A man stood in the middle of a vast room, its walls bathed in blood red, the furniture around him matching the crimson hue. The oppressive color seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, casting sinister shadows across the floor. He positioned himself between two other figures, all three wearing nearly identical attire—dark robes trimmed with scarlet thread. One had white hair that fell past his shoulders, while the other two—the one in the middle and the one on the left—had jet black locks that absorbed the dim light.
"So, Phil, do you believe this boy will interfere with our plans?" one of the men demanded, his voice sharp with concern that bordered on panic.
Phil, the man in the middle, merely stared ahead with unsettling calm. His eyes, cold and calculating, betrayed no emotion. "He's a boy. How much damage could he possibly inflict?"
"A lot," the white-haired figure snapped, stepping forward aggressively. His boots echoed against the stone floor. "He's already obliterated one of our bases completely. His power runs unchecked, Phil. We must act now!" Desperation crept into his tone, a rare crack in his usually composed demeanor.
Phil chuckled darkly, the sound echoing through the crimson chamber like a death knell. "Act against a mere boy? Who do you think I am?" He turned slowly, his smile widening with cruel amusement. "I refuse to squander my precious weapons on a child. Our resources are far too valuable to waste on him."
"Would you rather have him and all the kingdoms breathing down our necks?" the man named Lake challenged, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Frustration radiated from every fiber of his being.
Phil turned to Lake and smirked with venomous confidence, his expression dripping with condescension. "The kingdoms pose no threat. The Spirit Kingdom, the Void Kingdom, the Black Phoenix Kingdom, the Star Kingdom—they're nothing compared to us." He paused, savoring each word. "We are the Blood Core. We are supreme!" He let his declaration hang in the air, watching it sink into his subordinates' minds. "Remember, we've already dispatched infiltrators to assassinate their kings and strongest fighters. Unless I witness this boy's power with my own eyes, Lake, he remains irrelevant." The finality in his voice left no room for argument.
Lake and the white-haired boy glared at Phil with barely contained fury, their jaws clenched in silent rebellion. Phil turned toward the white-haired warrior, his expression shifting from mockery to something more serious, more dangerous.
"Vail, do me a favor," Phil commanded, his voice dropping to a lower register. "If you encounter this boy—test him. Determine if he's truly formidable." He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "Don't kill him; I want that pleasure myself. But test him thoroughly. Push him to his limits. If he's weak, walk away. If he's strong, report back immediately." Phil's eyes narrowed to slits. "And Vail—don't you dare die."
Vail nodded sharply, a predatory gleam entering his eyes. "Of course, Phil. I would never fall to a boy like him, no matter how powerful." Pride swelled in his chest as he spoke. "I'll prove he's not the only strong one here." He grabbed the white sword strapped to his back, his knuckles white with determination and barely suppressed excitement at the prospect of battle.
---
A massive meteor plummeted from the sky—or so it appeared. Every person in the Spirit Kingdom looked up to witness a figure hurtling downward at impossible speed, trailing fire and debris. The person crashed into the ground, creating an enormous crater that sent shockwaves rippling through the earth. Dust and rubble exploded outward, forcing onlookers to shield their faces. From within the settling cloud emerged a young boy with black hair, dressed in crimson and black clothing that seemed untouched by the devastating impact. His red eyes blazed with contempt as he surveyed the destruction he'd caused.
"You're weak," the boy declared, staring into the crater with undisguised disgust. His voice carried across the stunned crowd. "Pathetically so. It honestly hurts knowing you're this feeble." He shook his head as if disappointed by a failed experiment. "Train harder. Work better."
A man shot up from the crater, clad in black armor now cracked and dented, his face weathered with age and fresh wounds. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "I'm surprised you landed such a devastating blow on me, Sparta," he rasped, struggling to catch his breath. Despite the pain etched across his features, a hint of pride flickered in his eyes. "Well done."
Sparta smirked arrogantly, tilting his head with theatrical disdain. "I've done well? I've done more than well, Master." The word 'master' dripped with sarcasm. "And now I have no further need for you. I've surpassed you. You have nothing left to teach me." Cold finality settled over his features, transforming his youthful face into something ancient and merciless.
Before the old man could react, searing pain exploded through his chest. Time seemed to freeze as he looked down in horror—Sparta's fist had punched clean through his ribcage, crimson blood pooling around the wound. The old master's eyes widened with shock and betrayal, his mouth opening in a silent scream. Sparta spat on the ground with contempt, his expression never changing.
"Get lost, old man."
He withdrew his fist with brutal efficiency and hurled the dying master into the air like discarded refuse. The body arced upward before beginning its descent. Sparta turned away as if nothing had happened, wiping the blood from his hand onto his pants and giving a casual thumbs-up to the horrified onlookers. The gesture was so absurdly cheerful it made the violence even more disturbing.
"How did he do that?" one man whispered, trembling so violently he could barely stand. His face had drained of all color.
"Please, you think that kid's strong?" another scoffed, trying desperately to mask his fear with bravado. His voice cracked on the last word. "The King could crush him any day."
"The King might beat him, sure, but damn, that kid's terrifying," someone muttered, unable to tear his eyes away from Sparta's blood-stained figure. "Did you see how he just... he didn't even hesitate."
"You guys talking about me?" Sparta strolled over calmly, his voice dripping with menace. Each footstep seemed deliberate, calculated to maximize their fear.
"Of course we are," one man replied obliviously, his survival instincts apparently nonexistent. The others around him fell deathly silent, stepping back and letting him face the consequences alone. Some averted their eyes, unable to watch what would come next.
"Interesting. Don't just talk about me," Sparta said, cracking his knuckles menacingly. The sound echoed like breaking bones. "Why don't you spar with me? I'll go easy on you. Very easy. I promise." His smile was all teeth, predatory and hungry.
The man stared at Sparta, and a violent shiver ran down his spine. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air. After witnessing Sparta murder that legendary old man—the greatest martial arts master who ever lived, renowned for his supernatural mana control and decades of experience—the feat was beyond terrifying. This child, barely fourteen, had killed him without breaking a sweat, without even a moment's hesitation. What chance did an ordinary man have?
But one man stepped forward, far taller than the others, with white hair and crimson clothing that marked him as different, dangerous. He narrowed his eyes at Sparta with deadly focus, studying the boy with the intensity of a hawk spotting prey. Unlike the terrified civilians, this man showed no fear—only cold calculation and barely restrained violence.
"Target found," Vail announced with a vicious smile that matched Sparta's own. His hand moved to his sword hilt, fingers wrapping around the grip with practiced ease. "Time to show this brat who's boss."