I ripped off that man's head and spine as if his body were nothing. My inhuman strength broke and destroyed any resistance.
"This will be it!" My voice cut through the air like thunder. "This will be the fate of all who dare to challenge me from this day forward."
I lifted Dagen's body like a trophy, feeling its weight in my hand, and brought it close to my face.
"I will cut off your head and hang it at the entrance to my territory as a bloody reminder."
He was a foolish man, a fighter in battles that did not belong to him. A weak man who could not even stand up to his enemy.
And his lineage? His descendants? Warriors? A joke! A disgrace!
Spear of the Storm? Just useless, meaningless tickles!
I held the rest of his body tightly, still feeling the blood pulsing through his broken arteries.
I brought it to my lips and savored it, like someone tasting the bitter taste of victory.
Ah... that warm feeling...
The blood flowed from my mouth like red wine, thick, iron-tasting, alive. It flowed as if it had been marinated for years in the veins of a warrior. Each sip was an offering to the beast inside me.
Gulp! Gulp! Gulp! Gulp! Gulp!
The hot, thick liquid went down my throat and fed something that words could not describe. When I was satisfied, I threw the body on the floor as if discarding an empty wineskin.
My eyes were red—not just from the color, but from the fever of violence—and my skin was stained with the blood of the defeated. I felt the heavy air around me. Silence for a brief moment.
Then I raised my head and opened my arms:
"Who's next?! Who's next for dinner?!" my voice echoed, wild, laden with insanity. "Step forward!"
My heart was pounding like war drums. The world spun in a pulsing red. That field was now my altar.
Up there, on the platform, I saw my father. Rillen. Motionless. Eyes wide, jaw clenched. He wasn't celebrating. Not like the others.
His men were cheering, vibrating with victory—but he... he seemed to hear something no one else could hear. A high-pitched buzzing, perhaps. A sound that came from the depths of the soul when you lose something that will never return.
He looked at me as if he didn't recognize what he was seeing.
At that moment, I understood. To him, I was no longer his son.
That day, my father accepted that I was no longer human.
And I finally accepted it.
After so much struggle, so many attempts to pretend to be something I wasn't, I understood — this is who I am. A monstrosity. Something born to kill... and made to kill.
Blood was still dripping down my arms when the judge raised his voice, his words sounding distant, as if coming from underwater:
"The trial has been held. The defendant has been proven innocent. Victoria Violeta, your champion has lost. The Violeta family must reimburse the House of Udrak with 15,000 gold coins within ten days."
I looked at the representatives of the House of Violeta. They stared at Dagen's body without moving. Motionless. Stunned. As if their minds couldn't process what had happened. Dagen was good—no. He was brilliant. Agile. Precise. Skilled in a way that I am not yet. But I caught him.
And once I got my hands on him... it was like watching a bear maul a rabbit. It wasn't a fight. It was a slaughter. Pure, unadulterated murder. I killed him, dishonored his corpse, and fed on his blood with my eyes. I humiliated that entire family in front of everyone.
And I'm 13 years old.
Thirteen.
"Let's go back, miss," said Violet's representative to the golden-haired noblewoman, her face set like stone. "Let House Spring deal with this. They created the freak, and now they'll have to deal with the consequences."
I saw the terror on the faces of the envoys and squires of the House of Spear. They were furious. I could feel their hatred vibrating in the air. But they couldn't touch me. It was a formal duel, sacred by the laws of the Council.
Dagen was the heir. The chosen one. The pride of the Spear family. He was going to be crowned leader in a year. He was at the top. And yet... he died. Dying in his own coming-of-age ritual. On the ground. At my feet.
And me?
I didn't even break a sweat.
They realized then what they may have already known but didn't want to accept: if their champion, at the peak of his training, died like this... what could the current leader of House Spear do against me?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"Judge!" One of the representatives stepped forward, shouting with a broken voice. "On behalf of the leader of House Lancer, we demand that Zaatar Udrik formally apologize for his words. And... and return the young master's head!"
I had to stifle a laugh. They still had the nerve to demand something from me?
I looked at the judge, and for a brief moment, he hesitated. His eyes were on me, trying to decipher what I would do, perhaps hoping for a spark of compassion, of diplomacy.
I smiled. A smile full of teeth, all of them stained with blood.
"I invite the combat masters of your house to come to my territory and take it," I said, my voice low and hoarse, laden with contempt. "That is, if you have the courage. Good meat cannot be eaten only once. Now that I have fed myself, I want more. Send him to get it... if he is a real man."
The head hung in my left hand, heavy and silent. I left as if carrying a trophy. As if it were already my rightful property.
I didn't look back.
But I heard it. The muffled sound of boiling hatred. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the faces of the warriors of the House of the Spear contorted in rage. Their hands were clenched, their eyes wide with indignation. But none of them moved. None of them dared to stop me.
That... was more than humiliation. It was an open wound. A shame that cannot be washed away. An affront that cannot be forgotten.
And I knew that from that day on, the name Zaatar Udrik would burn like salt in the mouths of that house.
And I couldn't wait to see who would have the courage to spit fire first.