The sky had begun to glow orange and purple. The clock read 5:05 PM.
Al stood at the edge of the sidewalk, slightly out of breath.
"Wow... being a good kid is really exhausting."
While staring at the sky, he realized: coming home late meant... family drama.
But if he ran now, he could still make it back before six.
It wasn't fear of the drama—just a quiet kind of frustration with people.
And there was nothing wrong with being the kind of kid who got home on time.
He glanced toward the bus stop, which was still quite far.
In front of him, taxis were passing by one after another.
"Take a taxi?"
"It'll be a hassle if they ask how I could afford it. Sarah and David would be thrilled to get new material to slander me with."
"Mmmm... Teleport?"
He looked around and noticed several CCTV cameras on nearby buildings.
But all he could do was sigh.
In a city like this, CCTV and drones were likely connected to the 24-hour cyber police system.
If a kid suddenly disappeared from the footage, they might end up on the suspicious persons watchlist.
"This is such a pain. Guess I'll walk."
With a small grumble, Al decided to walk. He used the stroll as an opportunity to scan the city's spiritual energy.
"Who knows? Maybe I'll find a wandering spirit to chat with."
As he passed through a narrow alley between two old buildings, Al felt something—a pulse of magical aura, like a whisper only those with spiritual eyes could hear.
"Hm?" His gaze sharpened toward the alley.
Without hesitation, he stepped into the darkness. The narrow passages smelled of dust, rats, and forgotten history.
But… there was nothing. No one. The aura vanished.
Al frowned, then closed his eyes briefly. His right hand lifted and formed a subtle mudra. A wave of invisible energy rippled outward like a magical sonar.
No result. The aura was too subtle—or too skilled at hiding.
"Maybe it's just my imagination."
Just as he turned to leave…
At the far end of the alley, familiar silhouettes appeared—the thugs from earlier that morning, now accompanied by four hulking henchmen.
"Well, well, look who's strolling through our turf."
"You little punk! This morning you got saved by Miss Rina. This time, you're done for."
"Better make your final request…"
Al stood calmly, eyes half-lidded. He muttered dryly:
"In that case… I'd like to be left alone. Thank you."
Then he stepped forward.
The gang leader, feeling mocked, snapped.
"Hah, who said we'd grant your request?"
"Then what's the point of asking?" Al replied, shaking his head.
Feeling provoked, the thug could no longer hold himself back.
"Get him!" he barked to his four underlings.
They charged forward immediately.
All four attacked Al head-on. Two of them were armed with wooden clubs, while the other two went in barehanded.
Al shook his head again and looked ahead.
To his eyes, their movements were painfully slow.
"You're too slow," he said coldly.
Then he moved.
A flurry of punches, kicks, tackles, and brutal strikes—all executed with impossible speed.
In less than five seconds, all four men collapsed one after another.
No magic. Just fists, knees, and unearthly precision.
The gang leader was visibly shaken. He hadn't expected the kid he was picking on to be this skilled in combat. Still, he pressed forward, drawing a knife and stepping in with a snarl. His intent to kill was clear.
"Don't act tough, you little punk! You're dead!"
Al stopped walking.
He rolled his neck, then locked eyes with the thug—eyes glowing faintly.
A dark red energy began to radiate from Al's body like a thick mist, slowly filling the alley. His voice was low and razor-sharp.
"If you're ready to hurt someone..."
"...then you'd better be ready to get hurt."
"And if you're ready to kill..."
"...you should be ready to die."
In an instant, the air turned heavy.
Al's eyes burned with a killing intent unlike anything ordinary—feral, ancient, and soaked in the weight of thousands of years of battle.
The stone walls around them began to crack.
Animals nearby scattered in panic, fleeing the area.
The gang leader froze under the crushing pressure, his body paralyzed. Cold sweat poured down his face as overwhelming fear swallowed him whole.
He passed out on the spot—without Al laying a single finger on him.
---
In a modern-traditional dojo not far away, the Head of the Palaka Dojo—Makazhar Traditional Arts—and his charismatic vice-leader, Rina, were in the middle of a relaxed discussion with several members.
Suddenly, a surge of powerful energy swept through the area.
The dojo leader and Rina instantly tensed. They could feel the presence clearly, while the other members only sensed it faintly due to their lower sensitivity.
The two exchanged looks, both unsure what kind of terrifying force they had just felt.
"Rina... did you feel that?"
"Yeah. That wasn't ordinary energy... it was incredibly strong."
---
In a matter of seconds, five major martial arts groups across Makazhar reacted. Moving fast across rooftops and shadows, they converged on the scene.
At the site, all five groups met—staring at one another, recognizing old rivals.
"You again?" said a fit older man in black dojo uniform.
"Still breathing, huh, old dojo master?"
"Huh, still arrogant, black cat," replied Master Palaka.
"I'd challenge you again—but this isn't the place for petty insults. There's a deadly aura here."
They discovered five thugs sprawled out—one still unconscious.
After waking them, they began questioning—but the thugs just looked dazed and confused.
"Uh… who am I?"
"Why am I here?"
"I like the color purple…"
Some people were trying to analyze the lingering energy residue. A few traces of it could still be felt, yet the energy was unusual—unlike anything they had sensed before. Some believed it came from a mage, while others suspected it was from a spiritual being. But in the end, no one really knew what it was.
---
From a distant rooftop, Al let out a long sigh.
"Too much. Why is my killing intent so overpowering in this dimension? Are humans here really that fragile…"
He looked down, watching the five martial groups argue and blame one another. He nearly laughed—but then remembered the time.
"Ugh… family drama's waiting."
The sky had turned dark. Streetlights blinked on. Al broke into a run along the sidewalk.
"Why am I being so nice today…"
As he ran, a thought struck him: sometimes, being a good kid was far more exhausting than fighting a war—especially if you were a good kid and the son of a wealthy family.
---
Al arrived at the front gate of his house just as the light faded from the sky. The sun had set too quickly—or perhaps he'd just delayed too long. In his rush, he hadn't noticed his shirt was rumpled, pants torn at the knee, and one shoe soaked from a dirty alley puddle.
At the same time, a black SUV pulled into the driveway. From the slowly lowering window, Sarah stared at Al with a tired expression. Then a small smirk curled on her lips—the smug grin of a sister who had just discovered new ammo to defeat her long-time rival… her little brother.
"Perfect," she whispered, stepping out like a drama queen fresh from filming a family soap opera.
Meanwhile, Al hurried to his room, mind swirling with one troubling question: why had his killing intent spun out of control just now?
It had been six years since he last used it. Six years living as a normal human. Maybe—just maybe—he had started to forget how to control the darkness inside him.
---