Rage

Magic and power are synonymous in life.

Magic seeps into the very soul of the earth, imbued in every hill, valley, rock, and speck of dirt.

All created by the gods' power contains a sliver of it. The source of power, life, and magic all stem from the gods' permission.

All life is given and taken as the gods please.

"Who are the gods to dictate how I live and die?" Solan had stood by this belief his whole life.

Yet, his life was taken by them. Solan had lived past his time. His magic, his soul, his permission to exist in the world had been stripped away.

But he lived on—a boy who detested the gods so much that he overruled the very laws of the world.

As flakes of nothingness singed around Solan like a deathly aura, they threatened to consume not only him but everything in sight.

The very existence of those around him was erased by the second.

Power. Power so infinitely deep, it was as if nothing had existed in the first place. Those present hadn't even had the chance to run from the flurry of destruction that followed.

Within moments, the bars chaining him disappeared. The chain around his neck, meant to bind him to his very soul, had only hindered half of his pseudo-soul.

All power came at a cost.

For some, it was mana, produced by the soul or the environment.

For others, it was crystals imbued with the gods' power. But Solan didn't have those luxuries.

His power manifested, spread, and ate through his very body. He was the fuel behind his fire, the source of his own power.

At that moment, nothing mattered to Solan except killing those who thought they could decide his life.

Holes appeared on every surface around him.

The people at the table had only just realized what had happened before they themselves were riddled with holes.

 No blood spurted. No trace was left.

 It was as if nothing had been there in the first place.

Two of the four people who had looked at him with disgust and hate now quivered at his form as if the embodiment of the abyss stood before them.

Solan found himself in a familiar place. In his mind's eye, he was back in the infinite void he had previously found himself in, facing the dark speck floating in front of him.

"My, Solan, your use of my power is more frightening than even I could imagine. I had the decency to take your villagers out in one hit, at least," the speck said, though it was hard to call what it did speaking.

"What the hell is happening to me? What did you do to me?" spat Solan.

"Well, you can't blame this on me; you wanted to kill them. You detested your own weakness. I just gave you a little push. That collar they put on you was meant to seal magic. Little did they know they ended up sealing the only thing keeping you both awake and contained," the speck chuckled darkly.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Let me explain it like this: I told you before that your soul was made of two halves, the pesky eternal flame, and my half. Now imagine that the eternal flame half is like wood for a fireplace, its kindling keeping it burning. Now imagine my half, absolute erasure, feeding off that wood like a fire. It uses the eternal flame as an infinite food source."

"Now, what happens when you burn wood?" the speck asked.

"Smoke?"

"Exactly! Wow, you really aren't as dumb as you look. Smoke. In this metaphor, that smoke is your power. It spreads, consumes, and destroys everything in its path. Your power is both a blessing and a curse, Solan. You are the embodiment of destruction, kept alive by the very thing that seeks to destroy you."

"You are fuelling the fire with your body, with yourself."

…

Down the halls of the corridor, in the room where Solan first woke up, a man sat, quiet tapping echoing as his foot bounced, his mouth twitching, buried in his hands.

His black hair and scarred face stuck in a scowl.

"Alright, I've had enough." Suddenly, he stood up and walked out of the room. The corridors of the old building whispered their past with every step.

The aged yet pristine carpets sagged quietly beneath his boots. The marble-like surfaces lining every surface, with a mix of lanterns and torches across the walls.

"I'm sick of those high-horse old bastards in there. How many more kids are they going to put to death on the chance that they might be a threat?"

He paced down the hallway, catching stares as he walked hurriedly. Suddenly, his form warped, glitching as if phasing in and out of existence.

Instantly, he appeared outside a large wooden door covered in iron reinforcements, with no sound getting through.

"Sound magic… So that bastard is here too," he said to himself, annoyed.

Suddenly, a blade manifested in his palm, a long katana emanating with the same eerie static aura that had covered the man previously.

The bright blue and white blade never seemed to stay in one place, always moving regardless of the swordsman's movement. The man brought the blue blade up, the movement and twitching becoming almost violent and sentient.

As if looking for weaknesses within the mix of wood and metal. As if it were looking for weaknesses within the magic itself.

With a swift downward flash of the sword, two different cuts were made.

One split the wood and metal in a lightning-like cut, twisting and slicing in an uneven pattern, following the weakness of the structure.

The other, unseen, was a cut that sliced through the spell itself. Cutting through the seams of the words that bound the spell, the door came apart in two and fell on either side of him.

His face morphed into one of shock and sheer awe.

Every surface was riddled with holes.

He barely had enough time to realize what he was looking at. Four people on the ground, two already dead, with holes opening in their abdomens.

A dark figure towering over them. Human-like features outlined its figure; otherwise, it was completely inhuman.

A slow tapping sounded as the figure walked towards the two royals, the ground behind it singed with dark soot. Suddenly, the man warped over between the royals and the being.

"Look, kid, I don't like them either, but I'm not going to just let you kill them off like this."

The tapping stopped a couple of paces away from him.

The sheer pressure of its aura warped and phased the air around it. The being stood and stared at the man for a moment before stepping once.

In an instant, it appeared right before him, its arm pulled back, aiming for his stomach. Its arm flew forward, the speed so fast that even he couldn't react.

But his sword did.

The sword moved swiftly, blocking the strike while looking for weaknesses.

The being's arm flew towards its edge, splitting its fist across it.

Quickly, he tried to jump back, attempting to make any kind of space between them again.

The being stepped, taking a singular step before disappearing and reappearing right in front of him.

'Enchantless spellcasting... What the hell is this kid?' The deathly dance kept up: blocking, running, blocking, running.

'I'd be dead a long time ago if not for the sword,' he thought to himself.

Suddenly, the being stopped again, this time not warping towards him.

Slowly, it raised its arm, shaking violently, the air reacting to its will.

Its dark energy spread across the space closest to it. 'Shit.' His body moved on instinct, grabbing the two surviving royals and warping away.

Praying he could get out in time. His form flickered as he muttered the scripture under his breath. 'Faster… faster… faster!'

Even he, renowned for his speed and spellcasting across the capital, didn't seem to have enough time.

The dark energy built and built, moments felt like hours, pressure building.

'I won't make it.'

The pressure built until it felt like the very air was going to collapse, the sheer power seemingly trumping all attempts at retaliation.

Suddenly, the pressure lifted. Its form vibrated and erased, with holes appearing in its void-like surface, revealing the boy stuck underneath.

Slowly, the strict power encasing the boy's form peeled off, the air pressure dissipating with it.

Revealing the burned and boiled skin underneath, red and covered in blisters as if he was coved in boiling oil.

The room went silent for a while, the only sound being the quiet breathing of the boy on the floor.

Once the royals woke up from their dream-like state, they started barking the same commands again.

"He… He's the devil! Hurry up and kill him!" One of the trembling royals barked their terrified commands at him.

The man ignored the scared wails coming from royals on the floor, staring at the boy, watching intensely.

Seeing him ignore them, the unnamed royal pulled out a knife from inside their robe.

'This bastard…'

Instantly, a shimmering blue blade met their throat, beads of blood forming near its edge.

"You move an inch, and it'll be the last movement you ever do"