A few days later, the main group arrived—ruthless men, loud and confident, the kind who had done this too many times to care. They greeted Henry's master like an old friend, slapping backs, sharing cruel jokes about what they'd do once the village burned.
At nightfall, the raid began.
Screams tore through the once-quiet village. Fire leapt from thatched roofs. Chaos reigned.
Henry moved with purpose.
To prove himself, he struck down a few villagers. Quick, efficient kills. Enough blood to earn nods of approval from the others. Enough to blend in.
But that wasn't his mission.
Once the smoke thickened and confusion spread, he slipped away, tracking one of the raiders who had wandered off to search for a storeroom.
A silent blade to the throat.
Another, who broke off from the group to loot a home.
A stab between the ribs.
One by one, he began thinning them again.
Only this time, the killings were deliberate—vengeance carved in flesh.
The alley reeked of smoke and blood.
Henry drove his dagger deep into the raider's throat, muffling the man's gasp with his other hand. He eased the body to the ground, heart pounding. That was his fifth kill tonight.
One by one, he was thinning them out—just like he planned.
But as he turned to leave the alley, a voice rang out behind him.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?!"
Henry froze.
Another raider stood at the alley's mouth, eyes wide, a torch in hand. For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then the man shouted, "He's killing us! The brat is killing us!"
Shouts erupted. Footsteps thundered.
Henry swore and sprinted through the alley, cutting around crates and broken fences. He didn't look back. There wasn't time. He had to find an opening—to disappear again.
But they were faster this time. More organized.
Blades clashed as Henry turned to fight. Three came at him, and he cut them down with vicious precision. Another rushed in, but Henry sidestepped and slammed his elbow into the man's throat, driving his knife home.
His breathing grew heavy. His body ached. But he kept pushing.
Then, through the smoke, he saw him—the one man he had waited years to face.
The Boss.
That cursed smile still painted on his face like it had been that day. That day, everything was taken from him.
Henry's fury boiled over. With a roar, he surged forward, ready to finish what started years ago.
Henry's blade was inches from the Boss when the brutal kick sent him crashing into the wall. The world spun. Pain flared through his ribs as he groaned, forcing himself up on one elbow.
Then he saw him—his master, stepping between him and his target, weapon drawn.
Henry's eyes widened. "You…"
The Boss stood behind the man, watching with twisted amusement, arms folded like this was all a joke to him.
His master's voice was low, tense. "So this is what you were planning? This is how you repay me—for saving your life?"
Henry's hands trembled. "Saving…?"
His master stepped closer, eyes sharp with disappointment. "We fed you when you were starving. Took you in when you were broken. Taught you how to survive. And these are your thanks?"
Henry's voice cracked, raw with emotion. "You should've let me die."
Silence.
"I watched my father die protecting me," he went on, his voice rising. Watched my mother scream my name as that monster drove a knife into her again and again! Then they burned it all. Everything. Everyone.
His gaze locked on the boss. "And he smiled through it."
The firelight danced across his face, but there were no tears—just years of grief hardened into rage.
Henry looked back at his master, fists clenched. "So tell me—why did you take me in?" "Why didn't you kill me like the rest?" Why did you raise me… just to help the same people who destroyed everything I ever loved?!
His master didn't flinch, but something flickered in his eyes— not guilt, not regret, but something else.
Still, he said nothing.
Henry shook his head, breathing hard. "You trained me to survive—but all you did was teach me how to become just like them."
Henry's chest heaved as the silence stretched too long. The crackle of flames, the muffled screams in the distance—it all faded under the roar in his head.
Then, with a burst of fury, he lunged for the Boss again.
Steel met steel.
His master blocked him mid-strike, their blades locking with a clash that echoed through the trees.
"Move!" Henry roared, shoving forward, but the older man held firm.
"I can't," his master growled. "Not while you're blinded by this."
Henry pulled back, slashing again. "I see clearly for the first time."
The Boss watched it all from a distance, arms folded, amused. The man who had come to deliver the job stood beside him, grinning like he was at a stage play. The other raiders looked confused, but no one stepped in—this was personal.
Their fight exploded into a deadly blur—strike after strike, fueled by rage and memory. Each move Henry made was born from pain. His master, more experienced, dodged and countered, trying to end it quickly… but Henry was relentless.
And then—he got through.
Steel tore through his master's side. The older man stumbled back, clutching the wound, blood blooming through his tunic.
Time froze for a moment.
Henry stood there, breathing hard, his weapons dripping. His master's eyes were wide with disbelief… not from the pain, but from the fact that it had come to this.
At that moment, chaos stirred behind them. The watching raiders, distracted by the duel, hadn't noticed the surviving villagers fleeing into the forest. The smoke thickened, and the fire began to spread toward the treeline.
The Boss finally stepped forward, not out of concern, but in irritation. "Enough games. Kill the boy."
But Henry's blade was already up again, rage roaring back to the surface.
Henry barely had time to catch his breath before his master straightened, blood still leaking from his side. But the warmth in his eyes—if there had ever been any—was gone.
"Enough playing around," the man said coldly, drawing a second blade from his belt. His voice carried no anger, no regret. Just finality.
Henry braced himself. "So that's it?" You're really going to kill me?
"You already died the moment you turned on me."
Then, without warning, the man charged.
Their blades clashed again, but this time, it was different. The master didn't hold back. Every strike was precise, brutal, and meant to kill. Henry blocked one, two, three blows—but the fourth tore into his shoulder. The fifth cracked against his ribs.
He staggered, spitting blood, but still raised his sword.
"I trusted you!" Henry yelled, pain and betrayal in his voice. "Why did you take me in? Why did you train me—just to turn me into this?"
The master didn't answer.
Strike.
Henry fell to one knee.
Another strike.
His blade flew from his hands.
And then—
The final blow.
A clean slash across the chest, deep and decisive. Henry crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. His vision blurred, stars dancing in his eyes.
The last thing he saw was his master towering over him, an expression unreadable. No triumph. No sadness. Just cold silence.
And then—darkness.
The air was still as Henry's body lay motionless in the dust, the scent of blood thick and heavy around him.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the Boss stepped forward, a cruel smirk on his face as he surveyed the scene. "Now that the distraction is over…" He turned to the remaining raiders, his voice calm and cold. "Let's finish what we started."
He didn't spare Henry another glance.
The master stood silently, staring down at the broken boy beneath him. Blood soaked Henry's clothes, his chest barely rising. If there was any remorse in the man's eyes, he didn't show it.
As the man turned to leave, something in his eyes shifted. No regrets. Not mercy. Something colder.
"You were just a child," he said, almost to himself. "I thought… maybe you'd grow into something useful."
Then he wiped the blood from his blade, and followed the others, leaving Henry alone with the silence—and the truth.
The village, still reeling from the chaos, awaited its doom once more.
Henry's body lay still, blood pooling beneath him.
Then—something stirred.
A faint shimmer rose from his chest like smoke. It twisted upward, slow and silent, until it took form. A ghostly outline of Henry, weightless and wide-eyed, now standing where his body once moved.
He blinked, disoriented. The world around him looked… distant. Muffled. The crackle of fire, the cries of the wounded—all felt far away, like echoes in a dream.
Then his gaze dropped to the ground.
His body.
Lifeless. Cold. Abandoned.
His eyes widened. Slowly, he stepped forward and knelt, reaching out—but his hand passed straight through the blood-streaked chest of his former self.
A rumble echoed behind him.
Henry turned.
Darkness stretched in every direction. And at its center, something began to take shape—a gate. Massive. Ancient. It towered into the sky, pulsating with eerie, otherworldly energy. Symbols crawled across its surface, glowing with a soft, reddish hue, as if alive.
The ground trembled as the gate creaked open.
A low, guttural hum filled the air. Reality itself seemed to twist.
Then, without warning, a surge of force rushed out like a storm. Wind roared. Light bent. The air felt heavy with something… unnatural.
And before Henry could even brace himself—it swallowed him whole.
Gone.
The gate slammed shut with a sound like thunder cracking through eternity.
And the world fell quiet once more.
But something had changed. Something had been set in motion.
The darkness was endless.
Henry fell through it, not in motion, but in sensation. Like gravity pulled at his soul, yet no wind brushed his face. No ground met his feet.
And then—impact.
He hit the earth hard, gasping as breath returned to his ghostly lungs. Dirt. Cold. Real.
He sat up, eyes darting around. A twisted sky loomed overhead—greenish clouds, a sunless horizon, and forests that groaned like living things. The air buzzed with something unnatural.
The Unknown World.
He didn't know what it was called yet… but his heart told him this was no afterlife. This was something far crueler.
He was alone. Again.
---
Mary waited, the campfire casting soft gold across her face. Her question hung in the air: "Are you okay?"
Henry's eyes stood on the dark line of trees beyond the firelight, as if he could still see the smoke, the blood, the gate that had swallowed him whole.
"I think…" he began, voice low, strained. "I know why I can't stand him."
Mary stayed quiet, sensing something deeper coming.
"It's not just because he's reckless. Or because he doesn't know what he's doing."
He exhaled slowly. "It's because he reminds me of me. Before I knew what the world really was."
He turned to her. "Innocent. Stupid. Hopeful."
His jaw clenched. "I hate that I envy it."
Mary's eyes softened. "That's not weakness, Henry."
He didn't respond. Just nodded once and walked away, disappearing back to the camp.
Mary stood there, alone, watching as he disappeared.
Somewhere beyond the trees, something waited.
And in the silence, something watched.
Something old.
Something stirring.