Avin stared down at his sword, the metal still faintly glowing from the clash. "Oh shit," he muttered under his breath, eyes wide for a heartbeat before narrowing again. The blade trembled slightly in his grip, pulsing with residual mana, but he barely noticed. His gaze lifted back to Derrick.

Derrick sat against the cracked wall, his chest heaving, head bowed slightly. The blow had launched him far enough that his back had nearly slammed into the brick behind him. Now, he struggled to rise, groaning, but his body was already changing—shrinking. The veins that had bulged grotesquely a moment ago began to fade beneath his skin. His frame loosened, muscles deflating, shoulders drawing inward. The red hue bled out of his eyes like ink dissolving in water, and his breathing slowed to shallow, panicked gasps. The monstrous version of him was gone, leaving only a beaten, trembling man in its place.

Avin exhaled slowly, looking at his own sword as its golden gleam dimmed, the length retracting and reshaping until it was once again the same steel-grey blade he was familiar with. The strange glow faded entirely, leaving only faint scratches across its edge as proof it had ever happened.

He scoffed, half in disbelief, half in smugness. "Guess I'm a genius no matter what reality I'm in," he muttered, flipping the blade once in his hand before lowering it.

He turned back toward Derrick.

The other boy was still panting, a hand pressed to his abdomen, fingers streaked with his own blood. His once-arrogant stare was gone, replaced by raw fear and the shaky realization of defeat. Avin started walking toward him. His steps were steady, deliberate, each one echoing slightly against the brick walls of the alley. The rhythm was slow, calm—but heavy enough that Derrick's breathing hitched.

Derrick's hand scrabbled weakly against the ground as he tried to crawl backward, the soles of his boots dragging uselessly against the rough stone. But there was nowhere left to go. His back hit the wall. The sound was a dull thud that punctuated his helplessness. He froze, staring up at Avin, eyes wide and full of the kind of fear only someone who had lost every ounce of control could feel. Those same eyes, once sharp with hatred and murderous intent, now looked small—cornered, desperate.

Avin smiled. Not kindly. The kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes. "You know," he said, tone casual, almost light, "I thought I was getting dumber."

And before Derrick could even respond, Avin drove his sword forward.

The blade pierced Derrick's shoulder with a wet, cutting sound that made both of them flinch. Derrick's breath hitched sharply; he bit down on his lip so hard it broke skin, trying to choke back the scream clawing at his throat. A muffled groan escaped anyway. Blood ran freely down his arm, soaking into the fabric that clung to his trembling body.

He tried to move, but the pain locked him in place. His hands found the hilt of the sword embedded in him, weakly trying to push it out, but Avin leaned forward and pressed harder, pushing the weapon deeper. Derrick finally cracked. His body arched, a guttural groan spilling from him as his restraint gave way.

Avin's voice stayed level, almost conversational. "My fault that I fell for such a thing."

He lifted his boot and planted it against Derrick's shoulder, right next to the embedded blade. The pressure made Derrick's whole body jolt. Avin pushed—hard—pinning him to the wall as he yanked the sword free. It came out with a sick, slick sound, pulling a thread of blood that splattered across the ground.

Derrick's scream this time was raw and unrestrained, echoing between the narrow alley walls. He gasped for breath, chest rising and falling violently, pain making his body twitch uncontrollably.

"I never even cared about the creepy hood guy," Avin said, voice still calm as he aimed again. "And then now I suddenly do?"

The sword flashed.

He stabbed the same spot again. The exact same wound.

Derrick's head slammed back against the wall as another scream tore out of him. His hand shot forward, trying again to grab at the weapon, but Avin shoved his leg forward once more, stopping the recoil. The boot pressed into Derrick's chest, pinning him there, a human nail driven against the wall.

Blood ran down Derrick's arm and chest, dripping onto the cobbles in rhythmic beats. His voice broke into hoarse, shuddering breaths.

Avin's tone sharpened. "That was so obviously suspicious, and I was being dumb."

He leaned closer, hand wrapping around Derrick's jaw, forcing his head to the side. The motion was rough, almost mechanical. Derrick gritted his teeth, but didn't fight—he couldn't. His body was too heavy, too drained.

Avin tilted his head slightly, studying him. "But thank however many gods exist in this world that you're here," he said quietly, almost musing. "And that you're as weak as you are."

He raised his sword again and pressed the edge lightly against the side of Derrick's neck, just above the vein. The cold steel met warm skin. Derrick shivered violently, eyes shaking as he tried to keep still. Avin's tone stayed level, almost conversational, but there was something dangerous beneath the calm. "Because I've suddenly grown interested in whatever's happening."

He pushed the point in, just enough to pierce skin. A thin line of blood trickled down Derrick's neck.

"So tell me…" Avin's voice dropped to a whisper. "Can you please now tell me who he is?"

Derrick's chest heaved. His breaths came shallow and fast. The tremor in his body wasn't just from pain anymore—it was fear. He opened his mouth but couldn't form words. His eyes darted between Avin's expression and the blade pressing into him. He tried to shift, but Avin tightened his grip, forcing him still.

Avin leaned in more. "You know I can do it," he said flatly.

The sword dug slightly deeper. Derrick gasped as another tiny drop of blood rolled down, soaking into the torn collar of his shirt.

"I–I'll talk," Derrick finally stammered, voice shaking. "Please… take away the sword."

Avin said nothing. He didn't move. Instead, he began to press forward again, slow enough that Derrick could feel every millimeter of the blade shifting against his neck.

"Okay! Okay!" Derrick shouted, panic cutting through his exhaustion. His hands fluttered uselessly in the air.

"He just came up to me," he blurted out.

Avin's tone was skeptical. "Came up to you?"

"Yes," Derrick said, words tumbling over each other as he tried to get them out fast. "Just one day, the guy in the black hood came up to me and told me he'd help me get you—kill you. I was going to refuse, but he told me his plan, and I… I became interested."

"And?" Avin asked, leaning closer. The proximity made Derrick wince; he could feel Avin's breath on his neck, warm and unnervingly calm.

"And… and I don't know who he is," Derrick said, trembling.

Avin's eyes narrowed. "Why are you lying to me?"

Derrick shook his head violently. "No, no! I'm not lying! Please believe me!"

Avin chuckled under his breath. "I wonder if your brother always knew how much of a bitch you were," he said, tone mocking. "Calling me weak and unhealthy. If they let someone like you into that academy, maybe it's not as great as you all make it out to be, huh?"

Derrick said nothing. His lips trembled, but no words came. He turned his face away in shame, eyes glistening.

Avin straightened slightly, lowering the sword but not stepping back. "How do I wake him up?" he asked, jerking his chin toward Henry, who still lay motionless a few feet away.

Derrick's eyes flicked toward the body, his voice weak. "He should wake up any moment now…"

"Good," Avin said simply. He turned his attention back to Derrick, eyes unreadable. "I guess those are my only questions."

For a fleeting moment, relief touched Derrick's face. He let out a shaky breath, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into a faint, hopeful smile. "Does that mean I can go?"

"Oh yeah," Avin said, nodding slowly.

He pulled the sword back.

"You can go to hell."

The blade came down in a blur, angled for the neck—fast, precise, merciless. But before it connected—

"STOP!"

The word hit like thunder.

Avin froze mid-swing, his wrist caught firmly in another hand. Henry's.

Henry's eyes were open, his face pale but alert, the strain evident in his arm as he held Avin back. "Stop," he said again, his voice firm but tired.

Avin's jaw clenched. "Why? He'll most definitely come back and cause trouble." He turned his head slowly, glaring down at Derrick, who was staring up at Henry now—hope flooding back into his terrified eyes.

"I don't really like to be bothered with trouble," Avin muttered.

"I know," Henry replied. His voice was softer now but steady. "But killing him will put you in way too much trouble."

For a moment, the air was thick—silent except for Derrick's heavy, uneven breaths.

Avin clicked his tongue in annoyance, then released his grip. "Tch."

He let go of Derrick's head. Derrick didn't wait. He scrambled to his feet, clutching his wounded shoulder, and staggered toward the mouth of the alley. His steps were uneven, blood dripping with each one. He didn't look back. Within seconds, he was gone—limping away until he vanished into the crowd outside.

Henry and Avin stood there for a long moment, the air heavy between them. The sound of distant market chatter slowly filtered back in, as if the world beyond the alley had resumed without care for what had just happened.

Finally, Henry broke the silence. "Why does he hate you so much?"

Avin shrugged, sliding his sword back into its sheath. "I don't know. He thinks I killed his brother and that I'm not worthy or something like that."

Henry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah."

The two of them stood there for another beat, quiet. The tension that had filled the alley moments ago was fading, leaving behind only exhaustion and the faint, metallic scent of blood in the air.

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