The sun dipped below the horizon, painting Necropolis in vibrant, dying oranges. Radiant light streamed through the windows of Hurt's mansion, setting the polished floor aglow like dark gemstones.
The front door clicked open. Hurt stepped inside, letting out a long, relieved breath as he sat in a nearby chair.
His sharp crimson eyes scanned the rooms, searching for the usual evidence of cheerful chaos—overturned stools, scattered toys, cookie crumbs. He found none. The house was preternaturally quiet.
Hurt stood, straightened his robes. "Hmm. Too quiet?"
Hurt moved upstairs, his footsteps silent on the dark wood. He approached Ronin's door and pushed it open.
Inside, Ronin was sleeping soundly, one arm flung out, the mattress half-slid onto the floor.
A soft, almost imperceptible smile touched Hurt's lips. "After all... he is just a child."
He retreated to his own room, where the black gothic walls seemed to drink the last of evening's light.
Hurt lay on his bed, closing his eyes, but his mind refused to be still. It spun with thoughts not of the past, but of the future — Ronin's future.
***
The Next Day.
Hurt stood on the back lawn in the faint, cold fog of dawn. Training dummies, carved from petrified wood and enchanted for resilience, stood in a silent row.
He shifted his stance, feet planting firmly into the earth. He raised a hand. His palm erupted with swirling, dark-gray energy—the color of a deep bruise, of stagnant blood. The air around his hand was displaced, creating a pocket of crushing, silent vacuum.
The violent energy coalesced into a spinning cone of roaring, soundless destruction. Hurt clenched his fist and thrust it forward.
"Necrotic Art: Soul Fracturing."
The cone tore through the atmosphere. The ground beneath it cracked, spider-webbing with fractures. Where it passed, the very air seemed to wither. As it touched the first dummy, the petrified wood did not shatter—it dissolved, collapsing into a fine, gray ash in the span of a heartbeat.
One by one, the dummies fell to dust.
Hurt cracked his neck with a satisfying pop. "Again."
He snapped his fingers, and —
The ash stirred, drawn together by tendrils of the same dark-gray energy, reforming the dummies whole and unmarked
Inside the house. Ronin's bed rattled violently. He awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright.
Ronin rubbed his eyes and murmured. "Wha... ?"
Then, another —
BOOM.
A deep, subsonic tremor that shook the windowpanes.
Ronin's small hands gripped the edge of the bedframe tightly.
His eyes widened in shock. "Earthquake? Is the world ending?"
He slid off the bed and padded to the window. The sight that greeted him stole his breath.
Hurt's pristine lawn was a devastated wasteland of cracked earth and settling dust, with the man himself standing calmly at its center.
Ronin scratched his head, utterly bewildered. "Is... is Hurt angry?"
He scrambled downstairs and out the back door, stopping at the edge of the destruction.
Hurt was gathering energy for another strike, but his focus shifted to the small figure in his periphery.
He closed his fist, the gathering power snuffing out like a candle. He turned.
His crimson eyes fixed on Ronin's wide, awestruck ones.
"Good morning, Ronin." Hurt said, his voice low and calm "Did you need something?"
Ronin crossed his arms, his childish indignation surfacing. "You are making the entire house shake and you ask me that? What are you doing out here so early?!"
Hurt's eyes drifted over the ruined lawn, then back to the boy. He sighed. "Training. It is my daily routine. I was... careless. I did not mean to wake you."
Ronin's indignation melted, replaced by sparkling, profound curiosity. "What kind of training? I want to see! It looked... cool."
Hurt low chuckled. "Cool? No, little prince. This is not 'cool'. This is Cursed Sorcery. It is not parlor tricks. It is the Arts of Death itself—relentless, brutal, and final."
Ronin stared, his expression shifting to one of sincere confusion. "Cursed what? Hurt, I am five! I don't know these big, scary words!"
Hurt knelt, bringing himself to Ronin's eye level. He placed a cold, steady hand on the boy's small shoulder. "Ronin. Listen to me. This path is not for you. You are a child, not a weapon. And this art... it is poison to any soul not touched by death. It would be like teaching a bird to breathe underwater."
Ronin's eyes narrowed. Childish confusion vanished, replaced by startling, cold neutrality. "What do you mean?" His paused. "That I am too weak?"
Hurt's eyes widened—a flicker of shock, and beneath it, a spark of intense curiosity. "I do not mean you are weak. I mean this power is a curse. You do not need it."
Ronin held his gaze. In the boy's eyes, Hurt saw something new: a diamond-hard core of determination, forged in a memory of helplessness—of being thrown into a dark forest, of being feared in a park, of wanting to be found.
"I want to learn," Ronin said, his voice quiet but absolute. "I want to learn your techniques. I know I am a kid. But I never want to be weak again. Necromancer or not, I will learn what you can teach me."
Hurt searched the boy's for a long, silent heartbeat. The morning fog curled around them. Then, a slow, knowing smirk spread across Hurt's pale features. It was the expression of a master recognizing a kindred spark in the unlikeliest of places.
"You wish to learn the Arts of death?" Hurt's voice was a whisper, carrying the weight of a vow. "Very well, little prince. Prepare yourself."
***
For the first time since he was thrust into the outer world, Ronin was no longer just a lost child.
He was a student. A boy who had chosen his path.
And there would be no turning back.