Breaking Point

Word hasn't gotten back to the village. Everyone in the battle on the side of the village was brutally murdered. The village is now in danger, and no one has any idea.

Conrad sat down with his parents and Vaela to eat supper. It was a peaceful meal, filled with lively conversation that excited the siblings. Berian, a great storyteller, made his personal experiences sound fun and thrilling. On the other hand, Selene was more cautious, always trying to shield her children by exposing the harsh reality behind Berian's exaggerated stories.

It was one of the most enjoyable suppers Conrad had ever had.

CRACK!

Conrad's heart skipped a beat. He looked up—

Vaela's head hit the floor with a sickening thud, rolling toward him as her body crumpled in a heap. Blood splattered across the table, staining everything.

"Huh... Vaela?" Conrad whispered, eyes streaming with tears. Selene burst into quiet sobs, weeping for her only daughter.

"RUN AWAY! SAVE YOURSELF!" A distant voice screamed, as the whole village filled with the smell of smoke and the frantic screams of innocent civilians.

"NO!" Berian shouted, his voice breaking. "We... we can't leave Vaela like this, no—wait..." He hesitated, then, shaking his head, he stammered, "LET'S GO, RUN AWAY!"

Conrad's eyes were wide with fear, shock, and anger. He ran, his body pale, dragging himself forward as his mother pulled him. Suddenly, she stopped, and he fell.

He stood, only to find his mother's severed hand still clutching his wrist. His eyes widened as he turned to see her behind him—just before she was exploded.

Conrad continued running, his screams filled with agony. His father caught up to him, lifted him, and sprinted ahead, panting heavily.

"Conrad... I can't make it. Your mother and Vaela are dead. That's the truth. And soon... it will be me. Son... Please, don't seek revenge. Just survive. It's not worth holding a grudge."

Berian's once-brave face was now filled with fear for his son's future. Conrad stared at him, horrified by the seemingly cowardly words. In tears, he ran.

"SON, COME B—"

A massive explosion followed. Berian's voice and the world around him faded. Conrad kept running, his hate and anger for the enemies swelling. In the distance, he saw three figures fleeing—the village elders, being helped by the enemies.

Those damn traitors! Conrad thought, seething.

Conrad's eyes locked onto a soldier ahead, his anger blinding him to everything else. The soldier, standing tall and laughing, seemed oblivious to the pain that was about to come.

Without a word, Conrad charged forward, his fist swinging at the soldier's chest with all the strength his 12-year-old frame could muster. It wasn't much—just a weak, angry punch that barely seemed to faze the soldier.

The soldier chuckled, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Is that all you've got, kid?"

But then, just as the laughter escaped his lips, something strange happened. The soldier's eyes went wide, his body trembling. Blood started to drip from his nose, then his ears, then his eyes.

He staggered back, clutching his chest, before collapsing to the ground with a sickening thud. Blood began to spurt from his eyes, painting the dirt beneath him a deep crimson.

Conrad stared at his hand, trembling, unsure of what just happened. He hadn't even felt the punch land, but the results... the results were undeniable. He had killed a man.

He stood frozen, boiling with rage. Suddenly, a small figure appeared behind him, an afro, sunglasses, and a sword picked up from a fallen soldier.

"Hey, kid," the figure said. "Those so-called village elders? They were fakes, feeding info to the Iron Fist the whole time. They got away safe."

Dante stepped from the smoke, his eyes sharp and focused. "Looks like we've got a common enemy now."

"Who are the Iron Fist?" Conrad snapped. "That evil army that killed everyone just now? I swear, on my soul, I'll kill them. The elders, the whole damn army... HOW DARE THEY!"

Conrad went quiet, his anger simmering. After a long silence, the two began walking away from the village. They looked back—thick black smoke swallowed everything, chaos and flames consuming the remnants of the village.

"The village of Rhöem is gone," Dante said softly, his voice tinged with regret. "Wiped off the map... forever. But we need to train. We need to kill those bastards. Names Dante, 14 years young, you? What's your name, kid? How old are you?"

"Conrad. Twelve."