*WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS DEPICTIONS OF GORE*
The morning sun was just beginning to pierce through the gray clouds, painting the horizon with pale streaks of gold and orange.
The streets were glistening from the leftover rain, puddles reflecting the faint light like shards of broken glass. The forest had given way to the wide, uneven dirt road that led towards the capital, and the boy's boots left deep impressions in the soft ground.
He walked alone. His greatsword resting peacefully on his back, familiar and heavy, as if the weight of the weapon anchored the storm still raging inside him. It was a familiar feeling. The boy liked the feel of the weight of his armor and greatsword. It was like a weighted blanket for him.
"You are a huge part of the prophecy. The reason for the world's destruction in the near future."
His eyes scanned the road ahead, he was alert for any sign of danger, yet the calm of the morning pressed against him with a quiet tension that made his shoulders stiff.
The events of the previous night replayed in his mind. Lisa's face, tear-streaked and desperate, the sight of the dead chief, the words of the witch, they all haunted him with every step. He clenched his jaw. He could not turn back—not now, not ever. The capital awaited, and with it, the answers he needed, the truth he had been chasing since the day his village burned.
A crow cawed from the ridge above, he looked up to see the first walls of the capital in the distance. Tall, imposing, almost impossibly wide, with banners flapping in the wind. The stone towers glinted in the morning sun, and the massive gates loomed like a promise—and a threat. He tightened his grip on the axe.
He passed small farms and scattered settlements along the road, but most were abandoned. Smoke curled faintly from chimneys, but no one stirred. It was as if the world had paused, waiting for him to arrive.
The air grew warmer as he neared the city, but a faint coppery scent drifted on the wind—blood, perhaps, or something worse. His eyes narrowed. He had been trained to notice these things. The calm here was deceptive. The capital always smelled of tension.
He stepped onto the stone-paved outskirts, the road crunching beneath his boots. Guards patrolled the walls, their armor catching the light of day. The boy kept his head low, careful not to draw attention. He didn't want trouble—not yet. He needed information first, and he knew that stepping into the wrong part of the city could mean death before he even reached the palace gates.
A boy in rags crossed his path, looking frightened and muttering under his breath. The boy noticed him for a moment, then quickly darted into an alley, vanishing from sight. The sight of desperation reminded him of Lisa, of the village, of all he had lost. Every step forward carried both a purpose and a weight—a promise he had made in the forest under the storm.
He paused at the edge of the first district. Smoke from chimneys mingled with the faint scent of roasted meat and baked bread. Merchants began to set up their stands, shouting over the clamor of carts and wagons. The city was alive, and yet every noise felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. He was here for one reason, and one reason only: to get revenge on Edward and the other men who burnt down his village. Most importantly: to kill the king.
The boy's fingers brushed against the handle of his greatsword. He felt the faint tremor of anticipation run through him, the pulse of something greater waiting ahead. The capital was a living, breathing challenge, and he was stepping straight into it.
"Everything changes today," he muttered under his breath. "One step closer."
And with that, he walked into the heart of the city, the streets swallowing him like a river, carrying him toward his fate.
***
The smell of ale, sweat, and beer filled the air of the tavern as a man with wild hair and a crooked grin sat in the corner of the room. The man was seated by himself at the counter. He only ordered one large beer and hasn't made any other contact with anyone around him besides the bartender. While yawning, he knocked over the mug of frothy beer. The amber liquid spilled across the polished wooden table and onto the chest of a massive man sitting next to him.
The buff man's eyes widened in fury. "What the—"
The wild-haired man didn't flinch. Instead, he grinned wider, almost as if the glare only amused him. "Oops," the crazy man said, tilting his head as if the spilt beer meant nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
The big man stood, towering over the wild-haired stranger. "You little—" His fist swung, hard and fast.
But the crazy haired man was faster. His fingers jabbed at the man's neck, his elbows struck the big man's ribs, his palm pressed at a precise point under the jaw. The big man's face froze in confusion and shock as his body went rigid and then collapsed, unconscious before he even hit the floor.
A hush fell over the tavern. For a heartbeat, no one moved. And then, chaos erupted.
The other men in the tavern jumped to their feet, chairs crashing to the floor, mugs flying through the air. They came at him from all sides, some with knives, some with just their fists, some with anything they could grab.
The wild-haired man moved like the wind. Every punch was blocked or redirected, every knife stopped with a flick of his wrist or a kick to a pressure point. He moved through the crowd like water, bending and twisting, striking, and moving again. Shouts filled the air, but the tavern turned into a blur, a storm of swinging arms and flying mugs, none of which touched him.
A chair came flying toward him from the side. He caught it with one hand, twisted it in his grip, and slammed it into the nearest thug. The man went down with a grunt, clutching his ribs. Another tried to tackle him from behind—he twisted, drove an elbow into the man's spine, and the thug crumpled to the ground.
In minutes, the bar was chaos incarnate, bodies sprawled across the floor, some moaning, some unconscious, others crawling away to escape. And in the middle of it all, the wild-haired man stood tall, his shirt spotless, his grin still crooked and wide.
He crouched slightly, surveying the wreckage. Tables were overturned, mugs shattered, blood and ale mixed into a sticky carpet. He stepped over a man groaning in pain, and then another, until finally, he climbed atop a pile of the unconscious, sprawled bodies like a throne.
The tavern went silent again. Dust hung in the air.
"I have a feeling," he said, his voice low and sharp, almost casual, "this is going to be an easy job."
***
The market was alive with noise. Merchants shouted their wares.
Apples! Come and get your apples! Freshly grown apples!
Real gems! Real Diamonds! Come and get some real diamonds!
Carts creaked under the weight of fruit and bread, and the smell of roasted meat and herbs clung to the air. The boy walked between the crowded stalls, careful not to step on anyone's foot, his eyes scanning the streets as he kept his mind on his next destination.
He didn't notice the figure weaving through the crowd toward him. At first, he only saw the flash of wild black hair and the odd tilt of a head, but then—
A sudden jostle.
"Watch where you're—" the boy started, but before he could finish, the man collided with him squarely, forcing both to stagger back.
The boy's hand instinctively went to draw his greatsword, but the stranger didn't flinch in response. Instead, the man's grin spread wider, crooked and sharp, eyes narrowing as they locked onto the boy.
Huh?
The crowd bustled around them, oblivious, but the assassin's focus never wavered. He studied the boy—his posture, the way he shifted his weight, the faint glint of resolve in his eyes.
"Interesting," the man muttered under his breath, audible only to himself. Then, louder, with mock politeness: "Careful, friend. Wouldn't want to trip over destiny, now would we?"
The boy's brow furrowed. "Destiny?" The boy asked. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Something about the man set the boy's instincts on edge. He wasn't just another passerby. No, this man moved like the other assassins, like he could disappear into the crowd and strike before anyone even noticed.
The crazy haired man's grin widened. He could feel it. That faint pull, that aura of malice. The boy in front of him was not ordinary.
He stepped closer, brushing past the boy as if by accident, letting his fingers lightly graze the boy's shoulder. A tiny spark of warning jolted through the boy.
The man's eyes glimmered with amusement. "Ah, I see now. You're the one he's been talking about," he whispered to himself, voice low but sharp. "The one who'll make this very… interesting."
The crowd surged around them again, and for a moment, neither could move freely. But the assassin's attention never wavered, like a predator circling a prey. He backed away slightly, blending into the crowd, but never letting the boy out of sight.
Destiny, he thought. Oh yes. This is going to be fun.
"Time for an execution."
The crazy haired man drew a dagger, and in the blink of an eye. The crazy haired man charged towards the boy, stabbing and slicing anyone who got in his way.
He's fast!
The boy quickly dodged as the crowd started to disperse. The bodies of about 20 people were lying on the ground. Lifeless, blood gushing everywhere. The market, which was supposed to be a safe place for people of all ages, was now an active crime scene.
The stranger began to charge from every direction.
SLASH!
SLASH!
SLASH!
The man cut at the boy's arms and legs. Each strike as quick as the speed of sound. Suddenly, the cutting stopped. The market grew quiet.
"Come on out!" The boy yelled. But the stranger was nowhere in sight.
The boy turned violently as soon as he heard the footsteps behind him. But it was too late. The man had appeared behind the boy.
"You have to be quicker than that to beat me." The man said.
Suddenly, the boy fell to the ground as a cut so deep in his chest appeared. Blood gushed violently from the wound. The boy fell to the ground, silent. The world fell silent once again.