In a tavern in the slums.
Three men were drinking happily. The good-looking women were casting coquettish glances at the commander, who sometimes ran their broad hands over the thin waists of those serving the drinks.
Suddenly, the commander's expression changed. The two men beside him noticed the sudden strangeness. The deputy commander cautiously asked:
— Commander... what did he catch?
The commander signaled with his hand. The women withdrew, leaving only the three of them at the table. Frowning, he muttered,
— Someone from Team B died.
— What do you mean? — asked the vice-commander, surprised.
"The slavery contract has been broken… that can only mean he's dead." He slowly sat up. "You two , go take a look. Bring the Wolf family back at any cost."
The two stood up, ready to leave, but the commander stopped them with a sudden gesture.
— Wait.
They stopped at the same moment and looked at him.
— I will take care of it myself. This matter is too important. We cannot return the headquarters without the merchandise. Wait for me at the city exit... in an hour.
A gust of air swept through the tavern. The commander disappeared into the darkness.
Jumping from rooftop to rooftop through the slums, the commander advanced without making any noise, until he reached the darkest part of the city. The time had come to witness John and Alex finishing off the last bandits.
Even though he saw his men being killed one by one, he did nothing. He just discovered it and handed over the data mentally.
He activated his sonar and scanned the entire battlefield and its surroundings. I didn't sense any potentially dangerous presence. Inside the cabin, he focused his sonar with isolation and sensed three living people.
Upon confirming their presence, the commander sighed. The tension in his body disappeared. Even with the loss of Team B, he was unfazed. The true reason for his arrival was still before him... and the threat, by all appearances, was minimal.
Hidden in the shadows, then he moved.
Stepping out of the darkness, the commander slowly applauded and walked over to the two children who had just slaughtered his men. His cold, unempathetic gaze cut through John and Alex like a razor.
— Were you the ones who killed my men?
In truth, he didn't care about the answer. Nor did he care about the corpses left behind. His real target was the Wolf Family. And he didn't intend to leave any witnesses. To the commander, these children were dead—they just didn't know it yet.
Inside the Wolf Family cabin.
As soon as she heard John's signal, Iza didn't hesitate. She ran without looking back, as if her entire life depended on it. And in a way, it did. She placed all her hope in the hands of John and Alex—not as children, but as saviors.
When he entered the cabin, he looked around with his heart racing until he located his mother and aunt. They were tied up and unconscious.
— Mom! Aunt!
Tears streamed down Iza's face as she ran toward them. Thick ropes bound their wrists and ankles. Their eyes were blindfolded and a cloth covered their mouths. To her relief, there were no visible signs of aggression.
Iza bent down and, without thinking, began biting the ropes with her teeth. She was nervous, desperate. If she had been calmer, she would have realized that using a knife would have been faster—and much easier. But panic clouded her reason.
After some time, he managed to free the two of them. Then he took out some medicinal herbs that he carried with him. He squeezed them and gently rubbed them into the nostrils of the two women, allowing the intense scent to awaken them.
Little by little, Iza's mother's eyes began to open. She recognized her daughter's face—wet with tears, but with a victorious smile. The moment she regained full consciousness, her expression changed. The panic returned.
— Izabela ... what are you doing here? The bandits... you need to run away! Now!
She looked around, confused. All she could see was her daughter, her sister, and herself. No sign of the criminals. Her memories were coming back slowly—and what she remembered didn't match what she saw.
The mother held her daughter's face with her trembling hands, wiping away her tears with her thumbs, and asked:
— Izabela ... what happened?
The aunt, who was now also awake, stammered with the same confusion in her eyes:
— Isa... where are the bandits?
Isa listened to her mother and aunt's questions.
With a heavy heart, she finally told everything. She spilled the beans—or almost. She summarized the facts, omitted the parts that could cause even more panic, but didn't leave out what really mattered.
— Mom, aunt… that's what happened. Now we need to get out of here.
She stood and walked to the door. She peeked through the crack and saw John, kneeling, watching Alex compose himself. A wave of relief washed over her chest, and an involuntary smile spread across her lips. For a brief moment, everything seemed possible again.
He turned around and said firmly:
— Let's leave as quickly as possible. We don't know if there are more bandits around.
The mother nodded with difficulty. Isa ran to a hidden corner of the room and picked up a simple ring—no apparent value, but with great meaning to her. With the help of her aunt, she supported her sick mother and they began walking toward the door.
But as soon as they left the cabin… they stopped.
There, in front of John and Alex, stood a man. His presence was overwhelming. Both boys were shaking. And the three of them stopped as if they had stepped on thin ice. The man's expression was frightening—like that of someone staring hungrily at a steaming plate of rice and beans.
John understood.
For the first time, he understood true helplessness.
The feeling that life and death were no longer under his control invaded his soul like a storm. The man in front of him was like a living wall. An abyss.
In a panic, John tried one last card: revealing his identity. Maybe that would be enough to keep him from being killed—maybe he would get beaten, but he would survive.
Trembling, he said:
— Illustrious sir, I am...
But he was interrupted by a cold, razor-sharp voice:
— It doesn't matter who you are. You're going to die today.
The commander could have said more, but he held back. His eyes turned to the cabin. Three figures were emerging from it.
And then, that look...
It was a look John recognized. A hungry look. A look that said, "Today we have rice and beans."
Suddenly, black smoke began to emerge from the commander's pores. It condensed in the palms of his hands, gaining density, as if it were made of living shadows.
He pointed his finger at the three women.
The smoke flew.
Within seconds, it enveloped them like a suffocating cloud, infiltrating their nostrils, mouths, and ears. The air became heavy. The three tried to move, but their bodies would not obey. They were paralyzed.
Isa's mother concentrated. She tried to activate her spiritual core to repel the poison. But nothing happened.
Its core was as good as dead. No energy. No condensation. Nothing.
They were all in the hands of the enemy.
An evil, cold, and chilling laugh echoed in the air. "Have I, your Lord God, given you permission to commit suicide?" the commander taunted in a cutting voice.
Immediately afterward, he released his black aura. His core spun furiously, absorbing dark spiritual energy, condensing it into a dense, dark mist. This mist shot out from his body like an ethereal serpent and enveloped Alex and John, instantly paralyzing them.
John and Alex tried to react, to command their muscles, but it was useless. The black smoke blocked the nerves, cutting off all communication between the brain and spinal cord. Voluntary movements? Forget it. John was a prisoner in his own body.
But the smoke didn't just have the function of paralyzing.
The commander threw his spear into the ground with a sharp crack and walked over to John, who lay motionless.
With surgical coldness, he stuck the tip of the spear into his left thigh, then his right, in quick and precise succession.
— Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ! — John screamed like never before.
The black smoke covering his throat had been cleared away, allowing his vocal cords to function normally, and the same smoke spread throughout his body increased the sensitivity of his skin tenfold. The pain was a living fire, a tangible hell.
— Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ! Aaaaaaaaaaaa ! — The screams filled the space as the spear repeatedly pierced his body.
The commander, who clearly knew anatomy, carefully avoided vital points, prolonging the torture.
Arms, abdomen, legs—nothing escaped the sharp blade of pain.
— Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ! Aaaaaaa !— Hahahahaha ! Hahaha ! — the commander's cruel laughter mixed with John's screams, creating a macabre symphony.
John's mind was in pieces. Clear thoughts? None. All he wanted was for it to be over, for death to come quickly. But his body, immobilized and hypersensitive , ached at every crack, every cut.
The commander continued, now using the tip of the spear to tear John's skin, as if his body were a piece to be sliced by countless invisible blades.
Alex and the wolf family watched helplessly.
They could neither look away nor close their eyes.
Isa, her aunt, and Alex shed tears—just imagining the pain John felt was unbearable to bear.
After a while, John no longer screamed as he had at first. This was because many of his nerves had been destroyed by the cuts and punctures. His body no longer reacted as before — it was cold, silent, broken.
When he felt that the commander had finally stopped, a strange sense of relief ran through his mind. He almost thanked him. Yes, in the midst of that immeasurable pain, there was no room for hatred, regret or even fear — all that remained was the desire for it to end. He only wanted two things: for the commander to disappear... or for death to take him once and for all.
So when the torture stopped, he mistook the silence for happiness. For a brief moment, he was grateful. But as his mind reorganized and the fog of pain dissipated, it all came flooding back: the hatred, the resentment, the remorse, and above all, the desire for revenge.
If I survive... I 'll make him pay. The same. Or worse.
The commander walked away satisfied. John was on the brink of death—pale, bloodied, a human rag. There was no point in striking the final blow. He wanted the boy to walk the long path to death, feeling every step. There was still another victim waiting, and his time was running out.
John's eyes began to blur. Everything around him became dark. One last thought was driven like iron into his soul: weakness is an unforgivable sin.
Anyone stronger than you can take your life. And you? There's nothing you can do. Just... die. obediently. This was the cruel truth of this world—the law of the fittest. The weak would be devoured, trampled upon, forgotten.
What hurt John the most was not his body, but the thought that ... a single guard would have been enough . If only he had left with a single warrior from Venhorst , everything would have been different. A single soldier from his castle would have been enough to turn that commander into an unrecognizable corpse.
What a joke. He could already imagine the headlines in the kingdom's newspapers: "Young Lord killed in the slums of his own territory." A disgrace to the entire House Venhorst .
— What will my father and mother think? Will they cry a lot? Will someone take revenge for me?
flashed before his eyes —all seven years of his life, all his memories, all his dreams. He thought he could have done more... He wanted to evolve, he wanted to learn magic. Maybe with knowledge and power, he could find his way back to Earth. Maybe he could return to his little sister.
John wondered if he could be reincarnated. Or would this be the end?
— If I have another chance ... — he thought — I will be the strongest in the world. I will do whatever I want. And no one, no one will kill me... not even if they beg for it.
Darkness enveloped him completely.
But she didn't feel scary. It was warm. Familiar. Like lying on your mother's lap.
John embraced the darkness.
— Well... this one is dead. Now it's your turn, boy. — said the commander, with contempt, turning to Alex.
Alex looked at John's fallen body.
Something was burning inside him.
Hatred.
Not only for the man who had killed his young lord. But for himself . For his own helplessness.
Because of the so-called work and virtue he so desired to achieve, Alex did not stop his young master from getting involved in the slum's troubles—and as a consequence, both of them were about to lose their lives. The pain in his chest was overwhelming, but the guilt was even heavier.
There, on the brink of death, Alex began to chart his own truths and philosophies. Even as the end approached, he decided to record, within himself, what really mattered. Virtue and honor , for those who have no strength, are nothing more than jokes —romantic ways to die early.
In this world, what matters is having the power to protect the ones you love. The rest? Fantasy. Illusion. Idealistic nonsense.
Alex swore that if he had the chance to tell his story from the beginning, he would define for himself what virtue is and what deed is . And most of all, he blamed himself: he had failed to protect John.
He interpreted the situation with cruel clarity: if Ferrando had not sent an escort, it was because he trusted him. The lord trusted that Alex would be enough to protect his son.
But it wasn't.
The memory of his family appeared like a last light. He thought of his mother, his father... he asked them for forgiveness in silence. He wanted to be like his father: strong, calm and intelligent. A faithful shield to his master. But right on the first outing with John... they were both condemned to death.
Isa heard the commander announce that John was dead. And in that instant, something inside her broke.
The tears came as if she had lost someone's blood. But it was more than that. She felt guilty . If only she hadn't gotten them involved... If only she had followed her mother's advice...
Her mother always told her that her race was cursed. That she shouldn't make friends. Because everything she achieved... would end in regret.
Throughout her short life, Isa had never had a single friend . She didn't know what it was like to play or talk to anyone her own age. Just her mother and her aunt—and a lifetime of running away.
But John... John treated her differently. He called her name gently . He stroked her hair. In his eyes, she saw affection—even though, deep down, she suspected he was thinking of someone else.
Still, it made her feel alive.
In such a short time, she had developed a genuine affection for both of them—John and Alex. They had died trying to protect their family. But her affection for John... was different. More intimate. More confusing.
She knew that if John wanted to leave, Alex would follow him without hesitation . But... the opposite would not happen.
And so, little Isa, even with the heart of a child, lived the weight of something that not even adults can understand. She made a silent vow, a pact with her soul:
— In the next life... if I have one... I , Izabela , swear to become John's servant, slave, maid, or wife. Whatever he wants me to be... I will be.
After that, the tears stopped. And the crying… just disappeared.
Isa's mother and aunt did not feel the same pain. To them, John's death was regrettable, yes—it was always sad to see a child die. And even more so, in such a cruel way . But there was no deep pain, no sincere mourning. Just a tragic note in yet another story of a world without mercy.
Continued...
Thank you very much to you who read this far. My sincere thanks. Your opinion is very important to improve the story.
Because of the so-called work and virtue he so desired to achieve, Alex did not stop his young master from getting involved in the slum's troubles—and as a consequence, both of them were about to lose their lives. The pain in his chest was overwhelming, but the guilt was even heavier.
There, on the brink of death, Alex began to chart his own truths and philosophies. Even as the end approached, he decided to record, within himself, what really mattered. Virtue and honor , for those who have no strength, are nothing more than jokes —romantic ways to die early.
In this world, what matters is having the power to protect the ones you love. The rest? Fantasy. Illusion. Idealistic nonsense.
Alex swore that if he had the chance to tell his story from the beginning, he would define for himself what virtue is and what deed is . And most of all, he blamed himself: he had failed to protect John.
He interpreted the situation with cruel clarity: if Ferrando had not sent an escort, it was because he trusted him. The lord trusted that Alex would be enough to protect his son.
But it wasn't.
The memory of his family appeared like a last light. He thought of his mother, his father... he asked them for forgiveness in silence. He wanted to be like his father: strong, calm and intelligent. A faithful shield to his master. But right on the first outing with John... they were both condemned to death.
Isa heard the commander announce that John was dead. And in that instant, something inside her snapped.
The tears came as if she had lost someone's blood. But it was more than that. She felt guilty . If only she hadn't gotten them involved... If only she had followed her mother's advice...
Her mother always told her that her race was cursed. That she shouldn't make friends. Because everything she achieved... would end in regret.
Throughout her short life, Isa never had a single friend . She didn't know what it was like to play or talk to someone her own age. Just her mother and her aunt — it's a lifetime of escapes.
But John... John treated her differently. He called her name gently . He stroked her hair. In his eyes, she saw affection—even though, deep down, she suspected he was thinking of someone else.
Still, it makes you feel alive.
In such a short time, she had developed a genuine affection for both of them—John and Alex. They had died trying to protect their family. But her affection for John... was different. More intimate. More confusing.
She knew that if John wanted to leave, Alex would follow him without hesitation . But... the opposite would not happen.
And so, little Isa, even with the heart of a child, lived the weight of something that not even adults could understand. She made a silent vow, a pact with her soul:
— In the next life... if I have one... I , Izabela , swear to become John's servant, slave, maid, or wife. Whatever he wants me to be... I will be.
After that, the tears stopped. And the crying… just stopped .
Isa's mother and aunt did not feel the same pain. To them, John's death was regrettable, yes—it was always sad to see a child die. And even more so, in such a cruel way . But there was no deep pain, no sincere mourning. Just a tragic note in yet another story of a world without mercy.
Continued...
Thank you very much to you who read this far. My sincere thanks. Your opinion is very important to improve the story.