I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
Patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 113: Twisted Rage
Lucas and Malia remained in the small clearing right next to Isaac, motionless and quiet. The forest, once a cacophony of chaos, had fallen back into uneasy stillness, the kind that doesn't feel like peace, but rather a held breath. Birds hadn't yet returned to the trees. Even the wind seemed reluctant to stir the leaves. And yet, the tension lingered—thick and cloying like smoke that wouldn't quite clear. The aftermath of what had just happened clung to the air like fog.
After a short while, Isaac stirred. A low groan escaped his lips as he rolled onto his side, wincing as if every part of his body ached. He brought a shaky hand to his head, his fingers pressing into his temples. His eyelids fluttered, unfocused at first, then blinked several times as the world began to sharpen around him. Slowly, with effort, he pushed himself upright, brushing off the dead leaves and bits of dirt that clung to his clothes.
"I had… the weirdest nightmare," he murmured, his voice thick with confusion. His gaze drifted across the clearing as he tried to orient himself, his hands absently patting down his shirt.
Then he saw Malia.
Or more specifically—he saw the torn remnants of her shirt, the ragged slashes of fabric, stained dark with blood. The place where claws had torn into her, too precise and brutal to be anything but real.
Isaac froze. Every bit of color drained from his face, replaced by a pale, almost sickly hue. His body went rigid, and his breath caught in his throat.
"That… wasn't a dream, was it?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Malia met his gaze steadily. She didn't flinch, didn't look away. She just nodded once. A simple confirmation. A quiet truth that carried the weight of everything that had transpired.
The realization hit Isaac like a blow to the chest. His shoulders slumped forward as the guilt settled heavily onto him, dragging him down. His eyes dropped to the dirt between his knees, jaw tightening as if he were trying to hold something inside—regret, shame, disbelief. Maybe all three.
But before he could sink further into that spiral, before the guilt could fully consume him, Lucas stepped in. He moved with purpose, stepping closer and laying a firm, grounding hand on Isaac's shoulder.
"Now isn't the time to beat yourself up," Lucas said, voice steady, cutting through the fog of shame like a blade. "We need answers. We need to understand what that person did to you. Start from the beginning. Tell me everything you remember."
Isaac hesitated. His mouth opened, then closed again. The guilt hadn't left—it clung stubbornly to his expression—but he nodded, slowly, and began to speak. At first, his voice trembled, tentative, as if the words hurt to say. But as he continued, the memory took shape, and his voice grew firmer, more certain.
"I don't even know when it started," he said. "I thought I was fine. I was fine. Then all of a sudden, it hit me. This memory, out of nowhere. That first full moon. When Malia suggested chaining me up, so I wouldn't hurt anyone."
His eyes flicked up to meet hers, and for a moment, the pain there was raw and naked.
"I knew you were just trying to help. I know that. But when the memory came back… it didn't feel that way. It felt wrong. Like… betrayal. Like how could someone who's supposed to care about me treat me like an animal?"
He exhaled sharply, voice thick with emotion.
"And it got worse. That feeling didn't stop. It twisted inside me. I couldn't think straight. It was like… like the anger was alive. Like it wasn't just in my head anymore—it was in my blood. It took over. All I could feel was rage."
He paused. Swallowed hard.
"And then… the idea just clicked. Like it made perfect sense. Like it was the only logical next step."
His voice dropped to a near whisper.
"I had to kill you."
A silence fell over the clearing. It was heavy and terrible, the kind of silence that swallows everything else.
Isaac's breathing grew ragged, his chest rising and falling as he wrestled with the horror of his own words. Across from him, Malia stood perfectly still, the blood still visible on her shirt—a stark reminder of how close they'd come to tragedy.
Then she moved.
"Hey."
Her voice was sharp, decisive. Not angry—anchoring.
"That wasn't you," she said firmly. "That bastard was in your head. Twisting things."
She grabbed the hem of her torn shirt and tugged it aside, revealing the smooth, unblemished skin underneath.
"Look," she said. "I'm healed. It's like it never even happened. I'm fine, Isaac."
Isaac looked at the place where he had wounded her. The physical evidence was gone, erased by supernatural healing—but the emotional weight remained. He gave a slow nod, acknowledging her words, though they didn't seem to lift the burden from his shoulders. The guilt remained, a silent companion behind his eyes.
Lucas's voice cut through, clear and sharp. "That means he isn't just making people angry. He's taking small things—slights, doubts, annoyances—and twisting them until there's nothing left but murderous rage."
Isaac and Malia both turned toward him, their expressions darkening as the full implications settled over them.
The truth of it sank in, dark and heavy, like the woods themselves had gone colder around them.