"Anyone else wanna take me on?" the red-haired man challenged, throwing his arms wide, as though daring the heavens themselves to intervene. His voice reverberated through the chamber like a clap of thunder, bouncing off the stone walls and iron bars, filling the space with an almost sacred tension. The torches lining the room flickered wildly, casting long, jagged shadows that danced across the walls, as if the flames themselves recoiled from him.
The remaining guards froze, their faces pale beneath the harsh glow of the firelight. Each man instinctively glanced at the others, seeking confirmation, silently weighing their options: confront this anomaly—or surrender. The clanging of armor as they shifted, small squeaks of leather and chainmail, was deafening in its quietness.
A tense, loaded moment stretched. A single bead of sweat rolled down the temple of one guard, glinting like a drop of mercury in the firelight. Then, one by one, they threw down their weapons. Metal swords, rusted sabers, and crude axes clattered to the stone floor. The sound was abrupt and violent, a cacophony that filled the room like a symphony—but a symphony of defeat. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the chorus of submission.
The red-haired man let out a soft sigh, as if the theatrics of the moment had weighed on him. He turned his attention to a small, spindly guard who had trembled in the corner throughout the standoff. The man had nothing but a small, rusted knife, long since rendered useless in his shaking grip. He was a thin, fragile thing, his uniform caked in dust and sweat, the insignias of his rank faded almost to nothing.
The red-haired man crouched low, meeting him eye to eye. His hair, spiked and wild, fell forward in disarray, glowing faintly in the red light from his eyes, which were fixed with merciless intensity. The guard's brown eyes darted nervously, his lips quivering uncontrollably, revealing fear so raw it seemed almost tangible.
"I-I surrendered!" the guard stammered, his voice quivering, a high-pitched sound that seemed barely human. His knees scraped against the rough stone floor as he tried to cower from the weight of the man before him.
The red-haired man exhaled slowly, almost kindly, though the tone was anything but comforting. "Oh, I know," he said, his voice smooth, almost gentle. "But I'm only here to ask you one question. Just one."
The guard blinked rapidly, desperate to please, nodding frantically. "W-what is it?" he squeaked.
"You see," the red-haired man began, his crimson eyes burning into the man's soul, "I need to reach a kingdom called Zul'Azar. Do you know of it?"
"Y-yes! I… I do!" the guard said, relief mingling with lingering terror in his voice, as though the very act of recognition could save him.
The red-haired man's lips curled into a small, amused smile. "That's… excellent," he said, resting a hand lightly on the trembling man's shoulder. The touch was almost casual, but the pressure of it felt like iron, a silent assertion of dominance. "Now, one last question. Do you know the way there?"
The guard's eyes widened, a sudden, dawning panic overtaking his relief. His jaw worked as he scrambled for a plausible lie. "Uh… uh, it's… just over there!" He pointed vaguely toward the far wall, sweat dripping down his face, his hands shaking violently.
The red-haired man studied him, unblinking. His gaze was surgical, cutting through any attempt at deceit, reading every twitch of the jaw, every falter in his voice, every small flicker of fear in his eyes. The crimson glow of his irises deepened, as though a storm brewed within them.
"You're lying, aren't you?" he asked softly, the words almost gentle—but lethal in implication.
"N-no! I'm not!" the guard blurted, his voice cracking as panic overtook him entirely.
The red-haired man sighed, straightening to his full height, a ripple of heat shimmering around him. "One thing I truly despise," he said, his voice low and cold, "are liars."
He extended his right hand slowly, deliberately, his fingers forming a subtle, elegant gesture that seemed to draw the very air toward him. A faint hum filled the chamber, rising from the stones and bouncing against the iron bars. A thin, red energy began to spiral outward from his palm, wrapping the guard in an almost tangible cocoon of heat and light. The air crackled, carrying a scent of ozone and iron, and the guard's hair rose on end, standing like bristles in response to the invisible force.
The guard's eyes widened, pupils dilating, as the crimson glow of the red-haired man intensified. His chest heaved, hands clawing at the ground as though the air itself had become molten. The red energy pulsed rhythmically, like a heartbeat, and shadows bent unnaturally, twisting against the walls as if recoiling from the power concentrated on this single point.
Then the red-haired man snapped his fingers.
The effect was immediate and catastrophic. The guard's body erupted outward, beginning with the chest. The energy twisted around him, writhing like living fire, black veins of power bleeding through the crimson aura. His arms flailed, legs kicked, but the cocoon of energy held him tight, stretching, compressing, distorting every inch of flesh.
Bone shattered under the invisible pressure first, sending sharp fragments spinning like deadly shards. Muscles tore and sinews snapped with sickening sounds, carried through the night air. His skull split along the cranium, the top half of his head detonating in a shower of gore, bone, and hair, while the lower half remained momentarily, quivering in suspended agony, crimson light licking at every exposed nerve and muscle.
Blood sprayed outward in high arcs, steaming as it hit the stone floor, spattering the nearby cages and prisoners in a fine mist of metallic red. One shard of jawbone embedded itself in the bars of the nearest cage, twisting the iron with an audible shriek. The guard's torso ballooned unnaturally under the red energy, ribs folding outward, chest collapsing and expanding simultaneously, sinews stretching like taut rope.
Then, in a final, devastating pulse, the red-haired man's fingers moved again, snapping softly. The remainder of the guard's body detonated, the red energy collapsing inward before dissipating into a shower of sparks. The force of the explosion rattled the cages, bending iron bars, throwing chains into the air, and sending dust and sand swirling through the chamber in a choking cloud.
Silence followed.
Then he spoke up.
The red-haired man turned, his crimson eyes sweeping slowly across the room. The air still carried the acrid tang of blood and gunpowder, and yet his voice cut through it all, calm, deliberate, laced with quiet menace.
"I require a companion to reach Zul'Azar," he said, the words smooth as silk yet edged with steel. His grin widened, revealing just enough cruelty to remind them that mercy was not in his nature. "I don't care how you decide it—whether it be through peace…" he let the word linger, his tone mockingly gentle, "…or through violence."
He spread his arms slightly, as if inviting them to imagine the choice for themselves. The faint crimson glow radiating from his skin danced across the walls, casting monstrous shadows over the trembling prisoners and pale guards. The storm outside wailed against the wooden door, rattling it in its frame, but the silence in the room was far louder.
His grin deepened, and his eyes glimmered like embers in the dark. "I will leave for Zul'Azar in five minutes. No more. No less. So—" his voice dropped to a low, dangerous purr, "do make up your minds by then."
He leaned back slightly on his heels, savoring the tension, the way every breath in the room seemed caught in throats. His fingers drummed idly against his thigh, as though he were already counting down the seconds.
He took a step toward the battered wooden door, his boots echoing faintly against the stone floor still slick with blood. The room smelled of iron, smoke, and ash—an oppressive mixture that clung to the lungs like tar. His shadow stretched across the floor, broken by the twisted iron of the cages and the still-smoking remains of the guard.
The door loomed before him, old and worn, its wood split with age and scarred by countless storms. The copper handle was dulled and pitted, a greenish corrosion creeping along its grooves like veins. He reached out, resting his hand on the cold metal. The chill of it contrasted sharply with the heat radiating from his own body, his crimson aura flickering faintly in response to the contact.
He paused for only a moment, casting one final glance over his shoulder. The prisoners pressed themselves against the bars, their eyes wide and searching, filled with something that was neither gratitude nor hatred, but something far more complicated: awe. The guards, broken and defeated, stared in silence, their faces pale masks of fear. For a heartbeat, the entire room seemed frozen, suspended in that look.
His lips twitched into the faintest of grins—so fleeting it was gone as soon as it appeared, as if the expression itself was more of a memory than a choice.
And then, with effortless motion, he turned the handle. The wooden door groaned against its rusted hinges, the sound long and drawn-out, like the moan of some dying beast.
The instant it opened, the world outside roared into the room. A sandstorm screamed across the desert, the wind carrying sheets of fire-hot sand that lashed against stone and flesh alike. The storm howled like a thousand voices crying out in fury, each grain of sand burning as though it were forged from molten glass.
The heat hit him like a hammer, hotter than a forge's breath, hotter than molten lava spilling from the earth. The air itself shimmered with it, bending light, twisting sight, and warping the horizon into a shifting mirage of fire and gold. The sky was no sky at all—only a seething curtain of ochre and crimson, blotted with streaks of black cloud.
But he did not hesitate. Not for a second.
He stepped forward, crimson hair whipping violently in the gale, the rags once tied around his arms tearing loose and vanishing into the storm. His boots sank into the scorching sand, yet he walked as if the heat itself parted for him, as though the desert bent to his will.
The door creaked shut behind him with a final groan, sealing the trembling prisoners and defeated guards in their silence.
Outside, the storm swallowed him whole.
As the sound of the door closing reverberated across the chamber, it echoed like a death knell, sealing them within. For a heartbeat, silence reigned. The storm outside howled, the timbers of the outpost groaning beneath its fury, but within the room the air was suffocatingly still.
Then, slowly—almost reluctantly—the prisoners began to move. One by one, they lifted their heads, their eyes meeting across the rusted bars and bloodstained floor. Their gazes carried no warmth, no brotherhood forged in shared suffering. Only a grim, familiar understanding.
The first man bent down and wrapped his scarred fingers around the hilt of a blade discarded moments earlier. Metal scraped against stone as he lifted it. Another followed suit, stooping to retrieve a jagged spear. Soon the sound multiplied—swords clattering in calloused hands, chains repurposed as flails, a cracked axe head swung experimentally through the air.
Every motion was deliberate. Heavy. As if they weren't just arming themselves with weapons, but donning the very truth of who they were.
No words were exchanged, for none were needed. Each man knew what the others already understood. The red-haired stranger hadn't given them a choice. Not truly. To stand at his side meant being worthy in his eyes, and worthiness would not be proven through submission or pleas.
It would be decided the way it had always been decided, from the pits of their past lives to the cages where they had rotted for years.
Through violence.
Sheer, unrestrained violence.