RED.
'Red everywhere.'
That was Ali's final coherent thought as his eyes widened in disbelief. A surge of crimson energy erupted across the forest to his left, casting an ominous glow through the trees like a second sun.
BOOOOOOOOOOOM
The ground trembled violently as a monstrous hammer slammed into the earth, its sheer force creating a concussive blast-wave that tore through everything in its path. Trees exploded into splinters. Rocks were tossed like pebbles. Beasts in the vicinity let out strangled cries—before being flung like rag dolls across the terrain.
And Ali?
Ali was caught in the very heart of the blast.
His body was launched skyward like a leaf in a tornado, soaring through the air with no control, no defence. He smashed into one tree—CRACK—then another—THUD—then a third, each impact breaking bones and leaving deep wounds. Bark shredded against his flesh. Limbs twisted in unnatural ways. The blast had been so powerful, even Ali's Force wasn't strong enough to counter it.
He had no choice but to ride it out.
Behind him, the Demi-humans who'd been chasing him came to a collective halt. They turned their eyes toward the source of the explosion—where a towering figure now emerged through the clearing fog.
Their leader.
The red-skinned bull-man strode forward, his monstrous hammer slung across one broad shoulder. His muscles pulsed and glowed like embers, each step sending a ripple through the very air around him. The heat coming off his body shimmered like a forge. Power radiated from him in thick, visible waves.
The other Demi-humans stepped aside instinctively.
"Let's go check," the largest wolf-man growled. The others obeyed without hesitation, trailing him toward the destruction.
They found it two hundred meters away.
There, amid a veritable mountain of shattered trees and broken beasts, lay the cratered impact zone. Blood painted the wooden debris. A few unfortunate forest creatures had been caught in the blast, their corpses twisted and mangled. It was a mess of splinters, limbs, and blood-soaked foliage.
But—no body.
No human.
The group quickly spread out, sniffing the air, using their heightened senses to pick up any trace of their quarry.
"I've got a scent!" one of the wolf-men barked, crouching down and taking off in a flash. The others immediately gave chase, weaving effortlessly between trees.
After a minute of relentless pursuit, they came to a sudden stop.
Standing there—bathed in sunlight filtering between four ancient trees—was the same masked human they'd been hunting. His coat rippled in the soft breeze, and his hands hung loosely at his sides. Not a scratch marred his skin. It was as if the explosion had never touched him.
"Impossible…" the bunny-girl whispered, astonished. "I saw him get hit… I saw the impact…"
Ali slowly turned his head, his mask shifting to face them fully. His black eyes pierced through the glare of the sunlight. Cold. Unshaken. Unreadable.
"Have you finally decided to fight like a man?" the large wolf-man roared mockingly, grinning as he stepped forward. His swords shimmered faintly with blue light. The challenge in his tone was clear.
Ali didn't respond.
He was thinking. Calculating.
'They're using old English…' he noted internally. His eyes scanned his map. A small icon on his interface pulsed at the edge of his map.
BURN.
His wrist began to heat up, an almost painful sensation igniting under the skin. He swung his hand behind him—and the burning intensified.
The Origin.
It was close. A massive reserve of it. It called to him, burned into his nerves like molten fire.
'Am I lucky or unlucky?' he wondered. His mind rapidly calculated the odds. Behind him was a source of immense power. In front of him, a squad of relentless pursuers. 'Miles is far enough now—they wouldn't find him'. But Ali was down to his last point of Spirit.
This next move had to count.
'I'm trusting you, Veska…'
VVVVVVVVVV
With a low hum, a portal of inky black opened beneath Ali's boots. Before the wolf-man could so much as blink, Ali dropped into the vortex, vanishing from sight.
A split second later, a razor-thin line of blue energy slashed across the trunks behind him—cutting through solid wood like air.
"YOU HUMAN RAT!" the wolf-man bellowed in fury. He spun around, already sniffing the air—there. Exactly one hundred meters away. Again. Still running.
Ali raced through the underbrush, the forest blurring past him. His hand seared with heat now, and he knew—he was close.
Very close.
He leapt over a thick hedge and skidded to a halt.
His breath caught.
Before him was a wide, circular clearing surrounded by a wall of tall, thorny shrubs—cleverly masking it from view. At the centre stood a modest wooden house, simple in design. A stack of firewood lay beside it. A laundry rake leaned against one wall. A rusted axe sat embedded in a chopping block.
The air was peaceful here.
Serene.
Ali's hand was almost glowing now. The Origin was here.
Five minutes earlier…
Inside that humble wooden cabin, a family of three lived in tranquility.
A man—no older than thirty—sat on a bench carved from a single piece of oak. His frame was titanic, standing well over seven feet tall. Muscle wrapped around his bones like armour, the kind built from a lifetime of combat. Scars adorned his skin like medals of survival, but one stood out above all others—a long, jagged gash across the centre of his chest. It had not been made by any ordinary blade.
And yet, despite the savage reminders of his past, the man's face was calm. Strong. Kind.
His hair was chestnut-brown, falling in soft waves to his shoulders. A short, trimmed beard traced his square jaw, and his eyes—gentle brown with flecks of steel—glanced to the window with a quiet patience.
In his hands, he cradled a simple wooden toy.
He was carving it slowly.
Peacefully.
The man's wife stood at the far end of their modest wooden home, preparing dinner with gentle, practiced grace. Despite her humble surroundings and the simplicity of their lifestyle, there was no hiding her beauty. She was youthful—no older than twenty-five—with soft, shoulder-length brown hair streaked with golden flecks that shimmered subtly in the light. But what set her apart most were her striking golden eyes—vivid, piercing, and utterly mismatched with her hair. They carried an enigmatic elegance, the kind only found among those born into privilege, nobility, or high society. It clung to her like perfume.
Her features were soft yet alluring—full lips, a delicate nose, and high cheekbones that framed her radiant smile. Despite the rustic setting and years away from civilisation, her appearance remained exquisite. Her figure was the kind that drew long stares: large, full breasts that had only grown more prominent since childbirth, and curves so shapely and refined that even loose-fitting garments couldn't hide them.
Strapped to her chest in a handmade sling was a tiny baby girl, perhaps no older than a few months. The child mirrored both her parents…
Sofia smiled as she stirred a pot over the hearth, humming softly. The warmth of the home, the scent of simmering herbs, the quiet gurgles of the baby—everything whispered of peace. Of sanctuary.
But George's mind was elsewhere.
He sat on the bench, jaw tightening as his brown eyes narrowed. His towering frame, already massive, grew tense with a warrior's instinct.
'They're getting closer…' The words echoed through his head like a warning bell.
Sofia, sensing the change in him, turned slightly. Her smile faded to concern. "George, is everything alright?" she asked gently, her voice soft but firm—the voice of a woman who knew her husband's every thought before he said a word.
George rose slowly, a calm smile spreading across his rugged face as he approached her. He wrapped his thick arms around her waist, leaned down, and kissed her temple, then pressed his lips tenderly to their daughter's forehead.
"I was just thinking," he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "how lucky I am to have you, Sofia."
Her golden eyes sparkled with affection, and she reached up to caress his cheek. Their lips met in a loving kiss, and the baby between them squealed with delight, laughing and wriggling with innocent joy.
George turned and walked back toward the bed, his face now serious. He knelt beside it and pulled out a large, rectangular box from beneath the frame. Sofia watched in silence as he opened it, revealing a gleaming battle axe resting in a cradle of worn velvet. The weapon was forged from radiant gold, inscribed with luminous blue runes that shimmered in the dim light.
She had seen him draw the weapon out many times before—for training, for maintenance, for remembrance. It was a piece of his past, and a relic of his former life.
"Do you miss your days as a knight?" Sofia asked quietly, never stopping her steady stirring.
George stood and examined the axe, running a calloused hand over the ancient script etched into its surface. "I miss my brothers," he answered in his deep, gravelly voice. "The ones I trained with. Fought beside. Bled with." He turned toward her, expression solemn. "But I would choose this life, with you, over knighthood—every single time."
Sofia smiled once again, reassured. But before she could reply—
BOOOOOOOOOOOM
The entire cabin rattled with a sudden tremor. George's head snapped toward the window. A red glow lit up the horizon beyond the surrounding wall of dense brush and vines that shielded their clearing from the outside world.
BANG. BANG. SKIIIIIIIID.
A thunderous impact followed by the screeching drag of something massive carving into the earth echoed just beyond their home.
George gripped his axe tightly, the blue glyphs along its blade flaring to life. Sofia pressed her baby protectively against her chest and stepped back behind her husband's towering frame.
George exhaled deeply, then moved to the door and opened it with deliberate care.
Nothing could have prepared them for what they saw.
Their peaceful garden—a lovingly tended space of trimmed grass, small flowers, and a stone walkway—was now ruined. A long trench had been carved into the earth, smouldering at its edges. At the end of the scar was a smoking crater, large and ragged, where something massive had clearly crashed.
Then—a hand.
A single bloodied human hand gripped the dirt and began to pull a body from the crater's edge.
The figure emerged—shirtless, battered, wearing a black and gold mask. Deep cuts ran across his torso, and two ribs had pierced out of his side, bent and protruding grotesquely from his flesh. His gait was staggered. His breaths ragged. By all accounts, he was a dead man walking.
But he kept coming.
From the far edge of the clearing, the trees parted.
A towering figure stepped into view—the bull, broad-shouldered and red-skinned, his colossal hammer resting against his shoulder. Behind him followed the rest of the Demi-human pack, their eyes fixed on the bleeding human before them.
"Well, well…" the bull's voice rumbled through the trees, low and heavy like an avalanche. "Who would've thought there were humans hiding in my territory?"
The larger blue wolf-man snarled, stepping forward, he aimed his swords at Ali. "Your Min—" But he stopped mid-sentence.
Everyone had turned their attention to the masked man.
Ali—still hunched, bleeding—reached down, grasped the two ribs sticking grotesquely from his body, and with a sickening CRACK, tore them free. Gore and organ matter clung to the exposed bone. Blood spattered the ground.
George's eyes narrowed. His grip on his axe shifted subtly. He had seen many things during his years as a knight. But only in stories—terrifying stories—had he heard of wounds like those healing at such speed.
Because that's exactly what was happening.
Before their eyes, Ali's body regenerated. Muscles stitched back together. Skin sealed. Bones retracted and straightened beneath smooth, unmarred flesh. In mere seconds, the man who should have been in agony stood tall—unshaken. Untouched.
George tensed, a flicker of unease creeping into his gaze.
Sofia, still holding her child, stared in wide-eyed silence.
Ali then raised his hand and yanked his mask up just enough to expose his mouth. He leaned forward—and vomited a torrent of blood, dark and heavy, onto the grass.
Then—wiping his mouth with the back of his hand—he smiled. That same unnerving, smug, devil-may-care grin stretched across his face, white teeth gleaming under the sunlight.
His black eyes locked onto the wolf-man whose twin blades now glowed with pulsing blue energy.
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