Impossible Choice

The man stepped forward.

Wes was frozen. His body refused to move, his mind barely processing what was happening. Everything felt distant, like watching a nightmare unfold while trapped in his own skin.

But his mother—she wasn't done.

Through sheer willpower, she pushed past the pain in her mangled wrist, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she snatched the fallen dagger with her other hand.

With a desperate, silent resolve, she lunged for the man's back.

The blade was aimed for his spine. A killing blow.

He moved.

Not fast. Not frantic.

He simply shifted, stepping aside like he was avoiding a puddle.

And for a split second, Wes thought she had done it—the dagger's tip touched his side, pressing into him.

Then the man sighed.

Like someone inconvenienced.

His hand moved in a blur.

His mother barely had time to react before her head slid from her shoulders in a clean cut.

Blood sprayed across the walls, coating the man with void-colored eyes.

He hadn't even used a blade.

Wes couldn't move.

The sound of her body hitting the floor barely registered.

His breath caught in his throat, hands trembling, his mind shutting down.

It was like every sound had vanished, like the world had dimmed around him.

The man, drenched in blood, turned his attention back to Wes.

And smiled.

Then another bolt flew—aimed for his head.

The man caught it without looking.

Like it meant nothing.

Wes' eyes flicked to the side—Chad.

His brother stood by the overturned table, another crossbow still raised—shaking but determined.

Then, before Wes could blink—a dagger slammed into Chad's chest.

Hard.

So hard it went straight through him and into the wall behind him.

Chad let out a choked gasp, his knees buckling. His fingers twitched around the crossbow before it slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the ground.

He collapsed, coughing violently, blood bubbling from his lips.

Their sister's wail cut through the silence.

She had come out, drawn by the noise.

A child's cry. Fragile. Small. Terrified.

The man turned his head, his expression unreadable as his black eyes locked onto her.

His smile widened.

Then he looked back at Wes.

Wes didn't know if he had lost his mind in that moment. Even now, he questioned his own sanity.

Because when the man reached toward him—

His hand passed into Wes' chest.

Not physically. Not like a blade piercing flesh.

It was like a ghost slipping through him, reaching past skin and bone, grasping something deeper.

And then, the pain hit.

Like fire searing his very soul.

Everything went white.

Wes hit the ground.

His vision swam, his limbs weak and unresponsive, but he refused to pass out. He wouldn't let himself.

He couldn't.

Tears burned in his eyes, but it wasn't just from the pain. It was rage. His entire body screamed in agony, his breath came in ragged gasps, but the fury clawing its way through his chest kept him conscious.

He didn't know it yet, but the man with void eyes had just made him a Null—severing his ability to ever use a Void Crystal.

Wes didn't understand what had just been taken from him. But he understood one thing.

He had never felt more powerless.

And he hated it.

His fingers curled weakly into fists, nails digging into his palms as his body trembled.

He tried to speak. To move. To do anything.

But all he could do—

was scream.

Raw, hoarse, full of fury he didn't even know how to express. He wasn't just in pain—he was enraged.

The void-eyed man smiled.

Then, for the first time, he spoke.

His voice was deep, smooth—pleasant to the ears.

"Even now, you impress me…"

He sighed, tilting his head slightly as if in thought before exhaling slowly.

"I bet you wish you were dead…" He paused, then his lips curled just slightly. "I wish you were dead as well."

Wes' breath hitched, his chest heaving as the pain still clawed at him.

The man crouched slightly and pressed something into Wes' hand.

A dagger.

Wes barely registered it, fingers curling weakly around the hilt.

Then the man stepped out of view.

For a moment, everything was a blur—his vision swam, his limbs refused to obey him, and he could barely keep his thoughts together. The pain was still there, but his mind fixated on what had just happened.

Then, he heard movement.

The man returned, stepping back into view.

Holding his sister.

She was small. Too small. Four years old, wide-eyed with terror, unable to even comprehend what was happening.

The man looked down at Wes, his expression unreadable, and then spoke again—

"Kill yourself, and I'll spare her."

Wes didn't know what to do.

He was ten and a half. He could barely move.

His fingers clenched around the dagger.

And for the first time in his life—

he had no idea what to do.