The moon was full that night, casting silver light over the forest just outside the city. I'd heard rumours about a campsite where smugglers operated. I wasn't planning on doing much—just scaring them a little. Maybe roughing up a few if I got the chance. But as I got closer, something felt off.
The usual sounds of the forest—the rustling leaves, the chirping insects—were gone. It was too quiet, like the whole world was holding its breath. When I stepped into the clearing, I saw why.
Bodies. They were everywhere, sprawled out on the ground, their faces frozen in terror. Blood pooled around them, soaking into the dirt. I'd seen death before, but never like this. I crouched down to look closer, noticing the clean, precise wounds. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.
Then I heard it—a scream, sharp and sudden, cutting through the silence like a knife. My heart pounded as I ran toward the sound, my spiritual pressure surging. Yeah, I have Prana. I've always had it, but I kept it hidden. What's the point of showing off when it only makes people treat you worse? But that night, I didn't care. I needed to know what was happening.
When I reached the source of the scream, I froze. There he was: a boy, about my age, with a grocery bag over his head. He was darting between men, laughing like it was all some kind of game. With every swing of his blade, another man dropped, their cries silenced as they hit the ground. He moved like nothing I'd ever seen—fast, precise, and completely unhinged.
I didn't know what to do. Part of me wanted to run, but something kept me rooted in place. There was no shift, no spiritual pressure from him. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was fear. Either way, I stepped into the clearing, and that's when he noticed me.
We locked eyes—or at least, I think we did. It was hard to tell with that bag over his face. He stopped moving, tilting his head like he was studying me. For a moment, neither of us said anything. Then, I asked the question that had been burning in my mind.
"Why are you doing this?"
He tilted his head, like the question didn't even make sense to him. Then he let out a low, almost amused chuckle. "Why?" he repeated, his voice calm and measured. "Because they're all trash. Smugglers, criminals, and thieves. They were scum long before I found them. They deserved it. But it's not about that. It's about what happens when people think they're untouchable. When they forget that justice is inevitable."
His eyes—hidden beneath the bag—burnt with a cold, detached intensity. "I'm just the one who delivers it. Someone has to, to quell something within."
I watched him carefully, feeling that strange, uncomfortable chill run down my spine. There was no fear in him; there was no remorse, no hesitation, and no hatred.
Just pure conviction.
Just a calculating sense of justice that made everything else seem meaningless. He wasn't killing out of revenge or hatred; he was performing a grim service. A grim, twisted form of justice. Just like I did, in my own way.
He didn't fight like someone using power. He fought like someone made of it.
"So, you're some kind of vigilante?"
The boy snorted lightly, his tone dismissive. "No. I'm something else. I'm the hand that cuts away the rot. There's no nobility in vigilantes. They're just doing it for their own twisted sense of right. I'm not interested in right and wrong. I'm interested in order. In control. They broke the rules, and now I'm making sure they pay. Simple as that."
I tightened my grip on my bat, my spiritual pressure rising around me. "So, what now? Are you going to kill me too?"
He tilted his head slightly, like the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. "What for? You're not on the list. But then again, I'm not the one who decides who gets punished."
I didn't know if he was talking about me or if he was just rambling. There was a strange emptiness to his words, like he saw the world as a system—one that didn't care about morality, only function.
He stepped forward, eyes burning with that same cold, unwavering focus. "People like you... You think there's more to it. That there's some deeper meaning. But the truth? There is none. It's all just a series of choices, one after another. And the choices I make? I'll always make them because they need to be made. Because it's what I do."
My grip on the bat tightened. "And what if I choose not to walk away? What if I don't buy into your sense of order?"
He paused for a moment, considering me. Then he smiled, but it wasn't a comforting smile. It was calculating. Like he had already seen the end before it happened.
"Then you'll be the one who proves that my choices are right."
I didn't move. I couldn't. And in that moment, something shifted between us. It wasn't trust, not exactly. But it was something. An understanding, maybe. A connection forged in the chaos of that night.
Looking back, I think that's when it all started. Meeting Roy changed everything. He didn't just bend the rules—he moved through a world where they didn't even apply. He became the only person I could trust, the only one who really understood me.