After dealing with the town, Asm noticed a group of parents with their children trying to escape on a boat. He looked at them and laughed so loudly that the parents heard him. Panic set in, and they tried to hurry, but it was all in vain.
In the blink of an eye, Asm was upon them. When it was over, their bodies were neatly arranged. He then jumped onto the boat the parents had been trying to enter and saw nine children inside.
Asm smiled, a cold grin spreading across his face, and stepped into the boat. The children froze in fear—they couldn't speak or move, struggling to understand what had just happened.
Slowly, the boat began to move on its own.
The boat did not cut through the water. It drifted, surrendered to the current, as if the river itself had recognized its new master and taken command.
The wood beneath them was soft with rot, a skeleton of a vessel that should have sunk years ago. Every shift of weight made the timber sigh—a tired, wet sound that crawled into the children's ears like a death rattle. The smell was worse than the decay; it was the scent of stagnant time, old moss, and a sour metallic tang that clung to the back of the throat. The river whispered against the hull, not loudly, but constantly, passing secrets of the drowned to anyone willing to listen.
Asm sat at the bow, his back to them. He did not row. He did not steer. He sat perfectly still, his small frame silhouetted against the pale moonlight. Yet, somehow, the boat moved with a terrifying, jagged purpose, avoiding the jagged rocks and sunken debris that should have torn it apart.
The children huddled together in the center, knees pulled to their chests, afraid to breathe. Toma's hands shook so badly he had to press them between his legs to stop the sound of his teeth clicking. The silence was a physical weight, heavier than the damp air.
Finally, Toma's voice cracked the quiet. "Why… why didn't you kill us too?"
The words fell into the water and seemed to sink before they even reached the bow. Asm didn't turn around. His voice, when it came, had a hollow, chilling clarity.
"Because a king without subjects," he said, his tone as flat as the horizon, "is just a man standing in the mud."
The river lapped against the wood, slow and deliberate.
"You aren't survivors, Toma," Asm continued, his head tilting just a fraction. "You are my first witnesses. A story needs an audience to become a legend."
The Shore — The Shadow of the Past
The river didn't arrive at the shore; it rejected them.
The boat scraped against the land with a sound that split the rotted hull open like an overripe fruit. Planks cracked. Water rushed in, black and greedy. Asm stood up, his balance perfect despite the tilting deck.
"Jump."
The mud on the bank was knee-deep and freezing. It swallowed their legs, tugging at them as if the ground itself wanted to drag them into the earth. Iria stumbled, her small foot catching in a submerged root. Her shoe vanished beneath the surface, torn away by the sucking muck.
She cried out—a sharp, panicked sob that echoed off the trees.
Asm turned. His white, pupil-less eyes settled on her. He didn't have to say a word. In the darkness, those empty orbs seemed to glow with a cold, predatory light. He didn't raise his voice, and he didn't offer a hand. He simply looked at her until the crying stopped.
It wasn't a look of comfort. It was the look of a craftsman inspecting a tool that had developed a flaw. Under that gaze, Iria felt her heart freeze. She understood, in a way a child never should, that her survival was a privilege he could revoke.
"Push," Asm commanded.
The children, shivering and covered in filth, shoved the broken remains of the boat back into the current. They watched in silence as it drifted away, splitting further apart until it disappeared into the fog.
"Let the river take the evidence," Asm said quietly. "From this moment, the children you were are dead. Only the ones I chose remain."
The Border — The Art of the Lie
The border guards were bored, their spirits dampened by the midnight shift. Miller leaned on his rifle, watching the tree line, while Graves yawned, adjusting the strap on his heavy, Curse-enhanced weapon.
Then, the flashlight beam caught something. Small shadows.
Miller raised his light. "Identify yourselves!"
Asm stepped forward into the blinding glare. The transformation was instantaneous. The cold tyrant vanished, replaced by a squinting, stumbling boy who looked like he was one step away from collapsing. He held his hands out blindly, his voice trembling with a high-pitched, fragile terror.
"P-please," Asm sobbed. It was a sound so authentic it made the children behind him flinch. "Help us. A Hero… a rogue Hero attacked our orphanage upriver. There was so much fire..."
The word Hero hit the guards like a physical blow. In this world, the only thing more terrifying than a villain was a Hero gone wrong.
Graves straightened instantly, his finger moving to the trigger guard. "A Hero? You're sure?"
Asm nodded, his shoulders heaving. "He said... he said we were necessary sacrifices for the greater good. My eyes... I can't see... the light was too bright..."
Miller's jaw tightened. The government's main job was to police "rogue" Gift-users. Seeing a blind, mud-caked child pleading for his life triggered every instinct they had.
"Alright, kid. Easy," Miller said, lowering his gun and stepping forward to guide them through the gate. "You're safe now. We've got you."
As they passed Miller, Asm's shoulder brushed against the guard's leather holster. To Miller, it was just a clumsy, blind child seeking balance. To Asm, it was a tactical scan. He felt the cold steel of the sidearm and the weight of the spare magazines. He was measuring the tools he would eventually need to master.
The Orphanage — The Opened Gate
The town was a maze of neon and shadow, but Asm led them straight to the gates of Hope Children's Home. It was a grim building that smelled of old soup, damp stone, and cheap tobacco.
Mrs. Gable, the Matron, stood in the doorway. She was a woman carved out of bitterness, her eyes already calculating the cost of more mouths to feed. "We're full," she snapped before they could speak. "Go to the city center. This isn't a hotel."
Asm didn't back away. He stepped closer—inside her personal space—until he was standing right in front of her. He reached up with small, muddy fingers and touched her cheek. It was an act that looked like a child seeking a mother, but his touch was as cold as a corpse.
"You have a kind heart, Mrs. Gable," he whispered, his voice vibrating with a hidden threat. "It would be a shame if the authorities found out you turned away the traumatized children of fallen heroes. Think of the paperwork. Think of the scandal."
Mrs. Gable froze. Her breath caught in her throat. She looked down at the boy, and for a second, she didn't see a child. She saw something ancient and hollow wearing a child's skin. The air around him felt heavy, pressurized.
"I... I suppose we can find room in the basement," she stammered, her voice shaking for reasons she couldn't explain.
She opened the gate. As the children filed past her into the dark hallway, Asm stayed behind for a second. He stood in the threshold, the pale light of the moon catching his white eyes one last time.
"Obey when it is easy," he whispered to the shadows of the hallway. "Resist when necessary. But never forget—this is no longer a home. It is a beginning."
He stepped inside, and the door clicked shut with the finality of a trap snapping shut.