The Orc's corpse lay broken in the village square. Its red haze had finally faded, leaving nothing but a hulking green mass of muscle and shattered bone.
Orin sat on its chest, shirt torn away, chest and arms bleeding. His breaths came heavy, but his grin was wide. Blood painted his teeth, and in his eyes burned the fire of someone who had stared death in the face and found it hilarious.
The villagers didn't know whether to cheer or flee.
Some stared in awe. He saved us.
Others muttered in fear. He's no different than the monster.
Mira burst through the crowd, apron still on, hair messy. She dropped to her knees beside Orin, clutching his arms. "Orin! You're covered in blood—what have you done to yourself?!"
"I won," he said simply, voice rough.
Hegar pushed through after her, eyes sharp, mouth curved in something between pride and worry. He looked at the shattered axe, the corpse, the boy still grinning through blood. "By the gods, boy… what are you becoming?"
Yira stormed up last, fury trembling in her voice. "You'll get yourself killed one day, idiot!" Her hand lifted as if to strike him, but stopped midway when her eyes caught his body—bruised, cut, lean muscle flexing beneath torn cloth.
Her face flushed. She snapped her hand back, glaring to hide it.
Orin chuckled faintly, wiping blood from his lip. "If I die, it'll be laughing."
That night, when the villagers finally scattered, Code spoke with Hegar and Mira at the edge of the square.
"That thing," Mira whispered, glancing at the Orc's hulking corpse, "it wasn't like the beasts we know."
"No," Code said. His voice was calm, but the weight in it pressed on the air. "That was an Orc. They don't belong here. They live in the frontier of Hell."
Mira went pale, clutching her husband's arm. "Hell? You mean—"
"They're not supposed to cross," Code continued. "If one is here, others will follow. It means something is stirring. Something bigger than bandits. Bigger than your village."
Hegar's jaw clenched. He looked at Orin, still laughing faintly as Mira patched his wounds. "And you think he's the one who'll be in the middle of it."
Code's gray eyes lingered on the boy, that grin wild even through the pain. "He already is."
The next morning, the river glimmered under the sun. Birds called once, then fell silent as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Code stood still before three massive boulders, cloak rippling faintly in the breeze.
He drew in a slow breath. Shoulders relaxed. His presence shifted.
No wild sparks. No black smoke. Only stillness. A faint shimmer of air around his frame, like the surface of water trembling before a storm.
Orin leaned forward, dirt streaked across his face, eyes wide. "What's he—"
Code stepped.
The ground cracked under his heel. His fist drew back, deliberate, smooth. No wasted motion.
Then he struck.
The punch never touched the stone. It stopped an inch short—
BOOOOOOOM!
The air itself detonated.
A shockwave ripped outward, tearing dust and grass into the air. The river surged backward as if shoved by invisible hands. The boulders—three hulking masses of solid rock—exploded into fragments. Shards flew like arrows, splashing into the water, raining down across the bank.
The echoes thundered into the trees. Birds scattered in a frantic cloud.
When the dust cleared, nothing remained but shattered stone and a silent, trembling earth.
Code lowered his hand, breath steady, eyes calm.
Orin's jaw hung open. His pupils were wide, body shaking—not with fear, but with exhilaration.
"You…" His voice cracked, laughter fighting to break through but caught in awe. "You didn't even touch it."
He stumbled forward, fists trembling. "That's it! That's what I need! TEACH ME THAT!"
Hours later, Orin crouched in the dirt, sweat dripping, face red from holding his breath. His small frame trembled, veins bulging in his neck. He thrust his fist forward—
fwip. Nothing. Not even dust moved.
He tried again. Again. Sweat soaked his hair, mud streaked his knees. His grin was gone—this time he was growling, frustrated, teeth grinding.
"Why won't it work?!" He slammed his fists against the ground, dirt cracking.
"Because you don't control your breath," Code said, standing above him. "You don't focus. You let the fire run wild."
"I'm focusing!" Orin snapped. His whole body shook as he forced another strike. Aura flickered, then fizzled.
"Then you're focusing on the wrong thing."
Orin dropped to his knees, panting, blood from last night's wounds seeping fresh again. His eyes burned with frustration.
Yira's voice cut through. "Still failing?" She stood at the path with a basket in her arms. Her gaze swept his bruises, his sweat, his torn pants. Her cheeks warmed against her will.
Orin saw her, grin flashing back instantly. He hunched into a crouch, arms crooked, peeking beneath her skirt from where she stood above. "But my stance is perfect!"
Her face went crimson. "YOU PERVERT!"
The basket cracked against his head, fruit scattering.
Code sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. If he ever learns to focus, the world won't be ready.
That night, the village was quiet again, but Code did not sleep. He stood at the edge of the forest, staff resting against his shoulder, eyes scanning the horizon.
The memory of the Orc's red haze lingered.
A scout. Which means others will follow. Which means Hell itself prepares to march.
Behind him, laughter echoed faintly.
He turned. Far across the field, Orin was still awake, battered body moving through push-ups, sit-ups, punches into the night air. Each time he fell, he rose again, sweat mixing with blood. His grin returned—not wide, not mocking—just fierce.
"Next time," Orin whispered to the dark, "I'll blow the rock up too."
Code's grip on his staff tightened.
The storm is coming. And that boy… might be the only one mad enough to face it.