Kael's head hung low, his matted hair obscuring his face as the cold iron chains bit into his wrists. The cell was silent save for the ragged sound of his breathing and the occasional drip of water echoing through the dank chamber. This was how it would end—not in glory, not in battle, but chained like an animal, powerless and broken.
As the moments stretched on, his mind drifted back through the wreckage of his life, each memory a fresh wound. The first and most painful: his village engulfed in flames, the screams of his people ringing in his ears. He saw his mother's outstretched hand, her fingers slipping from his grasp as the smoke choked the life from her lungs. He had been too weak to save her, too weak to even carry her body from the ruins.
Then came the slavers—rough hands and searing pain as the brand kissed his flesh, marking him as property. He had fought, of course, but his struggles were pitiful, his defiance meaningless. Weakness had been his chains long before the iron ones clasped around his wrists.
And Feng Yuan—that smiling viper. The man who had bought him, used him, and now discarded him. Every theft, every kill, every drop of blood spilled had only enriched his master while leaving Kael with nothing but scars. He had watched the gang flourish on the back of his suffering, powerless to change his fate.
Weakness. It was the one constant in his life, the rot that festered in his bones. No matter how he trained, how he schemed, how he bled—it was never enough. The world was cruel, and cruelty favored the strong.
A fire ignited in his chest, burning away the despair. Rage—pure, unrelenting—flooded his veins. He hated this feeling, this helplessness, this insignificance. To be beneath another's boot, to be nothing more than a pawn in their games—it disgusted him.
If I survive this…
The thought was a vow, a promise carved into his soul.
I will never be weak again.
I will drown the world in blood before I kneel.
Unseen, buried within the pile of his discarded clothes, the black crystal pulsed. A faint, eerie glow seeped through the fabric, growing brighter with each beat of Kael's heart. Shadows twisted unnaturally, drawn toward it like moths to a flame.
Then—a voice.
Ancient. Hungry.
"And to what extent are you willing to go?"
The words slithered into his mind, cold and smooth as a blade between the ribs.
Kael did not hesitate. His answer was a snarl, a promise drenched in blood.
"Whatever it takes. I'll paint the rivers red. I'll choke the sky with ashes. I'll climb a mountain of corpses or die trying."
The crystal shattered.
The eruption of power was instantaneous—a tidal wave of primal energy that tore through the cell like a storm. The air itself trembled, thick with the scent of ozone and something darker, something alive.
Outside, the city recoiled.
Non-Awakened citizens collapsed where they stood, their bodies bursting apart in grotesque blossoms of crimson. The blood did not pool—it moved, drawn inward, swirling toward the cell in a macabre vortex.
Inside, the three men could only watch in horror.
The Baron, his fine silks drenched in sweat and urine, clawed at the ground as blood leaked from his nose and ears. His jowls quivered, his mind unable to comprehend the force pressing down upon him.
Sven, the unshakable mercenary, retched violently, his body betraying him. Every instinct screamed to flee, but his limbs refused to obey.
Gaston, the twisted beastman, whimpered like a beaten dog, his claws scraping uselessly against the stone.
The crystal shards moved, hovering in the air like fragments of a broken star. Then—with a sound like a thousand bones snapping—they pierced Kael's chest.
His back arched, his mouth open in a silent scream as power flooded his veins.
He Awakened.
Muscles writhed beneath his skin, reshaping, reforging. Bones cracked and mended, stronger than steel. Across his back, a tattoo burned into existence—an eight-pointed star, its edges smoldering as if fresh from the forge.
The chains holding him glowed red-hot, then shattered.
Kael hung suspended in the air, wreathed in a corona of white fire. When his eyelids lifted, there were no eyes—only an abyssal glow, the void given form.
Gaston was the first to break.
"P-p-please, M-master—" he stammered, his voice a wet, choking thing.
Kael's hand rose. A voice not his own spoke—a voice that was legion, that was hunger, that was ending.
"Fade."
Gaston unraveled.
His fingers dissolved first, crumbling to ash. Then his arms, his torso, his face—each part of him disintegrating as if erased from existence. His screams cut off abruptly, and then—he was gone. Not just dead. Forgotten. His very memory tore from the world, leaving no trace behind.
Sven acted next.
With a roar, he summoned his katana, mana flaring around him in a desperate attempt to resist the crushing aura. He moved faster than sight, a blur of steel and fury—
And froze.
Kael's fingertip touched his forehead.
"Wait—"
A flick.
Sven detonated.
Not into gore. Not into blood. Into nothingness. One moment he was there—the next, he simply wasn't.
The Baron sobbed openly, his body convulsing in terror.
"PLEASE! GOLD! POWER! MY DAUGHTER—TAKE HER, TAKE ANYTHING—"
Kael clenched his fist.
The Baron imploded, his pleas collapsing into a singularity of gore before winking out of existence.
Kael appeared above the city, floating atop the carnage like a god surveying his domain. Below, thousands lived, laughed, breathed—unaware of the doom hovering above them.
He raised his hands.
"Die."
The command was law.
Buildings crumbled, their foundations dissolving like sugar in water.
People burst in unison, their bodies erupting in grotesque sprays of crimson.
The earth itself split, great fissures tearing through the streets, swallowing entire districts whole.
When it was done, only silence remained.
Kael gazed at the sky, a frown on his visage, and he swiped his hand across the sky, disappearing once more