The moonlight, thin and ethereal, managed to trickled through the thick, interwoven canopy of ancient trees, casting fleeting silver rays across the damp, leaf-strewn forest floor. Wanda stood frozen, her injured body taut with disbelief, her eyes glued to the boy who had just appeared like a phantom, seemingly conjured from thin air amidst the brutal chaos.
He was young, impossibly so for the power he wielded—around their age, perhaps seventeen, maybe eighteen at most. His golden hair shimmered under the moon's soft glow, each strand seeming to catch and reflect the pale light, as if spun from pure sunlight itself. Twin ocean-blue eyes stared back at her, unnervingly calm but sharp, scanning her with a sort of casual curiosity that made her heart tighten in her chest.
He wore a thick, dark jacket, clearly unsuited for the muggy summer night. Sweat beaded on Wanda's forehead, tracing cold paths down her temples, but he didn't even seem to notice the oppressive heat, his expression utterly unbothered. His face carried a slight frown—not of hostility, not aimed at her, but unmistakably of deep irritation, like someone who had just been rudely yanked out of a comfortable bed for something annoying and utterly trivial.
Who is he? What just happened?
Wanda wanted to scream, to unleash the torrent of questions clawing at her throat. What the hell had just happened? How did he do that? That massive beast, that blur of blood and muscle that had torn armed men to shreds… and this boy just… kicked it away like it was nothing?
But despite the countless questions that raged in her mind, she stopped herself. The look on the boy's face—that mild irritation, clearly not directed at her, but at some unseen annoyance—made her instinctively suppress her urge to yell, to demand answers.
Her voice, when it finally emerged, was thin, trembling like a leaf caught in a breeze.
"Th-thank you, sir... for saving us…"
At her words, the boy's expression shifted slightly. Not softer—more annoyed, if anything—but the irritation was clearly not directed at her. He gave her a quick, piercing glance, then simply turned away without saying a word, as if her thanks were an unexpected, minor inconvenience. He seemed about to walk off into the deeper shadows of the trees, his interest already waning.
Wanda was just about to call out again, to stop him, to demand answers, when a faint, broken voice, barely a whisper of sound, interrupted the tense moment.
"…Help…"
Both the boy and Wanda turned toward the sound, their gazes drawn to the source.
One of the men—one of the brutalized figures who had been attacked—was somehow still alive. Wanda's eyes widened in disbelief, a gasp catching in her throat. His body was horrifically mangled, a grotesque tableau of torn flesh and shattered bone. A massive claw mark had ripped through the entire right side of his chest, a gaping wound that promised death. It was a miracle he was even breathing, each shallow gasp a battle.
She stared at the man, then back at the bloody battlefield behind her—the scattered limbs, the torn flesh, the glistening blood reflecting the faint moonlight. Her stomach churned, a knot of revulsion twisting inside her. The full weight of the scene finally registered in her mind, in all its visceral horror. And yet, strangely, the nausea didn't overwhelm her. It wasn't her first time seeing something so horrific, so utterly devastating. The discomfort came and went quickly, leaving behind a hollow, unsettling numbness.
Again, the man groaned, a ragged, desperate sound.
"…Help…"
The boy began walking toward him, his steps calm, measured, utterly unhurried. Wanda watched his back, a strange, unsettling sense of unease bubbling in her chest.
A sudden, chilling thought hit her like a knife, sharp and unexpected.
If that man survives… he'll bring trouble. More trouble.
She gasped, a tiny, involuntary sound, horrified by her own cold, pragmatic thought. Did she really just think that?
Guilt, sharp and immediate, washed over her. No, that was wrong. Terribly wrong. Even if he could cause problems later, now was the time to save him. Anything else could be dealt with afterward. Her heart, despite everything, still held a flicker of basic human decency.
She tried to stand again. Her legs trembled violently beneath her, protesting with every strained muscle, but this time, with sheer willpower, she managed to rise to her feet, swaying slightly. Slowly, awkwardly, she staggered forward, intending to offer help.
But what she saw next froze her in place, rooting her to the spot, every muscle tensing in disbelief.
The boy didn't kneel beside the man. He didn't check his pulse. He didn't offer a word of comfort or medical aid.
Instead, he simply bent down, his movements fluid and casual. He picked up a gun from the dirt beside one of the corpses—a sleek, dark pistol that looked far too deadly in his hand—and pointed it directly at the injured man's head.
The air seemed to vanish from the forest, sucked away by the sudden, brutal intent. The only sound was the frantic pounding of Wanda's heart.
"No…!" she whispered, her voice barely audible, a fragile plea lost in the vast silence.
The boy stared at the dying man, his ocean-blue eyes completely devoid of emotion. His voice, when he spoke, was soft, almost gentle, but terrifyingly clear, cutting through the heavy air.
"Have a safe journey. Hell or heaven—whichever one takes you."
BANG.
The gunshot ripped through the night, a deafening crack that echoed through the forest like a final, brutal bell. The man's head snapped violently to the side, his body falling limp, suddenly devoid of life.
Wanda stared in shock, her eyes wide and unblinking, as the boy casually tossed the gun aside, letting it clatter to the ground like it was nothing more than forgotten trash. Without another glance at the fresh corpse, he turned and began walking toward the massive, striped figure lying motionless in the distance.
The tiger.
Wanda's legs nearly gave out again, threatening to buckle beneath her. Memories surged—those terrifying glowing eyes in the darkness, the glint of silver fangs that had almost ripped her throat apart moments ago…
Is it… still alive?
Why hadn't it moved this whole time, after being kicked like that?
Her eyes, still wide with terror, followed the boy as he approached the enormous beast. He crouched beside it, his silhouette outlined by the pale moonlight, a strange, almost intimate gesture.
She saw the discarded gun lying nearby, glinting dully in the dirt.
Her instincts screamed. Pick it up. Now. If that thing attacked again… she'd at least have something.
She hesitated for a split second, then reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against the cold metal.
But the next scene defied all logic, shattering her understanding of reality.
She heard the boy's voice again—so gentle, so impossibly soft, it sounded like he was talking to a frightened child.
"Okay, Leo… don't be a drama queen. I didn't hit you that hard."
A soft, rumbling whine came from the massive tiger.
Not a growl. Not a roar.
A whine.
Wanda blinked, her jaw slack with utter disbelief.
That monstrous beast… that brutal predator… was whining?
The boy sighed, shaking his head with an exasperated air.
"How many times do I have to tell you not to attack every moving thing you see? One of these days, it's gonna cause real trouble."
The tiger let out a deep huff, a puff of hot air steaming from its nostrils, almost like a sulking child caught misbehaving.
And then—almost casually—it stood up.
Wanda couldn't believe her eyes.
The tiger—this predator that had slaughtered five armed men in mere seconds, that had been launched through trees like a cannonball—rose to its feet with the same effortless ease a lazy housecat might display after a long, comfortable nap. It stretched slightly, muscles rippling beneath its striped coat, and then gave a soft, almost playful flick of its massive tail.
It had been pretending.
Pretending to be hurt.
Pretending to get kicked.
Pretending… just to get its master's attention.
Wanda stepped back slowly, uncertain if her legs would hold her. Her mind reeled, trying to process the impossible.
Her gaze moved wildly between the boy and the beast—one with shimmering golden hair and eyes that held only mild annoyance, the other with fangs that still glistened menacingly in the moonlight.
Just… what kind of monsters had they encountered tonight?