Since ancient times it has been said that you cannot change your fate—that your path is decided the moment you are born. But is that really true?

He narrowed his eyes as dawn crept across the sky; his gaze contained only emptiness.

Fate is like a vast sea that holds happiness, sorrow, despair, rage, and tragedy. But to be honest, I think fate can be changed. Fate has no will of its own; it was created by the heavens and controlled by them. A person's fate shifts according to their actions… so if I want to destroy the world, I must first destroy the heavens. That will shatter fate, and without fate the world will be erased. It took a long time to realize.

He smirked. The sun rose from the east, staining the sky a feverish yellow... the horizon looked as if it were on fire.

I'm now walking the path of madness: to rise from nothing and destroy everything.

Veythor looked at Bantam and smiled. Bantam smiled back, an innocent grin stained with black oil. The fields spread around them like a sleeping quilt: rice paddies dark with water, a low animal pen, a fruit-and-vegetable garden, and the tribe's weapon room tucked between two huts. Where Veythor had walked, oil gleamed and pooled... slick ribbons running along paths, pooled at doorways, soaked into the thatch, tracing a lattice of ruin.

There wasn't much oil to spare. He had to be careful, he thought, measuring each movement. So he poured according to a design—concentrating the flow around the places that mattered most, letting it seep partially into interiors so the flames would find fuel and take hold quickly.

Now all he needed was a spark. Light one place and the rest would do the work. The tribe slept; their dreams would turn into smoke. Two fires would be enough... timed with their arrival.

Veythor's smirk tightened. He wasn't finished speaking the thought when a distant sound reached him: footfalls. Years of near‑death and hunger had sharpened his hearing into a survival instrument. The wind rustled. The shapes of two figures detached themselves from the dim woods. Shimi and Raika, moving as if pulled by the same silent thread. Bantam watched them with wide, curious eyes. Shimi's face held an apologetic, fragile smile; Raika's expression remained the familiar scowl.

Kill me, or watch your fears come true.

Those words looped in Raika's mind as he looked toward Veythor, eyes widening, trembling. Veythor noticed everything but said nothing. Bantam cocked his head, innocent and oblivious, his small face smeared with oil. Shimi and Raika noticed Bantam at once.

"Ugh—why is this child covered in oil?" Raika asked, disgust sharpening his tone.

Shimi's worry showed in the crease of her brow. "Vey—what are you going to do with him?"

Veythor breathed once, sharp and measured, and closed his eyes as if savoring the moment. "I'll explain later," he said at last, then let a smile bloom.

"So, Raika, my friend… you look like you want to ask something. What is it? I suppose Shimi told you everything."

Raika's jaw hardened; he set his face into a stern mask. "Yeah. Shimi told me everything. But tell me one thing—why did you kill that girl, and why are you trying to burn the tribe? Why?"

Veythor tilted his head, amusement flickering, then sliding away. "Oh, my friend, your question is so idiotic I could laugh at it for a hundred year." The smile dropped. His features went dark, like a cloud passing over the moon.

"Raika," he said slowly, voice low and hard, "do you think we have time to consider other people's feelings? Do you think I killed for enjoyment? I killed because I wanted to be free. In a kill‑or‑be‑killed world, I choose kill.... one thousand times over. I will destroy anyone who stands in my path."

Raika stumbled back, teeth clenched so tight they bit his tongue. "But this is wrong… No matter the reason, killing is still murder."

Shimi nodded, her voice small but fierce. "That's right."

"Do I look like I care?" Veythor answered, cold as iron. His words rang in their ears, final and unforgiving.

Raika protested, voice low and steady despite the tremor beneath it.

"But there are innocent people here… innocent children. They didn't do anything. Do they deserve to die?"

Veythor rolled his eyes with utter mockery.

"Spare me your kind‑hearted speeches," he said. "Tell me, Raika... suppose there's an ant nest at your feet, and hundreds of ants swarm you. If one bites, will you kill only that one? No. You will crush them all or atleast try to crush them all, maybe even raze their home in anger."

He shrugged once. Raika clenched his jaw; even he could feel the sick logic in the words.

"Don't compare ants to humans," Raika ground out. "We are different."

Veythor's pupils pinched to slits. His voice sharpened, steady and cold as steel.

"And why is that? Why do you think an ant's life holds less value than a human's? Because they are small? Because they are vulnerable? Because you call yourself human? Tell me, Raika... what is the difference between an ant's life and yours or mine? Nothing. Both are alive. You only convince yourself otherwise because humans rule the world. Your notions of equality are paper‑thin. Look at our society: in the end, justice is decided by power."

Raika and Shimi stared at him, no words coming out of their mouths.

"Ants or humans—it's the same. Life crawls, consumes, and dies. Only power decides which life deserves to continue. The rest is just noise we tell ourselves to sleep at night."

Veythor thought, mocking the world in silence.

Bantam, standing nearby, watched them with innocent curiosity. He couldn't understand their words, but he could feel the tension tightening the air.

Shimi suddenly spoke, her voice trembling but firm.

"At least… spare this boy."

Veythor looked at Bantam. This time, however, his face held nothing... not amusement, not pity, only cold indifference.

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