A few days later
Ash stood alone on the wide, pale-gray platform that stretched into the open sky like some ceremonial stage built just to shame him. The wind was gentle, brushing his coat, but even that felt irritating today. Everything felt irritating today. His jaw was locked tight, teeth grinding behind a face that tried very hard to stay still, unreadable.
Crowds gathered in clusters around the memorial grounds below. Thousands, maybe more. All packed shoulder to shoulder, holding candles, holding banners, holding each other. Their voices were hushed, a heavy quiet hovering over them like the shadow of a storm. Every few seconds, a soft sob, a sniffle, a whispered prayer. He could hear all of it, every sound carrying up to the platform like it was aimed at him directly.
He hated being here. Hated that he was chosen for this.
'Chosen.' As if it had ever been a choice.
Down below stood a massive marble wall, smooth and cold, carved with hundreds of names. Victims. People who had died six years ago, because of Richie and Kesher. His brother. His father. Their names were etched at the very bottom of the wall, not as victims, but as monsters.
He didn't need to look at the carving to know where they were. His memory replayed it too often… like a punishment he couldn't escape even in sleep.
A woman in the middle of the crowd beat her chest like she was choking on air. Her husband held onto her, whispering something in her ear, but it wasn't working. She was breaking apart, right in front of everyone. And no one stopped to help.
Near the front, a man stood frozen, lips moving soundlessly. His hands were clenched into fists, knuckles white. Like if he uncurled them, he'd collapse.
And then there was the kid, couldn't have been older than Ash, screaming himself raw, cursing the heroes, the world, the sky. He cursed Richie's name, spat on the ground, pulled at his own hair like he wanted to rip it out. His friends tried to hold him back, but he fought against them, his voice raw with years of pain that never had a place to go.
Ash looked away. His body still shook. His chest felt tight, so tight, like something inside him was about to snap.
He didn't want to be here.
He wanted to leave. To run. To disappear.
Or maybe… just stop existing.
But then what?
Would it change anything? Would they forgive him? Would they let him rest? Would they finally stop hating him? Or would they just spit on his grave?
'Traitor's blood.
He shouldn't be here.
They should've locked him up too.
He's just like them.
How can they let him stand up there?'
He swallowed, the anger tightening in his throat. He kept his face blank, but inside, he was burning through every thought.
Richie.
Kesher.
Two names that once meant warmth, home, comfort. Now nothing but a stain he had to carry everywhere. Even after six years, the story was never allowed to fade. The Hero Association made sure of that. They brought him here today on purpose. They knew the crowd would tear him apart with their eyes.
They always did.
He remembered the day of the incident too clearly. The chaos. The betrayal. The headlines. Every news channel screaming the same story—two heroes turning against the world, tearing down entire city blocks, nearly killing the 'Wargods'. And in the end, leaving Ash with a life that no longer belonged to him.
He exhaled sharply, forcing himself away from the memory.
Few higher-ups were standing far behind him now, pretending they weren't watching him, pretending they didn't put him on this stage like a token of "unity." They wanted to show the public that even the son of monsters "stood with them." They wanted to mock him without saying a word.
He gripped the railing, knuckles going pale.
His blood boiled at Richie and Kesher… but he also hated the people who sent him here today knowing exactly what kind of reaction it would provoke.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Standing here was humiliating enough.
A soft gust passed through the crowd, and for a moment everything went still.
A little girl down below placed a single white flower on the wall. Her hands were shaking. Someone, maybe her mother, held her shoulders gently.
Ash watched with a slow, sinking heaviness in his chest. He took one step back, exhaling through his teeth, trying to calm the pulse thundering under his skin. His mind kept circling back:
I didn't choose this blood.
I didn't choose that family.
I didn't choose any of this.
The whispering from the crowd swelled again. A few fingers pointed upward at the platform where he stood. He knew the look. He'd grown up with it these past six years. No matter how many beings he saved, no matter how many rifts he closed, no matter how many times he put his life on the line—it always came back to this.
One incident. Two names. His entire life rewritten by their choices.
He stared at the engraving on the bottom of the marble wall—the two names he pretended not to see. His brother's handwriting flashed through his mind. His father's voice echoed faintly. He crushed the memories instantly.
Ash's fingers twitched with the urge to leave. To walk off the platform. But walking away would make them think he was ashamed. Staying here made him feel humiliated. There was no winning this.
So he stood still.
If the higher-ups wanted to mock him, fine. If the world wanted to judge him, fine.
He closed his eyes for a long, steady moment. When he opened them again, the anger hadn't faded, but it had settled into something colder, sharper, easier to carry.
But then something caught his eye.
Down in the crowd, where mourners stood shoulder to shoulder, a guy in a faded jacket moved a little too comfortably between people. His hands kept dipping into pockets, sliding out wallets, small holo-cards, wrist-comms. Quick. Practiced. And definitely not here to mourn.
Ash closed his eyes for half a second.
'Of course.'
He sighed, long and tired.
A thin line of electricity crawled along the bottom of his shoes, a soft crackle that barely anyone noticed. And within 20 seconds, he was behind the pickpocket.
The guy froze the moment he felt a hand clamp onto his shoulder—firm, cold, deliberate. Ash leaned in slightly, expression flat, voice low and dry.
"You aren't slick with this, my guy."
The man stiffened, breath catching in his throat. Ash's grip tightened just a little, enough to make him understand there was no running from this.
"Now," Ash continued calmly, "you're gonna walk with me real quiet. Or I'll give you a brand new experience—how it feels to be burned alive from the inside."
The guy gulped hard, a drop of sweat sliding down his cheek.
Ash tilted his head, smiling faintly, almost friendly. "Then I'll tell the Association you were planning to plant a bomb here." He leaned closer, whispering, "And trust me, they'll believe me."
That did it.
The man's shoulders slumped instantly. He stared at the ground, terrified, nodding without even trying to speak. Ash patted his shoulder lightly.
"Good boy."
They walked through the crowd, the pickpocket glued to Ash's side like a scared child afraid to get lost in the supermarket. When they reached a small post where two local heroes stood keeping watch, Ash shoved the guy forward.
The heroes looked confused as Ash spoke, almost bored.
"Pickpocketing. Maybe worse. Check his bag, his pockets, his home, whatever. He's yours now."
He turned away, paused, then added, "Also, I need to go to washroom real quick so can you send someone to volunteer at my place.
The hero blinked. "Uh… look at your place? But this is an active—"
And without waiting for another word, he walked off through the crowd, heading for the public rest area behind the memorial grounds.
Because right now, he needed a damn washroom more than he needed to stand on that platform pretending he didn't want to scream.
He pushed open the washroom door. Bright lights. Echoing tiles. One other guy inside, standing near the sink, drying his hands.
Ash didn't pay him much attention. He walked into a stall, handled his business, and came back out feeling at least slightly less murderous.
The other man was gone now. The place was empty.
Ash turned on the sink, washing his hands. The water was cold, sharp against his skin. He leaned forward a little, letting his shoulders relax for the first time all day.
And then his body moved on instinct. A faint shift of air. A soft whistle. He bent his head just enough for a knife to fly past his ear and slam into the mirror, cracking it with a sharp, ugly sound.
Ash stared at the fractured reflection.
"…Really?"
Behind him, a man stood at the doorway—hood pulled low, stance tense, another blade already in hand. He didn't say a word. Just rushed forward like Ash was an animal he'd been ordered to put down.
Ash didn't even turn fully.
He pivoted just enough, catching the man's wrist mid-swing. His fingers dug in, grip like a clamp. Electricity flickered once, tiny but threatening. With his free hand, Ash drove a punch straight into the man's stomach.
The attacker folded instantly, air leaving his lungs in a choked, miserable sound. He collapsed to the floor, coughing, arms wrapped around his abdomen.
Ash watched him for maybe one second. No questions or threats or any dramatic lines. He just didn't care enough. He stepped over the man, walked to the door, and pushed it open.