A crowd was waiting for me as I stepped out of the mausoleum. The sun was rising, and villagers and nomads alike circled around me.
“What have you done?” shouted Kirdle. “We will have nothing left. What will we do?”
The elder repeated the question, in some form or another.
I stared up at the sky.
“Sing,” I commanded.
There was silence. I looked deep into the elder’s being. He tried to speak but I bore into him with my eyes, like knives. He seemed at a loss but commanded the nomads to sing.
The song-line formed, at first, like a ball. It spun, dispersing the smoke, and then exploded, shattering the sky like glass. It spread out in countless directions, paths crossing each other in a tangled web. The crowd gasped in horror.
“You foolish boy,” said the elder. “You accursed fool.”
I made King of Punching. I write too.