John stood frozen on the leader's doorstep. The adrenaline that had carried him this far was gone now, drained out of him all at once, and what replaced it was cold, ugly reality.
This is the mess I walked into.
Too late to turn back. Their hiding spot was burned. The leader was right behind that door. And John — for all his books, all his training, all his Sasaki strategies — was terrified to even raise his hand and knock.
He didn't have to.
The door swung open. The leader grabbed him by the collar before John could react and dragged him inside like he weighed nothing.
One swing. John hit the opposite wall hard.
The leader didn't rush. He had the ease of a man who had done this a hundred times — slow steps, calm voice, every word landing like a boot to the ribs.
"Welcome to your hell, little boy." He crouched down to John's level. "I'm going to make you hate the moment you were born. So get your shit together — because surviving here? That's going to take everything you've got."
John said nothing. He couldn't.
Every book he'd read, every strategy he'd practiced — it all went quiet. He was sixteen years old, bleeding on a stranger's floor, and his mind had gone completely blank. The leader kept talking, kept hitting, and John took it. All of it. Because there was nothing else he could do.
That night was the worst of his life.
The next morning, the leader woke him up by throwing pig scraps at his face.
John opened his eyes. Stared at the ceiling. And something had shifted.
The fear was still there — he wasn't stupid enough to pretend otherwise. But underneath it, pushing up through the exhaustion and the pain, was the plan. Still there. Waiting.
Get close enough. One strike. End it.
He let the leader talk. Let him kick. Let him hit. John went limp, made himself look broken, and every time the man came closer John quietly measured the distance to his throat.
Then he saw it — a shadow in the corner of the room. Tall. Long sword on its back. Standing completely still behind the leader.
John's blood ran cold.
That's him. The same one from the river.
Something snapped inside him. Not fear this time. Rage — clean and sharp and focused.
John's hand moved.
The knife caught the leader clean in the throat. One strike. It was over before the man could make a sound.
John didn't stop. He turned and hurled the knife at the shadow figure — but the blade passed straight through it and buried itself in the wooden wall.
He stood there breathing hard, staring at the empty space where the figure had been.
Then he got to work.
John stepped outside with the bag in his hand. He looked out at the gathered villagers — the same people who had thrown rocks at his mother, called him a witch's son, made his childhood a living nightmare — and he felt absolutely nothing for them.
He held up the bag and let the leader's head drop to the ground in front of them.
The crowd went dead silent.
"My name is John." His voice was steady. "And I'm your new leader."
Protests broke out immediately — until they saw the head. Then the protests died.
All except one.
The executioner pushed through the crowd, built like a wall, his voice booming across the village square.
"YOU SON OF A WITCH! You think you can walk in here and order me around? I eat people like you for breakfast. Get over here — I'll snap you in half."
John looked at him. Nodded slowly.
"Alright."
He reached into his pocket and threw the knife — the leader's knife. The executioner dodged it easily and broke into a laugh.
"A little toy like that?! That's all you've got?!"
"That one wasn't mine." John's hand went back into his pocket. "This one is."
He faked the throw. The executioner flinched left — and John put his actual knife straight between the man's eyes.
The executioner dropped without a sound.
John walked over, did what he had to do, and set the second head next to the first.
He looked up at the crowd.
Nobody moved.
From somewhere in the back, the doctor's voice rang out — loud, clear, giving the villagers the story they needed to hear to accept what had just happened. John tuned him out. He was already scanning the crowd, the roads, the edges of the village.
Mom. Lina. Where are you?
Next Chapter: The Reunion