The forest swallowed sound the way deep water swallowed light.
Branches clawed at the night wind, leaves whispering secrets as something moved through the undergrowth—fast, desperate, ungraceful. A man burst between the trees, boots splashing through shallow puddles left by an earlier rain. His breath tore from his throat in ragged gasps, chest burning, lungs screaming for air he couldn't get fast enough.
Blood streaked one side of his face. His armor hung crooked, straps torn, one sleeve ripped clean away. Every few steps he stumbled, catching himself on tree trunks slick with moss, nails digging into bark as if the forest itself might pull him under if he stopped moving.
He didn't dare stop.
Images chased him harder than any blade—yellow flashes splitting the air, bodies dropping before they even screamed, the crack of thunder inside his skull. Fifty men. Gone. Reduced to silence in the span of a few heartbeats.
A kid, his mind kept repeating, horrified. A damned kid.
A dark shape loomed ahead: jagged stone rising from the earth like the ribcage of some ancient beast. A cave mouth yawned open between boulders, orange firelight flickering faintly inside. Relief slammed into him so hard his knees nearly buckled.
He staggered toward it, shouting before he even reached the entrance.
"Boss—! Boss!!"
The guards posted near the cave barely reacted, eyes flicking over his state with mild interest rather than concern. One stepped aside, letting him stumble through.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and heat. Torches lined the stone walls, their flames dancing and spitting, throwing warped shadows across the cavern. Raiders lounged everywhere—some sharpening weapons, others drinking, laughing, tossing dice across rough wooden tables. The smell of sweat, iron, and old blood clung to the air like a second skin.
At the center of it all sat a man who did not belong to noise.
He was massive, broad shoulders filling the crude chair he occupied, scars crossing his arms in pale, jagged lines. His face looked as though it had been carved from stone—hard angles, heavy brow, eyes half-lidded in boredom. In one hand he held a knife. In the other, a small piece of bone.
He worked slowly, methodically, blade scraping against bone with a soft, steady sound.
The survivor dropped to his knees before him, palms slapping against the cold stone floor.
"Boss—!" His voice cracked. "Boss, I'm back—!"
The carving did not stop.
The leader didn't look up.
"You're the only one," he said calmly, voice low and even, as if commenting on the weather.
The survivor swallowed hard. Sweat dripped from his chin, splattering onto the stone.
"Y-Yes, boss. The others— they're—" His throat closed. He shook his head violently, as if trying to dislodge the memory. "They're all dead."
That got a few glances. Laughter died down. A pair of raiders paused mid-drink.
Still, the leader continued carving.
"How many?" he asked.
"F-Fifty," the survivor blurted. "All fifty men. They were wiped out in seconds. I swear it!"
The scraping stopped.
For the first time, silence pressed down on the cave.
The leader lifted his head slowly, eyes locking onto the kneeling man. There was no shock in them. No anger. Only a faint, curious gleam.
"Explain," he said.
The survivor bowed lower, forehead nearly touching the stone.
"It was a boy," he said, words tumbling over each other. "Young. Black hair. He— he moved like lightning itself. We couldn't even see him. One moment they were there, the next—" His hands trembled violently. "Bodies dropping. No screams. Just thunder."
Murmurs rippled through the cave.
"A kid?"
"Stage One maybe?"
"No way—"
The survivor shook his head furiously. "N-No! Not Stage One. I've seen Stage One thunder users before. This was different. Faster. Sharper. He was everywhere at once."
He looked up then, eyes wide and glassy.
"By the looks of it," he whispered, "he was Stage Two."
The words landed like a stone thrown into still water.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then the leader smiled.
It was slow, spreading across his scarred face like a crack in rock, revealing something sharp and hungry beneath.
"A Stage Two," he repeated, tasting the words. "In a dirt village like that?"
He stood.
The chair scraped loudly across the stone as his massive frame rose to its full height. He towered over the kneeling man, shadow swallowing him whole.
"Lightning, huh?" the leader said, rolling his shoulders once. His gaze drifted toward the cave entrance, as if he could already see past the forest, past the village, past the world itself.
He drove his knife down into the wooden table beside him.
Thunk.
The sound echoed through the cave, sharp and final.
"Bring me that boy."
A roar exploded from the raiders—cheers, laughter, fists slamming against tables and shields. Excitement buzzed through the cavern like static in the air.
The survivor sagged forward, relief and dread twisting together in his chest.
Above him, the leader's grin widened.
"A power like that," he said softly, almost fondly, "shouldn't be wasted on saving villages."
The torches flared as if in response, shadows dancing wildly across the stone walls.
Somewhere far away, a storm was beginning to gather.