Amidst the eerie silence of the forest, a boy knelt on the damp earth, his body trembling, blood dripped from his split lip, mixing with the dirt beneath him. His arms, thin and frail, struggled to hold himself up. His breath came in short, ragged gasps as he stared at the two figures standing before him, their silhouettes menacing under the cold moonlight.
One had a rounded body with fox-like features and an ever-present smirk, Ron and the other was Shaved Head with cold beady eyes. His shaved scalp gleamed under the moon, Brael
The boy on the ground shivered.
"P-please… I—I'll leave the trial. I swear."
Brael crouched down, gripping the boy's chin between his fingers, forcing him to look up. His eyes were devoid of any pity.
"We told you before the trail started, didn't we?" he whispered, voice like ice. "We warned you that if we found you… we'd break your legs."
The boy sobbed, shaking his head desperately.
"No—please! I'll do anything! I—"
A vicious slap silenced him, sending him crashing onto his side. Dirt clung to his face, mixing with the sweat and blood.
Ron sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes.
"I hate beggars."
Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he walked toward the boy's legs.
The child thrashed, struggling to crawl away, but Shaved Head grabbed his ankle and dragged him back like a piece of meat.
"NO! PLEASE! I'M SORRY!"
His screams echoed into the night.
Ron crouched down, gripping the boy's left leg firmly.
"Hold him still," he muttered.
Breal grinned and pressed his weight down, pinning the boy's upper body.
"No! NO! DON'T! PLEASE—"
Then—
CRACK.
The sound of bone snapping was sickening.
A wretched, piercing scream ripped through the forest as pain exploded through the boy's body. His vision blurred, his entire world consumed by agony. He thrashed wildly, but it was useless.
His cries only seemed to amuse them.
Ron, panting slightly from the force of the break, wiped his bloody hand on his pants.
"One more," he said casually.
Breal tightened his grip.
The boy screamed again, his body convulsing, but there was no mercy to be found.
CRACK.
His right leg shattered under Ron's grip, twisting unnaturally.
The boy collapsed in a heap, his face twisted in agony, his breath coming in frantic, uneven gasps.
Tears streamed down his cheeks as he sobbed uncontrollably, his body trembling, his broken legs useless beneath him.
Breal stood, stretching his arms with satisfaction.
"You should crawl somewhere and hide before the predators smell your blood," he sneered.
Ron chuckled, wiping dirt off his shirt as he nudged the boy's twitching body with his foot.
"Yeah. If you're lucky, maybe you'll die before something eats you."
Laughing, they turned away, leaving the boy shivering in the mud.
As they walked, Ron glanced at his brother.
"This is a good opportunity, you know?" he mused. "With no rules, we can deal with anyone we don't like."
Breal grinned. "Exactly what I was thinking."
Suddenly—
A brilliant red ray shot up into the sky.
It was blinding, cutting through the night like a beacon.
Both boys froze, their eyes widening.
They exchanged looks.
Then—they smiled.
Without a word, they took off, racing toward the source of the crimson light.
Soon the red glow faded, but they were closing in. They could already imagine the scene—another helpless kid, beaten and broken, left to rot like the last one.
But when they arrived, they found something unexpected.
A boy stood before them, holding a flag. The blood-red banner fluttered slightly in the cold breeze. At his feet lay another child, unconscious.
And the one holding the flag?
Anazor.
He stood motionless, staring at them with cold, empty eyes. No fear. No anger. Just a complete, unsettling indifference.
Ron and Breal exchanged glances. Then, their lips twisted into mocking grins.
"Well, well, well," Ron sneered, taking a slow step forward. "Didn't we tell you we'd find you?"
Breal chuckled, cracking his knuckles. "Now, let's complete our promise, shall we? First, give us that flag."
Anazor didn't move. Didn't blink.
He simply stared.
His silence irritated them.
"Fine," Ron smirked. "We'll make you give it up." He took another step, ready to attack—
Then a voice rang from the darkness.
"Oh! Anazor, it's you! What a coincidence."
The two bullies froze.
From the shadows, a boy emerged.
He was tall for his age, his features striking—sharp cheekbones, piercing eyes, and a confident, easy-going smile. He rested a one-handed axe on his shoulder, holding it effortlessly as if it were weightless. His posture was relaxed, almost playful, but there was an unmistakable air of power around him.
Ron and Breal's expressions shifted.
Their arrogance faltered.
And then, their voices rang through the night.
"Arden…!"
The boy—Arden—tilted his head, his smile widening.
"What's with the long faces?" he teased. "You looked so confident a second ago."
Ron scowled.
"Stay out of this, Arden."
"Oh, but I can't," Arden said smoothly, shifting the axe on his shoulder. "You see, I'm from the Flower Castle. And Anazor here—" he gestured toward the emotionless boy holding the flag, "—is the son of its overlord. That means it's my duty to protect him."
Ron and Breal exchanged furious glances.
"You're an idiot," Breal spat. "Anazor isn't the son of the overlord anymore. His mother is dead."
Arden's expression didn't change.
"So?" he shrugged. "He's still my best friend. That means I'll help him, overlord's son or not."
Anazor's eyes narrowed slightly.
He knew Arden well.
_____
I was eight when I sat in my mother's chamber, her presence as calm as it always was. She had this way about her—graceful, serene, almost untouchable. Her features were sharp, yet soft, and her voice was never raised in anger—only ever measured, precise. But tonight, something in her tone caught me off guard.
"Anazor."
I looked up at her, sensing the shift in the air.
"Stop talking to that boy."
I was taken aback, my brow furrowing in confusion. "Arden!? Why?"
She set down the parchment she'd been reading, her cold, calculating eyes finally locking onto mine.
"Anazor, there are three kinds of evils in this world," she said, her voice quieter than usual, a strange weight to her words. "The ones created by awful circumstances, and those who choose it to protect what's important to them."
I listened closely. I knew my mother isn't the type to speak lightly. Every word mattered.
I hesitated, not quite understanding. "But Arden isn't—"
She cut me off sharply. "That boy is the third kind. The ones born rotten, with no reason—they enjoys chaos. Your current self won't be able to control people like that. You should stay away from him."
I stared at her, trying to make sense of what she was saying. My mother, the second strongest warrior in our entire tribe, was talking so seriously about an eight-year-old boy.
And that was when it hit me.
Whatever she saw in Arden, whatever she understood about him—it was beyond me.
I could tell by the look in her eyes that she wasn't just being protective or paranoid.
So I obeyed.
I cut ties with Arden.
I never spoke to him again.
And now, standing in the moonlit forest, looking at Arden's calm, smiling face, I was still wondering is she was right.
Ron spat on the ground.
"Fine. You didn't leave us a choice. We'll break your legs too."
Arden's smile widened.
My gaze sharpened.
I studied Arden carefully.
Most kids their age weren't trained to use weapons yet. But Arden? He handled that axe like it was a natural extension of his body.
Individually, Ron and Breal were weaker than Arden.
But together?
That was the question.
Anazor stood perfectly still, watching.
Would Arden win?
Or would he fall?
The two glared at Arden, their eyes burning with aggression.
"Do you really think you can defeat both of us?"
They dropped into their stances, their family martial arts on full display. Their feet shifted with calculated precision, their hands poised to strike. The air around them crackled with anticipation.
Arden, completely unfazed, took a single step forward.
And then—
He threw his axe aside.
It tumbled through the air, clattering onto the dirt.
Then, to everyone's absolute disbelief—
He fell to his knees.
His body trembled, and he crawled forward, his hands clutching at the boys' feet like a desperate beggar.
"YES! YOU'RE RIGHT! I CAN'T BEAT YOU!"
His voice cracked with panic.
"YOU'RE TOO STRONG! PLEASE, HAVE MERCY!"
Tears streamed down his face, his expression twisted in sheer cowardice.
"JUST THIS ONCE! JUST SPARE US! I'LL DO ANYTHING!"
He clutched at Chippy's leg, his fingers trembling.
"PLEASE, NOT THE FACE—IT'S TOO BEAUTIFUL!"
A deep silence gripped the clearing.
"W-what...?" Chippy stammered, his face frozen in pure disbelief.
Shaved Head blinked, completely thrown off.
"Are you serious?"
Anazor, who had been watching everything with his usual blank expression, only slightly narrowed his eyes. What is he doing?
Then—
A loud, ugly laugh erupted from the two bullies.
Ron doubled over, clutching his stomach. "What a coward!"
Breal wiped tears from his eyes. "This is pathetic! He's actually crying!"
They laughed harder, their bodies shaking from the sheer absurdity of it.
And then—
The laughter stopped.
Ron's body jerked violently, his mouth gaping in shock as his entire foot exploded in pain.
His eyes bulged.
He didn't even realize what had happened.
Arden, still crouched before them, had pulled a small blade from nowhere and slid it through Ron's ankle in a single motion—the cut too clean, too precise.
Blood burst onto the forest floor.
"AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!"
Ron collapsed, shrieking, grabbing at his ruined foot.
But Arden was already moving.
His hand snapped upward, and the axe he had thrown away—
Flew back to his palm.
Anazor's eyes flickered with realization.
A wire. A nearly invisible, fine thread connected the axe to Arden's wrist.
Ron, writhing on the ground, didn't even get a chance to process it—
Because Arden's axe was already swinging.
The blade met Ron's lowered head with a wet, sickening crunch.
Blood spattered outward.
Breal barely had time to react.
His body froze in horror, his mind unable to catch up with what had just happened.
Then—
He saw it.
The axe.
Moving.
Straight for his throat.
A flash of steel—
A spray of red—
A headless body collapsed to the ground.
Silence fell over the clearing.
A silence so deep it felt unnatural.
Anazor stared calmly at the scene.
The two boys—dead within seconds.
Their bodies still twitched slightly, as if refusing to accept what had happened.
Arden stood over them, his expression unreadable.
And then—
He smiled.
A slow, amused smirk stretched across his blood-splattered face.
L
At that moment, Anazor understood his mother's words completely.
Even as a child, she had seen it—the evil in Arden's core.
And now, Anazor saw it too.
This boy… wasn't just ruthless.
He enjoyed it.
This was no panicked kill, no self-defense.
This was play.
But one more thing caught Anazor's attention.
From the very first two swings, he could tell—
Arden could have won that fight directly.
He didn't need tricks.
Does that mean he actually felt their presence as well ?
And just as that thought clicked in Anazor's mind—
Arden turned sharply, his eyes gleaming as he stared into the darkness.
"Were you waiting for us to tire ourselves?"
His voice was light. Almost amused.
"Too bad those two were to stupid to let that happen. You can come out now."
From the dense shadow of the trees, three masked figures emerged.
Dressed in black, their faces partially concealed save for their piercing eyes, they moved like wraiths, each carrying a pair of short blades.
Anazor recognized them instantly. The three sons of the Kazath clan. His eyes narrowed as he examined them he actually had a feeling that he would face them eventually.
Arden let out a low whistle.
"Oh crap. The Kazath clan."
His usual confidence flickered for a brief second before he turned to Anazor with a smirk.
"Maybe—just maybe—I could go hand-to-hand with the girl or the weaker boy."
His gaze drifted to the boy in the middle of the trio very famous in the tribe as the phantom killer, just from this nickname Arden wasn't rager to fight him.
"But The Phantom ? Yeah, no. I can't even come close to that kid. Let alone take on all three."
Arden crossed his arms, feigning deep thought.
"It might be time to seriously consider begging for mercy again, Anazor. Thoughts?"
Anazor remained silent.
His eyes were locked onto The kid named the phantom, and the phantom stared back studying Anazor carefully. He was taking this seriously.
Then, in a hushed whisper, he gave his orders.
"Raze, stop Arden. Aicha and I will handle Anazor."
Raze blinked. "What?!"
His voice, though quiet, carried clear disbelief.
"Why the hell are the two of you teaming up on the weaker one, while I'm stuck alone with the maniac killer?"
Aicha, her gaze still locked onto Anazor, simply said:
"Understood."
Raze's frustration grew. He didn't get it. Why Anazor? Why did the two direct heirs of the Kazath clan feel the need to team up against Ahim?
But he held his tongue.
Because he knew his instincts weren't as sharp as theirs.