Bang!
A sharp explosion echoed across a secluded field.
Once, this wide stretch of land had been a park where families gathered and children played—before the Deviant catastrophe changed everything. Now, it served a harsher purpose. The grass was worn, the soil scarred, and the air carried the faint scent of smoke and steel. This was no park anymore. It was a training ground, where people came to hone their skills, harden their bodies, and grow stronger. Today was no exception
A middle-aged man stood only a few feet away, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. He barked orders without pause, each mistake earning the boy another wave of harsh criticism, another shout that seemed far too heavy for such small shoulders.
The child couldn't have been older than ten. Burn marks crawled up his thin arms, his skin raw and trembling from repeated failure. His breaths came in ragged gasps, every inhale shaking his chest. And yet—he didn't stop. He couldn't.
He drew in as much air as his lungs would allow. A red mist seeped from his back, sluggish at first, then coiling weakly up his arms until it reached the hilts of his short swords. He exhaled sharply, forcing the mist to his blades' edges. His swing was steady, practiced—but his hands shook. Not from lack of skill, but from the weight of exhaustion crushing his young body.
The misty slashes tore through the air but fell short, sputtering out just a few meters from the targets. They struck the dirt harmlessly, leaving only a weak puff of smoke and a dull explosion that barely echoed.
"No, no, no!" the middle-aged man snapped, clutching at his hair in frustration. His voice cracked with fury. "How long are we going to keep doing this? You can do better! Try harder!"
"B-but, Daddy… it hurts—"
"Hurt?" His father's words lashed out sharper than any blade. "Do you think heroes think about that? Forget heroes—at this rate you won't even make it as a decent hunter!"
The boy's lips trembled. He bit down hard, fighting with everything he had to stop the tears threatening to spill. But no matter how much he struggled, a few betrayed him, slipping down his cheeks. He'd burned himself raw, trained until his body screamed for mercy—and still, it was never enough. Still, he could never make his father proud.
"Chuck, what was it you said to me when you were five?" the man asked, his voice low but sharp enough to cut.
Chuck swallowed hard. He knew the answer—of course he did—but his lips stayed sealed.
"You said you wanted to be a hero, right?"
Chuck nodded stiffly, his chin trembling, tears still carving down his face.
"Well, son…" the man stepped closer, towering over him like a shadow. "Who is a hero?"
The boy shrank back a step, heart pounding. He wanted to vanish, to melt into the ground. But his father's stare pinned him in place.
"Answer me, boy!" the bark shook the air, harsh and unrelenting.
"A-a hero is someone who saves the day and—" Chuck's voice cracked as he tried to push the words out, but he was cut short before he could finish.
"A hero is someone who is strong!" his father roared, his hand flashing out.
Chuck lifted his arms in a feeble shield, but they did nothing against the heavy strike that crashed across his face.
He stumbled to the ground, cheeks stinging, tears spilling faster—but he forced himself back up.
"A hero doesn't cry when it hurts!" Another slap cracked across his face.
"A hero doesn't hesitate to fight!" Slap after slap rained down. The little boy curled in on himself, sobs breaking free despite his desperate attempts to hold them back.
At last, the man stopped. He looked down at his son—eyes hard, lips curling with disgust—before turning his back.
"We'll continue tomorrow. If I push you any harder tonight, it'll be wasted effort."
Chuck stayed frozen until his father had taken a few steps ahead. Only then did he trail after him, clutching his aching arms, each one burning with pain.
The two of them walked in silence, the field shrinking behind them, until at last the shape of a small cottage came into view—their home.
Outside, a woman was hanging damp clothes on the line. A small boy—much younger than Chuck—was helping her, fumbling with the clothespins.
The man didn't spare them a glance. He stormed straight into the house, anger still etched on his face.
The woman turned just in time to see Chuck's swollen cheek. Her heart lurched. Dropping what she held, she and the younger boy rushed over.
"Big bro! You're hurt!" the little one cried, clinging to Chuck, his own tears spilling freely.
Chuck forced a smile, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's okay, Taffy. Training was just… a little rough."
But his mother wasn't fooled. She saw the way his arms trembled, the way he winced when his brother hugged him too tightly.
"This isn't right," she whispered, her voice quivering. "You're barely ten… why does he push you so hard?"
Chuck looked up at her, forcing another fragile smile. "Mommy, I'm fine. This is what it takes to be a hero."
She heard it—the tremor in his voice, the weight behind words no child should have to carry. It made her chest tighten, but she bit back her tears. She had to be strong—for him.
"Hero?" Taffy's eyes lit up like lanterns. "That's awesome! I wanna be a hero too! Can I, big bro?"
Chuck smirked despite the sting in his face. "With how much food you eat? Not a chance." He stuck his tongue out.
"Hey! That's not nice!" Taffy puffed his cheeks and stomped away in exaggerated anger, going back to the laundry.
Chuck chuckled softly, watching him go. 'I hope you never have to go through what I do,' he thought. 'I can take it all if it keeps you smiling.'
"Come," his mother said quietly, taking his scorched hands into her own. "Let me treat your burns."
She led him inside. In her room, the first aid kit lay open. With practiced care, she dabbed ointment on his wounds. Each sting made Chuck hiss, but he never pulled away. He endured it in silence, not wanting to add to her burden.
Her hands were gentle, but he felt the faint tremble in them.
"Daddy hit me today." Chuck suddenly blurted out.
His mother froze, the ointment-soaked cotton pad halting midair. His father was often rough but he had never gone this far before.
"It hurt so much..." His small voice trembled, but he forced his lips into a thin line. He wouldn't cry—heroes didn't cry. "He said I could never be a hero. He's right... isn't he?"
His mother looked at him, and though her smile was gentle, her eyes shimmered with pain. Despite all his efforts to act tough and grown, he was still just a little boy aching for love.
"Who is a hero, Chuck?" she asked softly, her hands resuming their careful work as if nothing had happened. The ointment stung, but her voice soothed.
"Someone who saves the day?" Chuck muttered uncertainly, brows furrowing. His father had asked the very same thing, but the answer always earned him a slap. But despite that he wouldn't change his answer because that was the hero he wanted to become.
"Almost," she said, still smiling, though the corners of her lips wavered. "But before saving the day... a hero knows who they care about." She gently brushed his hair back, her touch warm, steady. "So tell me, Chuck—who do you care about?"
Chuck looked confused. What a strange question.
"Who do you care about?" his mother pressed gently.
"Umm... you, Taffy, Jay, and Flu." He answered after a moment's thought, his little face scrunching in concentration.
"A hero," she said softly, "does everything he can—everything in his power—to protect the people he cares about."
"Even if it hurts?" Chuck asked. His small hands balled into fists on his lap. He already knew the pain of his Talent—every time he used it, his blood burned like fire in his veins.
"They don't have to do it all the time, silly." His mother chuckled, dabbing ointment on his nose. "Only when they really need to—when it's to help and protect the ones they love. So… do you think you can do that, Chuck? Protect me, and Taffy, and Jay, and Flu?"
A smile crept across his bruised face. "Of course I can." He laughed lightly, wiping the ointment off his nose. This was it—this was the kind of hero he wanted to become.
**
"And I will!" Chuck roared, red mist erupting from his body like wildfire.
The snake still hadn't struck. Its head swayed slowly from side to side, unblinking eyes fixed on him, calculating.
Then Chuck moved.
He sprinted, faster than before—circling the serpent, crimson mist streaming behind him. His Talent sharpened his body, boosting every muscle, and with the deviant gear amplifying it, he was at his absolute peak.
"Bumi!" he bellowed. Two massive arcs of mist carved through the air, exploding on impact the instant they struck.
The snake twisted out of the way with eerie grace, its coils sliding effortlessly across the ground. Yet, even as it dodged, the slashes bent unnaturally, curving mid-air to crash into its scales.
It wasn't luck. The mist followed.
"I know you can hear me!" Chuck roared.
He can control them? I didn't know that. Bumi's eyes narrowed through the serpent's gaze, following the boy's every move.
"I can handle you torturing us!"
Two more crimson slashes ripped free. The snake twisted violently, but both curved into it with deadly precision, detonating against its scales. The blast hurled the massive body across the clearing, snapping branches as it crashed into the trees.
Yet it didn't stay down. With a whip-like coil, the beast launched itself upward, vanishing into the thick canopy above.
To bend those strikes mid-flight… even at that speed? Bumi's lips curled into a grin. This boy is a genius.
But it didn't matter.
Chuck's eyes never wavered. He didn't need to see it. He'd already marked the branches, traced the path.
He unleashed a storm of crimson arcs, each one slicing into a different section of the canopy. Explosions flared like firecrackers overhead, the night alive with shrapnel and smoke.
"I can take your stupid punishments!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.
And sure enough, it worked. The serpent crashed from the canopy, its scales charred and smoking, burns etched across its body like molten cracks in armor. The barrage had shredded it—yet Chuck could tell by the fire in his chest and the taste of iron in his mouth that it had shredded him too.
Ignoring the pain, the beast lunged with sudden, desperate speed, hoping to catch him off guard. But the moment it brushed against the crimson haze around him, Chuck moved—instinctively, almost as though he could feel through the mist itself.
He pivoted sharply, eyes blazing, and unleashed another strike—this one monstrous, far heavier than any before. The explosion ripped through the clearing, a shockwave tearing the ground beneath their feet.
But he was too close. The force hurled him backward, his body crashing into the dirt. His ribs screamed, his vision shook, but through gritted teeth he forced himself upright.
And when he looked—he saw it.
The snake was ruined. Chunks of its skull lay exposed where its head had been ripped apart, leaving a single eye barely clinging to life. Its body pulsed grotesquely, patterns of red flesh showing through where scales had been burned away. Each breath it dragged was wet, rattling, and shallow—like it was fighting its own body just to stay alive.
But it still charged. Faster than before, faster than Chuck thought it could go. Almost too fast. Almost.
Calm and composed, Chuck hurled one of his short swords straight at its head and dashed forward, all of his red mist now coiled around his free arm like a storm ready to break. The serpent swerved skillfully, dodging the blade—only to find Chuck right behind it.
It struck. Its jaw unhinged wider than nature should allow, fangs snapping down with murderous force. If Bumi meant to terrify him, he had succeeded. If Bumi meant to kill him, he nearly had.
But Chuck was ready. He jammed his second blade upright into its gaping mouth, wedging the jaw open. The serpent roared, thrashing and driving forward, its sheer strength pressing the sword dangerously close to breaking. Chuck's arms trembled as he held the hilt, every muscle burning under the pressure. The beast was strong—strong enough to rival an advanced-tier Deviant.
But he didn't need to hold forever.
His mist-wreathed arm rose, pressing hard against the snake's throat. He locked eyes with the creature—its one remaining eye wild and bloodshot, his own gaze steady, sharp, and unflinching.
A silence stretched between them.
"Don't you ever…" His voice was low, cold, steady. "…try to hurt my friends."
Kaboom!
The forest shook with the detonation. Birds burst from the canopy in a storm of wings, animals scattered into the underbrush, and a plume of fire and red mist tore through the clearing.
Chuck staggered forward, his legs trembling with each step. His right arm, the one wrapped in mist moments ago, was scorched black, skin blistered and raw. Pain radiated through him, but he refused to falter. He had won. The snake lay dead.
The explosion had torn through its body, yet by some cruel twist of fate, part of its head remained intact. One milky eye still glared at him, defiant even in death.
Chuck squatted down in front of the corpse, his face calm, though anger smoldered in his gaze.
"So… why don't you stop hiding," he said evenly, "and face us like a man."
The serpent twitched. Its slack jaw creaked open, and from between its fangs slithered a tongue. But the tongue wasn't flesh. It was bright red, molten, dripping like liquid gore.
Chuck's eyes narrowed as it melted, sloughing off the corpse and pooling onto the ground. The mess quivered, stretched, and slowly twisted itself into a single arrow of blood-red goo, pointing deeper into the forest.
A message.
Miles away, Bumi leaned back against a tree trunk, watching through the serpent's fading senses. His grin widened, teeth flashing. His eyes were wild, hungry.
"Come on then," he whispered, voice thick with glee. "Make this fun for me too, little vipers."