Price

Dion stood among the gathered crowd, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the scene before him. A man knelt on the cracked stone pavement, his head tilted downward, strands of disheveled hair masking his expression. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers curled, streaked with dried blood—blood that wasn't his.

The corpse had already been dragged away, but the dark stain it left behind still glistened in the light. The air was thick with the sharp scent of iron, the tension stretching taut.

And then there was him.

The man standing before the kneeling figure wasn't someone to ignore. He was tall, well-built, and carried himself with the kind of presence that made people instinctively step back. His features were sharp, handsome in a way that wasn't delicate but commanding. His eyes, cold and observant, flicked over the kneeling man with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

Dion did not know exactly what happened, although distant they suddenly started hearing the duo conversation.

"You should be ashamed," the standing man finally spoke, his voice smooth yet carrying the weight of something absolute. "A member of the Deva family, even a distant one, reduced to this? Brawling in the outer district? Killing over a petty argument?"

Dion narrowed his eyes. A distant Deva? That was surprising. People had been whispering about it earlier, but hearing it confirmed was different.

The kneeling man stiffened but didn't raise his head.

"I defended myself," he muttered.

The standing man let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Defended yourself? From what? Words?" He gestured lazily to the stain on the ground. "Tell me, did his insults strike so deep that you had no choice but to carve a hole in his chest?"

Silence stretched between them. The kneeling man's jaw clenched.

Dion watched carefully. He had seen enough to know how things worked here. The Deva family didn't care about the lives of those in the outer ring. So what if a nobody was killed in the streets? Who would dare challenge a Deva for it? There might be whispers, some unrest for a few days, but then things would settle, and the world would keep moving.

No, this wasn't about justice.

Something was about to happen.

The standing man took a single step forward.

The kneeling man flinched—only for his breath to hitch violently as the blood on his hands began to boil.

Dion's eyes widened slightly. An aspect?

At first, it was subtle. The dark crimson liquid shimmered unnaturally, ripples distorting its surface. Then the temperature surged. The blood sizzled, tiny wisps of steam curling into the air.

The kneeling man's breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. His fingers twitched.

Then came the real agony.

A sharp hiss—then a roar of pain as the blood on his hands turned into a searing inferno. Boiling, bubbling, eating away at his flesh. His arms convulsed, muscles locking as the burning spread. Every droplet of blood that had splashed onto his arms, his clothes, his skin—it all reacted, consuming him in silent, relentless torture.

A scream tore from his throat.

The crowd recoiled, but no one moved to help.

Dion felt his stomach tighten. The kneeling man writhed, his hands now blackened, skin curling away in layers of charred ruin. His mouth opened, desperate gasps for air turning into broken sobs.

Dion swallowed, his thoughts racing. What kind of aspect is this?

Aspects were complicated. The Oracle unlocked them at 14, but learning how to use them was the real challenge. Some were straightforward—fire, ice, lightning. Others were more abstract, bending the rules of reality in ways that weren't easy to define.

A person who controlled water could make it boil by altering its composition. A person who controlled fire could do the same by applying heat. Even a person with a body-based aspect could raise their own temperature to dangerous levels.

So which one was this?

Dion didn't know.

But what he did know was that the man standing there wasn't doing this because he cared about justice.

This wasn't punishment. It was a demonstration.

The kneeling man's screams had weakened to strained gasps. His arms trembled, blackened to the elbow, the scorched flesh still smoldering.

The standing man exhaled slowly, as if bored. "This is your price for dragging the family name in the mud."

The words settled over the crowd like a heavy blanket.

Then, without another glance, he turned away.

The commotion was over.

Dion remained still, watching as the injured man slumped forward, moving with visible effort. Dion didn't care so much though, the guy will be back on his feet in few days with barely any scars.

That is the benefit of power granted by the oracle.