Thirteen-year-old Tyron couldn't tear his eyes away from the man who seemed like a hero descended from the heavens. The stranger ignored him completely: his stance relaxed, and with unsettling calm, he began to address the squad of killers. The soldiers stared, unnerved, trembling for reasons they couldn't explain—because before them stood only a man with a kitchen knife.
"So tell me… has the director decided this province will now belong to him?" the man asked, slowly raising the hand that held the knife.
For a second, silence reigned. Then the soldier who had kicked Tyron, full of rage, snapped out of it. He aimed his rifle and fired mercilessly.
"This can't be real. That man isn't real. I must be trapped in some nightmare. If only I had the strength to pull out my phone and record this… I didn't even see what happened…" Tyron thought, stunned.
The stranger moved like lightning. Before the bullets could strike, he was already in front of the attacker, driving the blade into his chest with impossible speed.
"I suppose this proves who I am. I'm the one you were warned about—the one who would appear if you dared to touch this region," said the dark-haired man, smiling defiantly.
The laughter vanished from the killers' faces, replaced by raw, feral fear. In the blink of an eye, the fight erupted.
They fired in a frenzy, but not a single bullet touched him. His arm blurred as he slashed through the air, deflecting and cutting bullets as though they were paper. With a single leap, he landed in their midst. His legs snapped open like a compass, sending two soldiers crashing against the mall's columns.
A strike like a thunderbolt shattered another soldier's helmet, crushing his skull. The next one had no chance—his throat was slit in an instant. Blood drenched the floor.
One of the men thrown against a column staggered to his feet, blinded by rage. Drawing a combat knife, he charged at the stranger. The man looked at him with disdain.
"Are you stupid? I already killed three of your five comrades. And you really think you can kill me with that piece of trash?"
The soldier lunged. A swift, simple, brutal movement brought him down. Dead before he hit the ground.
Only one remained. A woman. Her face twisted in terror, she tried to flee, silently begging for mercy. But she ran straight into the very man she wanted to escape. He smiled cruelly.
"And then they say women are kind, that they want equality. Don't worry—I'll kill you the same as the others. Wouldn't want your boss thinking I'm a feminist."
The woman screamed and struck with her knife. But in a cruel twist, it was her own blade that ended up buried in her throat.
The stranger bowed, like a samurai paying respect to fallen foes. Then he calmly walked toward Tyron. Now he carried two knives. He crouched before the boy, who stared at him in terror, wondering if his turn had come.
The man gave him a dark smile. His shadowy eyes glinted as he ruffled Tyron's hair with the same hand that still held the kitchen knife. Then he placed the blade into the boy's palm, and in the other, the military knife.
He rose to his feet. And just as he had appeared, he vanished.
Tyron looked down at the weapons in his hands. The sound of sirens snapped him out of his daze. Police stormed into the mall, rifles raised, aiming straight at him.
"Freeze, you bastard!" they shouted.