"Darenz—!"
Scar roared out the name with the last scorching breath in his lungs.It was no longer a question.No longer a complaint.
It was a pronouncement.
"Drop dead!!"
Two words—like two red-hot branding irons—slammed into the boiling roar.
"WHOOSH—!!!"
The response was a tsunami of sound, utterly unhinged.
No longer the orderly chant of "salvation,"but chaotic, violent, destruction-hungry resonance.
Countless upturned faces twisted beneath the torchlight,mouths stretched to their limits,howling the same curse.
The roar shook the ground beneath Scar's feet.The flames of the torches whipped wildly, battered by the sonic impact.
Scar was happy.
No—more than happy.
It was a dizzying, unfamiliar ecstasy.
Like a man starved his entire life,suddenly shoved into a vat of honey—every pore from head to toe trembling with cloying sweetness.
This was the first time in his life—
The first time someone listened to him not with scorn,not with fear,but with burning, blind affirmation.
The first time so many people cheered for him not for charity,not for trade,but for his crude, unfiltered outburst.
The first time he spoke first—finished speaking—and only then did others dare to follow.
Louder.Crazier.
This feeling…
It was exhilarating.
"Drop dead! Drop dead! Drop dead—!!!"
The roar below surged wave after wave,each louder than the last—like rabid breakers smashing against a cliff,ready to shatter and drag this newly raised, ramshackle idol straight into the abyss of revelry.
Scar stood atop the roaring tide.
His body swayed, on the verge of collapse—yet he felt taller than he ever had in his life.
With smug satisfaction, almost flaunting it,he looked down at Vito—
The "benefactor"who had dragged him out of the mud and seemed to have orchestrated this entire spectacle.
But the fervent, ecstatic face Scar expected—
did not appear.
Vito stood a few steps below,his face unnaturally pale—almost green—under the flickering torchlight.
He looked tense.
His lips moved rapidly, opening and closing,clearly shouting something at Scar.
One hand waved frantically upward,trying to catch his attention.
The other pressed instinctively against his chest,as if clutching something burning hot.
The roar was too loud.
Scar could only see Vito's mouth moving.The sweat bursting from his forehead.The panic and warning nearly spilling from his eyes.
But he couldn't hear a thing.
Vito's voice was drowned completely in the violent chorus of—
"Drop dead! Drop dead!"
Not even a ripple remained.
Scar frowned.The old scar on his face tightened with it.
What was with that cowardly look?
He felt irritation—but more than that, contempt.
Fear?Fear of what?
Wasn't this exactly the effect they wanted?
The bigger the scene,the less those outlander white-robes would dare to back out.
The louder these wretches screamed,the heavier their "bargaining chips."
Scar grinned at Vito—a grin smeared with blood,almost cruel in its triumph.
Then he deliberately looked away.
Head lifting.Eyes closing.
He sank even deeper into the destructive roar he himself had ignited—boiling for him.
To hell with caution.To hell with consequences.
Right now—
He was the king of Darenz tonight.
Even if only for a fleeting instant.Even if the next moment meant being smashed to pieces.
Darenz's "king" tonight—Scar—had long since thrown his weakness, his pain,and Vito's anxious face straight out of his mind.
He shouted himself hoarse.
Adrenaline mixed with manic authority surged through his veins.
He shouted until he forgot himself—as if all the humiliation of his past life could be washed away by this annihilating roar.
Until—
The strained spirit finally snapped.
The overdrawn body issued its final protest.
His vision went black.
All sound.All firelight.All twisted faces—
pulled away, collapsed, and vanished.
He fell backward, completely out of control.
The last thing he heard was a wave of gasps from the crowd below—
and a voice cutting through the chaos,quickly fading, quickly retreating—
Vito's voice.
"…Wake up… wake up…"
...
Darkness.
Still darkness.
But no longer cold and empty—this darkness was heavy, warm,laced with softness and touch.
"Wake up. Wake up."
The voice again—right beside his ear,careful, probing.
Scar opened his eyes unwillingly.
At first, everything was blurred.Then—slowly—it came into focus.
He was lying on a "bed" of torn blankets and dry straw.
And on top of him—
arms.Several arms sprawled across his chest and legs.Even half a body.
The strong scent of women and cheap powder flooded his nose.
Several women—clad in crude but clearly tidied clothes—were curled beside him.
Sleeping.
Or pretending to.
Their faces held exhaustion—but also a strange, dependent sense of peace.
Scar froze for a second.
Then irritation surged.
He frowned and shoved the soft weight pressing against him away—not gently.
"Up. Up."
His voice was horribly hoarse.
"More people are waiting for me to save them."
The women stirred groggily.
Seeing it was him,they showed no anger—only near-submissive, ingratiating smiles.
Scar reached out and patted the cheek of the closest one—
not hard,not light—
but unmistakably possessive.
"Sleep."
The woman hummed reluctantly,dragging out a soft "Mmm," like a dismissed child.
Still, she obeyed—shrinking back into the blankets,eyes closing again,though her lashes fluttered faintly.
Only then did Scar push himself upright,his body weak.
He scanned the surroundings.
A crude but hastily cleaned shack—far better than the hole he and Vito once hid in.
Pale gray morning light seeped through the doorway.
The noise had died.
Only silence remained—and that hollow stench unique to the aftermath of revelry.
Just then—
The crooked wooden door burst open.
A figure nearly slammed inside,face flushed from over excitement,dark circles heavy beneath his eyes.
"Scar! Hahaha! It was divine!!"
It was Vito.
His eyes shone alarmingly bright.His hands flew as he spoke—still drowning in last night's torches and screams.
Scar looked at him.
For some reason,the irritation from waking among women twisted into an urge—
to maintain a certain posture.
He sank his face,snapping in a deliberately hoarse voice:
"Don't call me that."
Vito looked as if he'd just had a bucket of cold water dumped over his head.
He froze on the spot—mouth agape,one hand suspended midair.
The flush of excitement drained rapidly from his face, replaced by pure bewilderment.
He had no idea what had triggered Scar's sudden anger.
Scar stared at that stunned expression for two seconds.
Then he couldn't hold it in.
"Pfft."
He laughed.
The motion tugged at the wound on his temple, making him bare his teeth slightly—but the smile that followed was genuine.
He shook his head,half helpless,half self-mocking.
"Really," he said, his tone softening—lazy from just waking,with a trace of deliberate reproach.
"I was sleeping so comfortably… what's the matter that's so urgent?"
As he spoke, he rolled his stiff, aching neck and shoulders.
His gaze swept over Vito from head to toe,finally settling on the spot where Vito was still pressing a hand tightly against his chest.
Scar's smile faded just a fraction.
A glint of sharpness flashed briefly in his eyes.
Vito, still reeling from Scar's mercurial shift, relaxed slightly when he saw him laugh.
He hurried closer, lowering his voice this time—excitement laced with tension.
"Outside… outside it's complete chaos!"
His voice dropped further, yet the tremor—a mix of fear and exhilaration—was impossible to hide.
He spread his fingers, as if trying to grasp the invisible turmoil in the air, counting as he spoke, lips moving rapidly.
"Fighting… smashing… looting…A lot of shops got hit!"
"Walls, doors—everywhere—painted with blood or red paint, that…"
He paused, mimicking a palm pressing down, eyes wide.
"The Red Hand! That's what they're calling it!"
Scar listened.
The faint laziness and amusement on his face slowly drained away.
At the name "Red Hand," his brows twisted into a knot.
He was clearly displeased.
"Red Hand?" he scoffed,open disdain—and a hint of offense—in his tone.
"Then what am I? Big Red Hand?"
He snorted.
"Sounds awful."
The name was tacky. Ridiculous.
Completely unworthy of last night's thunderous roar—and even less fitting for his current…indescribable "identity."
Vito either didn't catch the irritation—or simply didn't care.
He leaned in even closer, breath brushing Scar's face.
His eyes brimmed with something hard to name:awe, confusion, and fear all tangled together.
"Scar—no, boss ! That night, after you fell… it was divine!"
His voice broke with excitement.
"You just—thud—went down… and then you lay there, not moving. I thought you were—"
"But then!"
He gestured wildly, reenacting the impossible scene.
"Light—from nowhere!From you? From the sky?"
"Whoosh!"
"The people closest to you—they all jumped back like they'd been burned!"
"They fell everywhere!"
"And suddenly—space cleared around you. Clean. Empty."
"Everything… avoided you."
By the end, Vito was nearly incoherent.
He stared at Scar as if answers might be carved into his face.
"How did you do it?What… what was that?"
Scar listened to the rambling, fantastical account.
He himself had no answer.
Light?Repelled?Avoided?
His last memory was nothing but darkness and falling.
Could it have been hallucinations from blood loss—distorted, exaggerated, and twisted by rumor?
He felt unsettled.Suspicious.
Yet staring at Vito's utterly convinced expression—even tinged with terror and reverence—
A thought slid quietly into his mind,cold as a snake.
Maybe…
No.
It had to be.
In this damned world.In this twisted Darenz.
What wasn't possible?
He fell silent for a few seconds.
Inside the shack, the only sound was the women's soft, steady breathing.
Morning light filtered through the crack in the door,casting sharp contrast across the old scars and fresh wounds on his face.
Then he lifted his gaze.
He looked at Vito—or perhaps past him,into something unseen.
His voice dropped low, hoarse, slow.
So certain it bordered on a murmur—as if he weren't answering Vito,but confirming something absurd to himself.
"This is heaven's will…"
He paused.
His eyes drifted toward the pale gray morning light outside—the light that belonged to Darenz.
His voice fell even softer, almost inaudible—yet heavy.
"I was born… to save everyone."
The moment the words left his mouth, the shack seemed to grow quieter.
Even Vito held his breath, staring blankly at him—
as if struck by something light as air yet heavy as a mountain.
All thought.All doubt.
Gone.
Scar withdrew his gaze.
He no longer looked at Vito—nor at the women beside him.
He reached up, brushing the rough bandage on his temple,then lowered his eyes to his own hands—
large-knuckled,still stained with yesterday's blood and dust.
Red Hand?
Slowly, he curled his fingers into a fist.
Perhaps it was time for these hands to be stained with something else.
"Great hero… save us…"
A voice thick with sleep and sweetness whispered against his ear.
Several warm bodies had crept back in at some point—arms like soft vines,sliding up, winding around him, enclosing him.
The pressure wasn't strong,but it carried an intimacy and dependence that allowed no refusal.
Scar stiffened instinctively, about to push them away.
Then the tension melted.
After prolonged mental frenzy and physical exhaustion,this harmless softness brought a strange comfort.
He let himself fall back, sinking once more into torn blankets, straw, and warm flesh—surrounded by softness everywhere.
Half-lidded, Scar draped one arm casually over a woman's waist.
With the other hand, he waved lazily, as if swatting flies.
His voice was languid, husky with indulgence.
"Let them make a mess," he smacked his lips, as if dismissing something trivial."I've got my hands full over here too."
He tightened his arm deliberately around the soft body beside him, drawing out a low, complaining whimper.
He glanced at the still-frozen Vito.
The corner of his mouth lifted into a smile only men understood—fatigue mixed with swagger.
"Don't just stand there.Rare chance… go find some fun.Enjoy yourself a bit. The sky won't fall."
Vito's face flushed crimson,but his eyes only grew more anxious.
He opened his mouth.
"But, Scar… I'm afraid—"
Unfortunately, Scar didn't hear the rest.
Or rather—
he couldn't be bothered to.
His attention had already poured itself fully into another "urgent" "salvation" task—
Saving the trembling, cold bodies beside him,so desperately in need of a hero's comfort.
And saving his own soul—parched for far too long—now finally drinking deep from power and desire.
Low laughter and heavier breathing filled the shack.
Inside the door:a newly crowned "savior" lost in indulgence.
Outside the door : Darenz burned out of control—and footsteps walked away, unheard and unheeded.