vibrated in their shaking hands.
“My name…is…Kuraime,” said the boy as he tightened his grip around the gun. “…Now, please burn for me.”
With a final pull of the trigger, the bullet entered the gasoline tank and ignited, sending a wave of sparkling heat and flame that roared across the campsite, setting the tents and surrounding soldiers on fire. The blizzard had halted; rising smoke entered the air and smothered the sky, choking it. The Soviet Union had fallen.
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