Boom.
Cling—!
Swish.
Bang.
Srrrttt—
The factory trembled like a dying beast as two shadows blurred across its cracked concrete ribs. Sparks erupted in frantic bursts—silver arcs slashing through the dark, colliding with streaks of blood-red aura that hissed like burning iron.
Max's movement carved clean lines through the chaos—controlled, efficient, every step a calculated whisper of death. His blades sang, slicing through dust-thick air with a subtle elegance that contrasted sharply with his opponent's wild ferocity.
Foreman—once a man, now something twisted beyond human—fought like a hurricane made of claws, teeth, and hate. Each strike he threw carried the savagery of a cornered predator. Steel beams cracked under his blows. Rusted walls buckled. The entire factory shook as if trying to flee from the violence it contained.
But inside Foreman's mind?
Pure storm.
How…?
Another clash sent him skidding back, boots screeching across metal debris. He stared at the boy—no, the thing—standing before him with eyes calm enough to drown God.
How is he matching me—
No… surpassing me?
The thought twisted in his skull. Foreman had seen monsters. He'd been turned by one. He knew the scent—the stench—of those damnable bloodlines. He knew the weight of their aura, the inhuman vibration in their bones.
But this kid?
This kid had nothing. No scent. No aura. No monstrous lineage.
Just raw, impossible skill.
A memory stabbed through him—white rooms, metal restraints, needles sinking deep, flesh burning as something ancient was force-fed into his veins. The screams of others. His own screams. The agony.
Foreman's pupils tightened. A shiver cracked down his spine.
He's not one of them.
So why… why does he fight like this?
Max dashed forward—silent, precise. A phantom serpent weaving through dust and falling steel. He wasn't older than sixteen—Foreman could see the youth in his features during every frozen millisecond of combat.
And that made it worse.
So much worse.
What kind of monster… is this kid?
The vampire's pupils shrank to needle-thin slits, instinct screaming a warning his mind couldn't yet phrase. What is he…?
Max stood beneath the torn metal roof, moonlight dripping down his figure like liquid silver. His blade caught that pale glow, fractured it, and then—
shhhhink
—he swung.
One strike.
Then two.
Then a rapid-fire torrent, so fast the air itself warped, each arc of steel overlapping until the room seemed to fill with foaming, moonlit waves crashing toward shore. Phantom afterimage stacked on afterimage, an ocean of cold light surging from a single hand.
And the million-dollar question?
Which cut was real?
They all looked identical—frighteningly so.
Foreman's breath hitched.
He never got his answer.
Spurt—!
A wet, meaty sound cracked through the air.
Warm blood sprayed from his waist, painting the dusty concrete in a violent arc. Foreman stumbled back, clutching the wound, eyes wide.
"What… you brat!!" he roared, fury and disbelief mixing into something feral.
From the moment this fight started, he'd only taken shallow cuts—annoyances, really. Things his vampiric physique shrugged off like mosquito bites. But this… this was the first real wound. Clean. Precise. Deep enough that even his healing hesitated.
And the boy responsible?
Max stood opposite him, not even breathing hard. Hair barely mussed. Blade humming with a soft silver glow. He didn't look like someone who'd been trading blows with a monster. He looked… untouched.
An insult to every law of strength Foreman ever knew.
How… how is a human doing this?
How is a mere kid outpacing a vampire?
Where is his limit?
Foreman's heart hammered—a predator realizing, too late, he might not be the one hunting tonight.
But who is Grey Foreman,
A vampire. A night predator.
How can he tremble before a mundane human,
Foreman's rage cracked the air like lightning.
"What… you brat!!"
Blood poured from the gash at his waist, a thick, dark ribbon running down his designer shirt. Up until now, he had only tasted scratches—annoyances, nothing more. But this wound… this was real. This was fear pressing its thumb to his throat.
And across from him, the kid responsible stood barely scuffed. No limping. No labored breathing. Not a single drop of blood staining his clothes. Max looked like he'd just finished a warm-up session, not a duel against a fully transformed vampire with a physique leagues beyond human limits.
Foreman's eyes constricted to feral pinpoints, glowing a brutal, predatory red.
"Boy," he snarled, voice warping with bloodlust, "I'm gonna kill you… flay you alive… and drink your blood while you watch."
Max slid back, boots scraping against broken concrete as he widened the gap.
But Foreman had already lost himself—mind, instincts, sanity all swallowed by the beast inside.
He lunged. Not with technique. Not with thought. But with the ferocity of something rabid.
A flurry of blows crashed toward Max—kicks with enough force to crater brick, claw-swipes sharp enough to shear steel, and even snapping bites that tore air like fabric.
"Damn… this went downhill fast," Max muttered, irritation tightening his jaw.
His military-grade suit—blade-resistant, shock-absorbent—held up for a few exchanges… until it didn't. Foreman's claws ripped into the fabric, carving long, angry gouges through material meant to stop bullets.
Every swipe that crossed the threshold shredded another layer.
Dust clouds erupted. Beams cracked. The collapsing factory groaned under the weight of their violence.
Foreman roared—no trace of humanity left.
Max's eyes sharpened.
The air between them thickened, humming with the promise of blood.
The fabric screamed first—thin rips hissing open as Foreman's claws grazed past Max's ribs, tearing the specialized suit in twos and threes. Each clash shaved another inch off its durability. But Max barely spared it a thought. Compared to him, Foreman's clothes were already nothing but blood-soaked ribbons clinging to an animal wearing a man's shape.
The real priority?
Keeping every limb exactly where nature intended.
Foreman lunged again, a blur of fangs and frenzy. His breath was hot, metallic, primal—like a furnace fueled by slaughter. Every strike rattled the collapsing factory, the air crackling with feral intent.
Inside Max's head, Sy let out the most disrespectful yawn imaginable.
"Y'know… you could just make a wish and end this. Real quick. Real clean. Why drag it out, hmm?"
Max blocked a claw swipe with his blade, boots skidding across broken concrete.
He scoffed, voice sharpened with annoyance. "Nice try. But I'm not blowing points on this clown."
"Your loss," Sy muttered, sounding bored.
And just like that—silence. Nothing but the monster in front of him and the storm of violence they were painting together.
Max reset his footing, chest rising and falling steady—too steady for someone inches from losing an arm.
The beast howled.
The factory groaned.
And Max?
He smiled faintly behind his mask.
Alright then. Time to go all out.
Eleven years ago—
A quiet afternoon, the sky washed in soft blues, clouds drifting like slow, tired ghosts.
A little boy, four… maybe five, lay flat on the orphanage lawn, hands tucked behind his head, eyes fixed on the heavens as if waiting for an answer only the sky could give. The grass framed him like a cradle—green, warm, alive—so unlike the life he'd been handed.
A pair of nuns walked past, their habits fluttering in the wind like black-and-white wings. Their gazes lingered on the boy, and pity softened their faces.
"Poor thing," one murmured. "Lost his parents when he was just two."
"Mm. And that orphanage he first stayed in… terrible business. Food poisoning, they said. Dozens dead."
She lowered her voice. "But he survived. Didn't eat that day, thank the Lord."
They spoke as if he couldn't hear, yet every word brushed him like cold fingers. Their sympathy rolled over him, familiar now, almost routine.
But while they whispered, another figure watched him more closely.
Sister Maria—quiet, observant, her eyes sharper than her gentle posture suggested. She stood a slight distance away, her expression unreadable, studying the boy with an intensity that contrasted the mild afternoon.
"I wonder… will he become like them?" she whispered to herself—words no one was meant to hear.
But the sister beside her caught the tail end.
"What was that, Sister Maria?"
Maria blinked, pulled back from her thoughts as though waking from a vision.
"Ah—nothing," she replied softly, her warm smile returning,
Maria folding her hands. "The boy has endured far too much at such a young age. May the Lord be with him."
"Amen," the sisters echoed in unison, their voices drifting like a prayer carried by the wind.
They moved on, their footsteps fading toward the chapel. But Maria lingered for just a breath longer. Her gaze stayed fixed on the boy lying in the grass—still, quiet, staring at the sky with eyes far older than his years.
Just what will become of you… in the years ahead?
I truly want to know, she wondered silently, before finally turning to follow the others.
The yard fell back into stillness.
Birds chirped.
The afternoon sun warmed the boy's cheeks.
But inside Max's tiny five-year-old head, peace was the last thing happening.
"So," a foreign male voice echoed—smooth, resonant, impatient—far too mature to belong in a child's mind. "What's your wish gonna be? Hurry it up, kid. I don't have all day."
The tone wasn't requesting.
It was commanding.
Little Max's eyebrows twitched. His tiny fists clenched the grass. The air around him felt like it hummed with irritation.
"Will you shut the f** up and let me think?"* Max snapped inwardly, the venom in his thoughts shocking even the clouds overhead.
He sat up, face scrunched in pure five-year-old fury. "Your job is to grant my wishes—not pester me like some buzzing mosquito. You're lucky you don't have a body, 'cause I swear I'd beat your ass till it's red like wine."
If anyone could've heard him, they wouldn't have believed those words came from a child who barely reached their waist.
The voice didn't back down. "No—you shut up and make a wish. You think waiting for a wet-behind-the-ears brat to decide is a dream job? You've gotta be kidding. I'd rather sleep for eternity in the abyss than hear you whine all day."
Little Max froze, eyes narrowing as the words reverberated in his mind. The tiny, five-year-old boy didn't flinch. Not now, not ever.
"You want to hear my wish so badly?" Max barked inwardly, teeth gritted. "Fine. Here it is!"
The words poured out in a furious torrent, small hands clenching the grass beneath him: "I wish to have absolute mastery in all forms of combat—every weapon, every martial art, perfect control over my body, a charming look, and a damn hot body! You got that, b****?"
The voice responded, calm, almost bored. "Is that what you want?"
"Yes," Max said firmly, voice unwavering.
"Okay… done," the voice replied nonchalantly.
"Huh?" Max blinked, stunned.
"What do you mean, 'huh'? It's done. I've granted your wish. Now you're happy, I'm happy. GG, bruh. Peace out."
Little Max went still—mind short-circuiting for a heartbeat—before clarity washed over him like a cold tide. So I was right… The length of the wish didn't matter. Only the weight. The impact. The ambition behind it.
But… will the rules change now that I've exploited them?
The voice in his head answered before the thought fully formed, its tone casually annoyed, like an elder correcting a clueless junior.
"Relax, kid. I'm not changing anything. And here's a bonus cheat-sheet for you—if you ever rack up a thousand Wish Points or more, you unlock an A-tier wish."
Little Max's heart detonated in his chest.
"What?! Are you serious?" he blurted inwardly, sounding nothing like a five-year-old and everything like a gambler hearing the jackpot ring.
"Why the hell would I lie?" the voice scoffed, unimpressed.
Max shot upright, eyes wide, adrenaline tearing through his tiny body.
"Then—then what is an A-tier wish exactly?"
The voice hummed, then answered with a spark of satisfaction.
"In plain terms? A universe-level wish. Rewrite reality stuff. No kiddie-mode limitations."
Little Max pressed both hands over his mouth to stop the laugh threatening to explode out of him—because he would've sounded too insane for a playground. He settled for a grin stretched wide across his face.
"A thousand or more, huh?" he muttered internally. "At my current pace… that's what? Ten years?"
He lay back down on the grass, the sky a deep endless blue above him, the nuns' distant chatter fading into background noise.
"No problem," he whispered into his mind, smile turning fox-sharp. "I can wait."
He closed his eyes—looking less like a grieving orphan and more like a monarch biding his time—wearing the kind of smile people have when they know the universe just handed them the winning ticket.
Little Max pushed himself upright again, a small frown wrinkling his soft, kid-like face—though the expression carried a sharpness far too old for his age.
"Hold up," he muttered inwardly, suspicion dripping off every word. "If you really granted my wish, shouldn't I feel… something? Heat? Power? A spark? Anything?"
The voice in his head clicked its tongue, dripping with bored arrogance. "It's already done, brat. The effects are in you, quiet and seamless. I'm not some bargain-bin genie handing out fireworks. My work is clean. Refined. No tacky transformation sequences."
Max blinked once. Twice.
"Oh. Cool, I guess."
He took the explanation like a kid accepting a late birthday gift—annoyed, but too curious to argue. With a soft exhale, he laid back down on the cool monastery grass, staring up at the endless sky.
A slow smile unfurled across his lips—too cold, too knowing, too dangerous for someone barely five.
"My future's looking real bright," he whispered to himself, voice turning the edges of the moment sharp.
Then, almost playfully—almost—
"Just pray I don't find you."