WARNING!!! THIS CHAPTER MAY BE TRIGGERING FOR SOME READERS.
The man, Skinny, swung his knife with a crazed, jerky motion, the steel flashing dully under the fading light. Alex tried to sidestep, but the uneven, rain-slick ground betrayed him. His foot slipped, sending his balance tilting backward.
The knife hissed through the air, slicing into him before he could fully retreat. The sharp sting tore a gasp from his lips as the blade opened a deep gash across his chest. Warm blood spilled out, soaking through his shirt and matting it against his skin.
Skinny didn't hesitate—his body twisted, and the knife came down again in a blur of silver. Alex fell backward out of instinct, the rough pavement scraping his palms as he hit the ground hard. A bruised tailbone was better than being skewered.
Without missing a beat, Skinny spun the knife expertly between his fingers, its glint turning feral in his hand. Then, with a guttural grunt, he brought it down again. Alex parted his legs just in time, the blade plunging into the earth between them. He kicked outward, both legs striking either side of Skinny's head with a desperate burst of energy.
The man staggered back, shaking his head like a wild animal. A cruel sneer twisted his face as he swiped at Alex again—this time, a feint. Alex moved to dodge, but Skinny reversed the motion lightning-fast and drove the blade into his shoulder.
The pain flared hot. Pain screamed through Alex's body as the knife sank deep. His breath came out in a hoarse cry. He clutched the handle and yanked it free, but the moment he did, blood gushed faster, splattering the ground in dark, ugly blotches.
His head spun. His arm trembled. Still, he gritted his teeth and stood, the knife was now his.
Skinny's grin returned—ugly, yellowed teeth flashing. He lunged, jabbing a filthy finger straight into Alex's open wound.
The pain was blinding, searing. Alex nearly blacked out right there. His grip faltered, the knife slipped—and Skinny twisted Alex's wrist cruelly until the weapon fell from his grasp.
The thief caught it midair with terrifying precision. Then came the storm.
He stabbed and stabbed again, a flurry of metal and hate. Alex's body jerked with each strike, breath hitching, blood soaking through his clothes, pooling around him as his knees buckled. The final thrust pushed him to the ground, his cheek hitting the cold dirt. The scent of iron filled his nose.
Skinny wiped the blade on Alex's shirt with deliberate contempt, spit landing on Alex's face as he rasped, "Serves 'yer right."
Darkness began to bloom in the edges of Alex's vision, like ink spreading in water.
'It isn't fair…'
His mind whispered as his sight dimmed.
'I risked my life for this. Twice…'
The world faded, his touch slipping next.
'I deserve this! Nothing should take this from me!'
Only the faint, rhythmic drum of his slowing heartbeat remained.
'It's mine.'
Then—silence.
A faint click echoed through the night. Skinny froze. He turned.
Alex was standing.
Not moving—standing.
His shadow seemed longer, heavier. His eyes gleamed a deep crimson that caught the dim streetlight like molten glass.
"Yer haven't learned yer lesson, huh?!" Skinny charged, blade ready.
But Alex's hand lashed out faster than thought. Fingers clamped around Skinny's throat, crushing his windpipe in an instant. The man's eyes bulged as he clawed at Alex's wrist, his veins straining, face turning red, then purple.
Skinny's terrified gaze met Alex's eyes—and saw nothing human left in them.
"I… don't… deserve it."
The words came out hollow, distorted, like they belonged to something else.
Alex lifted him off the ground with one hand and hurled him down. The impact rattled the pavement. Skinny rolled away, gasping.
Before he could rise, Alex's foot came down in an axe kick that split the ground where he'd been seconds before, cracks spiderwebbing outward.
Skinny tried to crawl, but Alex grabbed his shirt, dragging him backward with impossible strength. His wounds—those gaping, fatal holes—were knitting together, skin mending before the man's horrified eyes.
"Wh—what are you—"
A sound like tearing fabric filled the air as Alex pulled Skinny's arms out of their sockets. A strangled scream tore from the man's throat, quickly muffled when Alex pressed a hand over his mouth.
Tears streamed down Skinny's dirt-streaked face as he shook his head violently, trying to plead, "Please, please, yer don't wanna kill me!"
Alex's expression didn't change. His voice was flat, emotionless—just a whisper in the wind.
"Nothing should be taken from me."
Then—crunch.
The light went out of Skinny's eyes.
Alex stood there, breathing softly, as if he hadn't just taken a life. His gaze drifted to the book lying on the street—his Beast Art.
He picked it up gently, wiped the dirt off its surface, and walked home, his eyes blank, steps steady.
Inside, his father snored against the wall, the whiskey bottle still in hand. Alex didn't spare him a glance.
He entered his room, dropped face-first onto the bed, and was out cold.
---
Hours later…
Alex's eyes flew open. He sat upright, gasping for air, his lungs burning as though he'd been drowning. A dull ache pulsed in his abdomen, and panic rose instantly.
'What happened?'
Images flashed through his mind—Skinny, the knife, the blood, the book. His hand shot to his shoulder, but there was no pain.
He looked down. His clothes were soaked, stiff with dried blood—his blood. Yet beneath them, his skin was flawless. No scars. No wounds. Nothing.
He was alive.
He stumbled to his feet, clutching the familiar, faded book against his chest.
"My Beast Art… healed me," he muttered in disbelief. "It's this powerful already?"
But the ache returned, deeper this time. He closed his eyes—and what he saw made his heart freeze.
His core was gone. In its place, chaotic energy churned violently, fragments of light and shadow colliding, trying to form something new.
"My core shattered… that only happens when someone dies." His voice trembled. "Did I die?"
He flipped through the Beast Art with trembling fingers until he found a section that mirrored his experience.
'The core can be shattered to give a temporary enhancement to all powers already wielded by the user.'
That explained part of it—but not how he survived. Not how his body had come back from the edge of death.
The clock on his wall ticked loudly, and when his gaze fell on it, panic struck again.
He was late.
Throwing on clean clothes, he shoved the bloodied ones deep under his bed and bolted out the door.
The morning air hit him cold and sharp. Sirens wailed in the distance.
A few streets away, police cars surrounded a taped-off area. A small crowd gathered, murmuring and taking photos.
Alex slowed as he recognized the spot. The body on the ground was covered with a white sheet.
He didn't need to see the face to know who it was.
Skinny.
He stared, frozen, his heart pounding.
'How did he die?' he thought numbly. His stomach twisted as the realization crept in.
'Did I kill him?'