Draven stood there, unmoving.
On the outside, he looked steady. Still. In control.
But inside—
**Everything was screaming.**
Every breath felt like broken glass in his lungs.
Every heartbeat sent fire through his veins.
His muscles were tearing themselves apart, his nerves screaming in protest, his bones aching like they were about to split. It felt like his body was being **ripped open from the inside**, thread by thread, cell by cell.
He could barely feel his fingers.
His legs were shaking.
His vision blurred at the edges.
*…Fuck.*
He swallowed hard.
*I can barely stand.*
The world tilted for a second, and he had to subtly shift his weight to keep from collapsing.
*My body just wants to drop.*
To fall.
To shut down.
To give in.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
Not while he was still breathing.
Not while his mother was sitting behind him, bleeding, barely holding on.
Not while those bastards were standing there thinking they could finish this.
His jaw tightened.
*As long as I'm still breathing…*
He took another step forward.
Pain detonated through his leg.
He didn't even flinch.
*…I won't stop moving.*
The knights tensed.
Shields lifted higher.
Mana flared unevenly.
They could **feel** it.
That something was wrong.
That something was off.
This wasn't a man standing in front of them.
This was a thing held together by rage and will alone.
Draven's gaze swept across them.
Cold.
Calculating.
*Anyone that—*
His eye locked onto the nearest knight.
*—anyone that comes near her…*
*…dies.*
A knight took a step.
Just one.
Boot scraping against stone.
The sound was small.
Insignificant.
Not charging. Not rushing. Testing.
His shield lifted, sword angled, cautious but confident. He thought the boy was bluffing. Thought the shaking legs meant weakness. Thought the blood meant he was already dead.
He was wrong.
Draven moved.
Not fast.
Not flashy.
**Precise.**
The knight barely had time to register motion before Draven was **inside his guard**.
A sharp, brutal step.
Draven's shoulder slammed into the knight's chest, driving the air from his lungs with a wet *whump*. The shield came up too late.
Draven's dagger hand snapped forward.
Not to the throat.
Not to the chest.
Lower.
Under the rib.
Between the plates.
The blade **punched in**.
The knight gasped—an ugly, wet sound—eyes widening in shock.
Draven didn't pull it out.
He stepped closer.
Crowded him.
His other hand grabbed the back of the knight's helmet and **yanked his head down**.
Then he drove the dagger **up**.
Hard.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
The steel scraped bone.
Blood burst from the knight's mouth as Draven twisted the blade and ripped it free.
The knight sagged.
Draven didn't let him fall.
He held him there, forehead nearly touching the visor.
Quiet.
Close.
Intimate.
Then he **let go**.
The body hit the ground with a heavy, dead sound.
Silence.
Thick.
Suffocating.
Blood pooled at Draven's boots.
He straightened slowly.
His breathing was heavy.
Uneven.
His hands were shaking now—not from fear, but from pain and exhaustion.
He didn't say a word.
Didn't threaten.
Didn't taunt.
He just lifted his gaze.
And stared.
The knights froze.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Because they had just seen it.
Not magic.
Not power.
Not tricks.
A half-dead boy had stepped forward and **killed a trained knight like it was nothing**.
The First Captain's jaw tightened.
The Second Captain's eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating.
Elira's breath caught.
Her fingers tightened around her staff.
"…He didn't use mana," someone whispered.
Draven shifted his weight.
His leg nearly gave.
He caught himself.
Barely.
*…Fuck…*
Pain ripped through him again, white-hot, vicious.
He ignored it.
Stood anyway.
Because behind him—
Elliana was breathing.
Weak.
Shallow.
Alive.
And that was all that mattered.
Draven's voice finally came.
Low.
Rough.
Dead calm.
"…That was the warning."
The knights did not move.
Not yet.
But fear had entered the line.
Real fear.
And they all knew it.
This wasn't a fight anymore.
It was going to be a **slaughter**.
Elira's lips parted slightly.
Her eyes, glowing faintly with divine light, were locked on Draven.
Not in fear. Not in hatred.
In **shock**.
Her grip tightened around her staff as realization settled in, heavy and cold.
"…It isn't that he didn't use mana," she said slowly.
The words cut through the silence.
Several knights turned toward her.
Confused.
"What do you mean?" one whispered.
Elira's brows drew together, her voice lowering, uneasy.
"I haven't sensed any mana from him," she continued.
"Not before. Not now. Not even a trace."
Her gaze sharpened.
"…He isn't holding back."
A ripple of unease moved through the line.
"He's unable to use mana."
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
The Second Captain's eyes flicked to Draven again, this time with something new—something darker.
"…You're saying he did that," she said slowly, "like this?"
Elira nodded once.
Grim.
Yes.
Silence.
Thick.
Heavy.
Oppressive.
A knight swallowed hard.
Another shifted his stance, armor faintly clinking.
Someone else took an involuntary step back.
Draven stood there, chest rising and falling hard, blood dripping from his dagger, his body visibly trembling now from strain.
No aura.
No glow.
No power.
Just **meat and will**.
Just a boy held together by rage and refusal.
Elliana coughed weakly behind him.
Draven flinched instantly and half-turned.
"Mom," he muttered, panic flickering through his eyes.
"Hey—hey, don't move, I said don't move…"
She tried to smile.
Failed.
Blood stained her lips.
"I'm… fine," she lied softly.
Draven's jaw clenched so hard it ached.
He turned back to the knights.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His stance wasn't perfect anymore.
His shoulders sagged slightly.
His breathing was ragged.
Every line of his body screamed that he was at his limit.
But his eyes—
His eyes were **murder**.
"I don't need mana," he said quietly.
Not a shout. Not a threat. A fact.
"I don't need shadows. I don't need anything."
He lifted the dagger slightly.
Just enough for them to see the blood running down the edge.
"I just need you to step closer."
No one did.
The First Captain exhaled slowly through her nose.
"…He's stalling," she said.
"He's buying time."
The Second Captain's gaze flicked to Elliana.
Then back to Draven.
"And he's dying while he does it."
Draven heard that.
He smiled.
Small.
Crooked.
"Yeah," he said.
"And you're still not moving."
A knight twitched.
Draven's head snapped to him instantly.
Eyes locked.
The knight froze.
Didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Didn't dare.
Because he knew.
They all did.
The next one who moved…
Was going to die just as badly.
Maybe worse.
And Draven?
Draven was already leaning forward.
Just a little.
Daring them.
A knight scoffed.
The sound was sharp in the silence.
Nervous.
Forced.
Trying to convince himself more than anyone else.
"If he can't use mana," he said loudly, stepping half a pace forward,
"then why the hell are we still standing here? He's just a wounded boy. We can kill him."
A few heads turned.
Some in agreement.
Some in unease.
The Second Captain's jaw tightened.
Elira's eyes flicked sharply toward the knight.
Draven slowly tilted his head.
Just… slightly.
Like something examining prey.
"…Wow," he muttered.
Then he laughed.
Not loud.
Not amused.
A short, breathless sound.
Dry.
Broken.
"Jesus… you're a fucking moron."
The knight bristled.
"What did you say—"
Draven cut him off.
"Try using your damn brain," he said flatly.
"I know it's hard. Might hurt a little. But give it a shot."
He took a step forward.
His leg shook violently.
He didn't hide it.
Didn't care.
His eyes never left the knight.
"Let me remind you of something," Draven continued.
"Even without mana… even like this…"
His smile sharpened.
"I killed her."
The name didn't need to be said.
Everyone knew.
Kaela.
The commander.
The one who had just been giving orders minutes ago.
The one whose body was still cooling in the dirt.
Draven's voice dropped.
Low.
Deadly.
"…I put your commander in the ground."
Silence slammed down.
Hard.
The knight's face drained.
Someone inhaled sharply.
Another knight's grip tightened on his sword.
The First Captain's eyes flicked briefly—just once—to where Kaela's body lay.
Still.
Broken.
Gone.
Draven saw it.
And his grin widened.
"You think you're better than her?" he asked.
"Stronger? Faster? Smarter?"
He shook his head slowly.
Almost pitying.
"No. You're just louder."
The knight swallowed.
Hard.
Draven leaned forward a fraction.
"Now here's what's going to happen," he said calmly.
"You're either going to stay right where you are…"
A step.
Slow.
Deliberate.
"…or you're going to walk over here…"
Another step.
His breathing was heavy now.
Ragged.
Blood was dripping from his chin.
"…and I'm going to open you up in front of your friends."
He stopped.
Pointed the dagger at the knight.
Not shaking.
Steady.
"Your choice."
The knight hesitated.
Just a second.
Just long enough.
Draven's eyes flicked to his feet.
Then back up.
"…That's what I thought."
The knight didn't move.
Didn't dare.
Behind Draven, Elliana coughed again.
Weak. Wet.
Draven flinched instantly, tension spiking.
His back straightened.
His stance widened.
Protective.
Possessive.
"You hear that?" he said without looking away from the knights.
"That's the only reason you're still breathing."
The Second Captain's voice cut in, cold and sharp.
"…Enough."
Her eyes locked onto Draven.
"You're brave," she said.
"I'll give you that."
Draven smiled at her.
"Takes courage to die tired."
Her lip twitched.
Not amused.
The First Captain exhaled slowly.
"…We can't keep hesitating," she murmured.
Elira's grip tightened on her staff.
Her gaze flicked between Draven and Elliana.
Conflict in her eyes.
And Draven?
Draven rolled his shoulders once.
Winced.
Nearly collapsed.
But stayed standing.
Because he knew.
They were done talking.
The next movement—
Would be blood.