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Chapter 3 - Killing Friel

Friel stared at the unconscious body of Ren, his chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. His own face lit with something unnatural—glee, almost ecstasy.

'Finally… I've gotten you out of the way. She'll be mine now. I swear it,' he thought with twisted satisfaction.

Behind him, Ren's severed arm lay abandoned, a jagged splinter of bone jutting from the shoulder socket like a cracked spear. Blood pooled thickly beneath it, painting the dirt red.

Friel dragged his massive axe behind him, its edge stained crimson, lost in thoughts of conquest—of his next target, his next manipulation. But then…

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! So this is what it felt like, huh?! Such a weak body… so common… but—it's enough!"

The laughter cut through the air like a blade, wild and deranged.

Friel froze mid-step, his spine stiffening. Slowly, he turned—eyes wide, mouth parted in disbelief.

'No. He was unconscious… he should've been dead! How is he still—?!'

Gasps rippled across the clearing. The gathered onlookers—disciples and masters alike—stood stunned as Ren stirred. The boy's battered body trembled as he rose slowly to his knees… then to his feet.

His tattered trousers clung to his bloodied frame, but his aura had shifted entirely.

His eyes—cloudy grey—now glowed faintly. And within them was something terrifying: not rage… not pain… but coldness.

A chill swept through the onlookers like a silent scream.

Even the masters felt it.

"That… that's an intent of death…" whispered Master Caron, a sorcerer infamous for his command of dark magic.

Intent. The invisible force of will and experience, felt by the soul. Warriors knew of battle intent. Killers harnessed killing intent. But death intent? That was something else entirely.

It wasn't forged by rage or sharpened by experience alone—it came from intimate knowledge of death. From surviving it. From embodying it.

Only the undead were known to carry such an aura.

And yet—Ren, a mere human, radiated it like a reaper clothed in flesh.

"Impossible! How can he—how can a human have death intent?!" Master Derek cried out.

"Friel! Kill him—NOW!" Master Caron barked, panic creeping into his voice.

Without hesitation, Friel lunged forward, his axe singing through the air. His speed was lethal—more than enough to cleave a crippled, blind boy in half.

But Ren moved.

He felt the attack before it came and rolled to the side, evading the deadly swing with inhuman grace.

Friel's feet skidded as he halted, spinning around—and froze.

Ren was looking directly at him.

A smile slowly stretched across Ren's face—not one of hatred, nor of pain. It held no warmth… no humanity.

It was a smile that made the masters recoil.

It was the smile of someone unhinged.

The smile of madness.

The smile of bloodlust.

The smile of a psychopath.

Ren's voice came next—deeper, unfamiliar, resonating with an eerie calm.

"This body is as weak as all the others," he said, as blood continued to stream from his severed shoulder. "But it has one gift… one extraordinary gift."

Friel blinked, still processing. "What… what are you talking about?!" he stammered.

All around, even the confident faces of the masters had become unreadable. Fear had rooted itself in their hearts—but Friel was bearing the worst of it.

Death intent surged from Ren in silent, crashing waves. And to Friel, every breath felt like it brought with it another vision—of his own death, in a thousand gruesome ways. Torn apart, buried alive, swallowed whole, burned from the inside—

It was suffocating.

"His senses," Ren continued coldly, "are honed to their absolute peak. His reflexes—supernaturally sharp. That's more than enough… to kill someone like you, Friel—someone who's never even brushed against death."

And then—he moved.

A blur of motion, blood trailing behind him like a tattered flag of war. Ren charged forward on unsteady legs… yet with terrifying precision.

Friel raised his axe too late.

Friel barely managed to bring his axe up in time. Sparks flew as metal clashed—Ren had somehow grabbed a jagged shard of stone from the ground mid-charge, using it like a short blade to deflect the blow.

The impact rattled Friel's arms, forcing him to stumble back, but Ren didn't relent. He lunged again, faster—relentless—blood dripping from his shoulder in a steady rhythm like a ticking clock.

Friel gritted his teeth and swung wide, aiming to decapitate him in one clean arc.

Ren ducked.

The axe sailed over his head.

With a spin and a burst of speed, Ren drove his knee into Friel's ribs. Something cracked. Friel gasped.

Then Ren leapt.

His foot slammed into Friel's chest, sending him sprawling backwards, crashing to the ground in a mess of dust and confusion.

Friel coughed, his hands scrambling to lift his axe—but Ren was already moving again. Unarmed. Bleeding. Breathing hard.

His steps were uneven, but each one struck like a drumbeat—foreboding and final.

"You thought I was pathetic," Ren said, his tone calm yet venom-laced. "You thought I was weak. That I didn't belong here."

Friel pushed himself up, panting, eyes darting—desperate for an opening.

Ren didn't give him one.

Instead, he walked past him.

To the severed arm.

The audience froze, horror overtaking confusion.

"What is he—?!" someone whispered.

Ren knelt down, picked up the bloody limb, and turned slowly to face Friel. Bone protruded from the end like a jagged blade—gleaming with red, sharp as fury itself.

His fingers tightened around the cold, dead flesh of his own arm.

"You took this from me."

His voice was shaking now—not from fear, but from something deeper. Something colder.

"So I'll return the favor."

Friel's eyes widened in pure terror.

"STAY AWAY FROM ME!" he screamed, swinging his axe wildly.

Ren didn't flinch.

He ducked low, rolled once more, and surged forward—then slammed the jagged end of his own arm straight into Friel's gut.

The broken bone tore through muscle and flesh with a sickening crunch.

Friel screamed. Blood gurgled in his throat.

Ren didn't stop.

He lifted the limb higher—upward, through the ribcage. Friel's eyes bulged. His legs gave out.

Then, with a final wrenching twist, Ren shoved the bone deep into Friel's chest—through his heart.

Silence fell.

Friel's axe dropped with a dull clang.

His mouth moved, forming words he never had the chance to speak.

Then he collapsed—body twitching once before going still, impaled by the very arm he'd cut off.

Ren staggered back, his breathing ragged. He dropped the limb, now slick and red, and looked up at the crowd of stunned onlookers.

His face—still bearing that cold, mad smile—was splattered with blood.

"Next time," he whispered, "make sure I'm dead."

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