Kael moved on instinct. He ducked under a punch, caught another boy by the collar, and slammed his knee into the gut hard enough to knock the wind out of him. A third tried to tackle him, but Kael spun, dragging him to the dirt with a grunt.
Saria's scream sliced through the chaotic noise of fists, grunts, and the crunch of bodies slamming into dirt. "Kael!" she cried, her voice raw with panic.
Kael didn't have time to react to her voice—his world had narrowed to raw instinct. Punches flew at him from every angle, boots cracked against his ribs, elbows slammed into his back, yet he moved. With every blow taken, he returned with a vengeance—each strike from him made one boy stagger, drop, or cry out in pain.
His knuckles were torn, bleeding, his left eye was beginning to swell, and his breath came in short, labored bursts—but he didn't stop.
He refused to stop.
Life had never offered him fairness. Not when his father died. Not when he was dragged to this forsaken village. Not when every glance cast his way was filled with suspicion, fear, or disgust. So what was one more unfair brawl in the long line of injustice?
He grabbed one boy by the shirt, slammed his head forward into the idiot's nose with a sickening crunch, then turned and kicked another clean in the gut, sending him tumbling backward.
A few boys were already retreating, groaning on the ground, or staggering away. But not Tilly.
Tilly, panting and flushed with fury, stood just outside the storm of fists, watching Kael tear through his group like a cornered beast.
"This is ridiculous," he growled under his breath. "He's one damned boy—why won't he just stay down?"
He reached beneath his belt.
Saria's voice again.
"TILLY, STOP! You're going too far!"
But Tilly didn't listen. He had brought the knife for a reason—because deep down, he'd always known that fighting Kael on even ground was a losing battle. And now, humiliated, bruised, and watching his boys get dropped one by one, he'd had enough.
Kael was mid-swing, striking another attacker in the jaw, when he felt it—
A cold bite.
A sting at his side.
Then heat. Blazing heat.
The knife tore into the flesh just below his ribs—deep enough to do damage but not immediately fatal.
Kael staggered. His vision blurred for a second as blood poured from the wound and soaked his side. His body reeled, his knees nearly buckled, but he didn't fall. Instead, his eyes locked onto Tilly—burning with something new. Not anger.
Hatred.
Saria screamed again, the sound more broken now, her hands covering her mouth as tears streamed down her cheeks. "No... stop it—please!"
Kael's breath came in ragged gasps as the searing pain radiated from his shoulder, but his eyes were fixed—narrowed—on the face of the boy who stood smirking above him.
Tilly.
The knife wound pulsed, blood oozing in heavy streams down Kael's arm and soaking into the earth, but it wasn't the injury that held Kael's thoughts—it was that grin.
That filthy, proud grin.
A grin that said: You deserve this.
A grin that dared to laugh at a wounded boy who only ever wanted to be left alone.
Kael's fingers twitched. His vision blurred at the edges—but not from blood loss. From clarity.
"...He really wanted me dead," Kael muttered under his breath, more realization than question.
Some of the boys around Tilly were stepping back now, uneasy. The blood—thicker and darker than they expected—seemed... off. They looked to Tilly for reassurance, but even he faltered when Kael's eyes slowly lifted to meet his.
There was no fear in those eyes.
No pain.
Just silence—a silence that screamed louder than thunder.
Kael's mind replayed every moment—every insult, every shove, every time he was spat at in the village streets. Every night he'd lain awake listening to Jorran's curses. Every whisper about his bloodline. Every cold glance from neighbors who'd smile in the light and hate in the dark.
They didn't just hate me.
They wanted me gone.
And that's when it snapped.
Something inside Kael cracked like a dam bursting. But instead of chaos, clarity poured out.
His blood—still trickling from his wound—took on a faint scarlet glow, pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own. The very air changed. It didn't just tremble—it screamed.
Tilly's mocking smirk dropped instantly.
"What the hell—?"
A sudden wind kicked up around Kael, not from the sky, but from him. The ground trembled with small fissures, pebbles rising from the earth as if gravity itself recoiled in fear. A low, guttural hum—like something ancient stirring—shivered across the battlefield.
"Wh-What's happening?" one of the boys muttered, backing away. "This—this isn't normal."
It wasn't.
It was divine rage.
Kael's eyes glowed with a deep, molten red—like staring into a dying star. He raised his hand, still dripping blood, and clenched it into a fist.
"Don't ever... raise a weapon against me again," Kael said, his voice deeper—echoing, almost not his own.
Then he struck.
The boy closest to him didn't even see the punch—he only felt it.
The air cracked like thunder as Kael's fist connected with the teenager's chest.
The boy flew back with a scream, blood spraying midair like a burst pipe. His body hit the ground and bounced once before lying still, his limbs twitching, ribs caved inward with a grotesque series of crunching sounds that sent a chill down every spine present.
Tilly stumbled back, now fully pale.
This wasn't the Kael he hated.
This was something else.
"D-Demon...!" one of the boys whispered.
Kael turned his gaze on them all, standing tall now despite the knife wound. His body should have collapsed from the blood loss. But instead, he stood straighter—stronger—as though the pain fed him.
"I won't hold back anymore," Kael said, his voice like stone grinding against steel. "Not for you. Not for this village. Not for anyone."
Tilly's legs trembled.
And for the first time in his life—
Kael watched as he became the fear in their eyes.
Tilly had never known fear quite like this.
Not even when he stared into the abyss of the creature he summoned weeks ago—when its snarls had crawled down his spine like worms in the dark.
That had been otherworldly, yes.
But this?
This was personal.
The sound—the sound—of Kael's last punch still echoed like a war drum in Tilly's ears. The air hadn't just moved—it had exploded. One of his closest friends, a boy who trained daily and had bragged of his physique, had collapsed like wet cloth. Bones splintered, blood splattered, and then nothing.
Then the rest of them flew like leaves in a hurricane, coughing up blood before smashing into the earth.
All of them lay scattered now—moaning, unconscious, or twitching like broken dolls. The once-lively trail to the river had turned into a battlefield of groans and crimson smears.
And Kael stood at the center.
His shirt was torn at the shoulder, stained dark with blood from Tilly's knife wound. But Kael didn't look wounded. If anything, he looked like a storm that had just opened its eyes. The energy surging around him was erratic and unnatural—like he was wielding a force not meant for mortals. The very air vibrated with a low hum, and faint cracks hissed in and out of existence around his limbs, like the world was warning itself of what he was becoming.
Tilly tried to step back—but his legs didn't move.
His heart screamed to run.
But his body—his treacherous, trembling body—refused to obey.
Kael's eyes locked onto him. Not with hatred.
With judgment.
"You think you're strong because you've always had the crowd," Kael said, voice barely above a whisper, yet loud enough to thunder in Tilly's skull. "You think that makes you right?"
Kael took a step.
The ground groaned.
Another step.
The wind cried.
By the time Kael dashed forward, he became a blur of red and stormlight—his presence tearing through the air like a blade.
Tilly raised his arms in a pathetic reflex. It didn't matter.
Kael struck.
Not wildly, not like a boy in rage.
With precision. With intention. With wrath.
His fist landed in Tilly's gut, and the air seemed to split with a CRACK as sharp as lightning. Tilly's feet lifted off the ground, mouth agape in a silent scream. Before he even landed, Kael spun, another strike crashing into his ribs, sending the larger boy spiraling midair.
Tilly hit the ground, bounced once, and rolled across the dirt before coming to a broken, heaving stop.
But Kael wasn't done.
The storm within him demanded release.
Every punch—a year of scorn.
Every breath—a cry of resentment.
He stood over Tilly's collapsed form, his fists clenched so tight his own blood dripped from his palms.
"Tell me, Tilly," Kael growled, towering over him, "do you still think I'm beneath you?"
Tilly, wheezing, blood dripping from his mouth, didn't speak. Couldn't.
His swollen eyes looked up at Kael in pure, shaking terror.