The Yamazaki estate had never seen anything like it. Its courtyards, halls, and training grounds—once symbols of order, discipline, and control—were about to be drowned in a storm of chaos. Thousands of clan members, armed with spears, swords, axes, and shields, formed a vast ring around a single figure standing at the center. That figure was Zerath. Barehanded. Silent. Immovable.
The murmurs began as a low hiss, a sound that carried the weight of fear, respect, and disbelief. Warriors who had spent decades mastering combat, who had trained their bodies and honed their skills to perfection, now found themselves confronted with something beyond comprehension. He was no longer the boy they had known, the heir they had once measured against ordinary men. He was something else—something elemental.
The first spear struck. Its tip pierced the air, aimed at his chest with the lethal intent of a seasoned fighter. Zerath met it directly. He did not sidestep, did not parry with finesse. His shoulder absorbed the impact. He twisted the wielder violently, slamming him to the stone floor with a force that splintered ribs. Another attacker lunged. His fist smashed into the man's face, cracking bone beneath the skin, sending him sprawling across the courtyard. The air seemed to vibrate with the sheer force of his presence.
He moved as though the world itself were subordinate to his will. Spears and swords clashed against his body. Blades tore through flesh; arrows pierced and grazed, leaving ribbons of blood across his skin. Yet he did not slow, did not hesitate, did not flinch. Every step, every strike, every throw was executed with precision born of obsession, of a mind and body fused into a singular engine of destruction.
Hundreds fell beneath his fists and elbows. Shields shattered under his shoulders. Helmets caved in beneath his palms. Limbs bent, ribs broke, skulls split. The ground beneath him was slick with blood. The sounds of agony, splintering wood, and breaking bone were like a symphony of war conducted by his hands alone.
And still, they came. Thousands. A tide of humanity, each member driven by fear, jealousy, loyalty, or a mixture of all three. Spears thrust, blades slashed, axes swung, and yet Zerath's presence was a wall that could not be moved. He did not dodge. He did not evade. He met every strike with a counter of overwhelming force, bending the attacks back onto the attackers.
He was a storm. A hurricane of fists, elbows, knees, and shoulders. A living battering ram that shattered formations, tore through lines, and left devastation in his wake. Courtyards, halls, and stairways became an extension of his will. Blood ran in streams, staining the stone and wood. Shouts and screams filled the air, yet through it all, he advanced, unstoppable, uncaring, inhuman in his precision and brutality.
And then the senior elder intervened. Standing on a balcony above the chaos, he raised his voice: "Zerath! Stop! If you continue, your mother dies!"
Zerath's eyes narrowed. He did not hesitate. He did not falter. He did not slow. He kept fighting, barehanded, meeting every attack, crushing every enemy, indifferent to the threat.
A scream pierced the chaos—a sound that cut sharper than any blade. His mother had been killed. In that moment, something snapped. His rational mind—the slight restraint he had maintained—was gone. What remained was pure, unbridled force. A predator unchained.
The massacre escalated beyond comprehension. Spears struck him, blades slashed across his shoulders and arms, arrows pierced his flesh—but he did not feel the pain, did not slow, did not pause. Every strike he received was irrelevant. Every warrior before him became an extension of his rage. Every movement was absolute, every blow terminal.
He smashed through lines of warriors with shoulders, elbows, and fists. He grabbed spear shafts, bending them like twigs, then used them to shatter shields and crush skulls. Axes swung with all the strength of trained warriors—he caught them barehanded, twisted them from their grips, and shattered them across backs and knees.
The courtyard became a blur. Warriors fell in hundreds, then thousands. Bones cracked, shields splintered, and screams echoed in the chaos. Nothing slowed him. Nothing deterred him. He moved like a force of nature, a storm that could not be reasoned with or stopped.
Hours passed. He did not tire. He did not rest. His bare hands, shoulders, and elbows tore through human flesh with mechanical precision. Entire formations crumpled like sandcastles under a relentless tide. The Yamazaki clan—thousands strong—was reduced to a sea of blood and broken bodies, yet Zerath advanced with the same unyielding determination, ignoring every wound, every cut, every piercing blow.
The massacre was complete. Every clan member lay broken, shattered, or dead. The courtyard, once alive with the pulse of discipline, now only bore witness to the aftermath of unrelenting destruction. The air was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and iron. The stone beneath him was slick, the bodies of thousands surrounding him like a grotesque testament to his obsession and rage.
And only then did he feel it. Only then, as the last of the Yamazaki fell, did his rational mind return. Only then did he recognize the full extent of what he had ignored—the countless spears that had pierced him, the blades that had cut and slashed, the cuts that ran like rivers across his body. The physical toll he had disregarded in his blind fury now came crashing down on him.
He collapsed, surrounded by the corpses of those who had thought themselves strong enough to oppose him. His breathing came in ragged gasps. His limbs trembled not from fear, but from the accumulated carnage his body had endured. Every wound, every cut, every piercing was now an unbearable weight.
And then, he died.
Zerath, the unstoppable predator, the embodiment of absolute force, had killed thousands with his bare hands, massacred the Yamazaki clan, and yet succumbed to the accumulated wounds he had ignored in his blind, unrelenting rage. His last breath left him amidst the sea of bodies he had created.
The courtyard was silent. The massacre complete. Thousands of lives had been ended, a dynasty obliterated by a single man whose obsession with strength had overridden every restraint. He had proven himself unstoppable. He had proven himself merciless. And yet, he had died.
But death would not claim him forever. The universe had seen his power, his obsession, and his unyielding will. The story of Zerath was far from over.