Chapter 12: Lou's POV: Slaughterhouse

"Ugh, the stench! Get out of here before you contaminate my store!"

The shopkeeper's voice rang sharp, filled with disgust. He wrinkled his nose as if the mere sight of me was an offense to his existence.

A group of kids—barely teenagers—circled like vultures, their snickers cutting sharper than any blade.

"Look at him," one jeered, lips curling in mock revulsion. "All tattered and dirty. Probably crawling with vermin!"

A woman passing by yanked her dog's leash close, her perfectly coiffed poodle snarling as if I were some kind of rabid beast.

"Don't you dare touch Coco, you filthy thing!" she spat, voice trembling with fear and disgust.

A ball, scuffed but bright, bounced toward me.

For a moment, just a fleeting moment, hope flickered.

My fingers stretched forward—

"Ew, gross! Don't touch it!" A child shrieked, snatching it away as if my touch would poison it. "You'll ruin it!"

Laughter erupted around me, loud and merciless.

"Hey," a larger boy called out, his predatory gaze locking onto me like a cat toying with a trapped mouse. "Let's have some fun."

His friends closed in, their sneers twisting into something crueler.

"Let's teach the little douche a lesson."

The street remained silent—except for them.

No one intervened. No one cared.

A passing woman spared me a single glance, pity flickering in her eyes—but only for a second.

"Poor thing," she murmured, shaking her head. "Abandoned at birth, they say. But someone's gotta be at the bottom, right? Makes the rest of us appreciate the good life more, I suppose."

She walked on.

And the world, as always, spit me out like I was nothing.

Thirteen years of garbage.

One oversized shirt, hanging off my skeletal frame like a death shroud—a constant reminder that my life had been nothing but scraps. Hunger gnawed at me, an ever-present parasite that drove me to steal, to fight, to exist on nothing but desperation.

Parents? Strangers, lost to the fog of a past I neither remembered nor cared to reclaim. Unlike those starry-eyed heroes who longed for tearful reunions, I harbored no such illusions.

Let them rot.

Poverty was my scarlet brand, my stench a weapon wielded against me.

"Weak."

"Filthy."

"A bag of bones barely clinging to life."

The words weren't just insults; they were a sentence, a daily reminder that I was beneath even contempt. And the ones who delivered them—those sadistic children, those sneering adults—they reveled in my misery.

Thirteen years.

Thirteen years of jeers, of slams against cold walls, of fists that bruised and feet that kicked. Thirteen years of knowing that I was nothing.

Until—

Something inside me snapped.

The rage, the simmering inferno I had buried beneath hunger and exhaustion, finally threatened to consume me. My soul had long since numbed, beaten down by hardship. But my body—my body still remembered what it meant to fight.

Then, it happened.

A strange pulse coursed through me.

I saw it—glimmering around objects, seeping through trees, flickering within some of the very people who tormented me.

At first, I thought it was exhaustion, the delirium of a dying street rat. Perhaps I was on the verge of death, slipping into a fever dream before the final curtain fell.

But no.

The energy didn't fade. It welled within me, surged through what looked like veins, filled the hollowness in me.

In a single heartbeat—

I became one with the earth.

The ground, once my prison, now answered my rage. Flesh contorted, bones twisted. I became something else.

A grotesque figure of razor-sharp spikes, carved from earth and fury—a living nightmare born from the filth they condemned me to.

Screams.

My tormentors—moments ago laughing, sneering, gloating—were now pincushions.

Their bodies impaled, their cruelty silenced forever.

Their blood painted the ground in a way that felt right.

A twisted smile crept across my lips—the first real expression I had worn in years.

I looked down at my hands.

Justice—brutal, merciless, undeniable—flowed through my fingertips.

I wasn't a street rat anymore.

I became an outlaw Flow practitioner, born from the ashes of a garbage heap and a lifetime of cruelty.

And the world had no idea what was coming.

For every fiber of my being despised human society.

I had no love for them—those wretched creatures who reveled in my suffering, who trampled me beneath their boots and spat on the scraps I fought for.

So I became my own weapon.

They bled.

They screamed.

They met the fate they had so gleefully reserved for me.

And in their final moments, I saw it—the horrifying realization dawning in their eyes.

Anyone pushed to the brink can become a monster.

For two whole years after my awakening, I was that monster.

The streets whispered of my reign, of the vengeful shadow that prowled in the dark, leaving only corpses in its wake.

I was an apex predator, unshackled, unstoppable.

Or so I thought.

Because hubris is a fickle companion.

Drunk on power, I believed myself invincible. The Flow, the very essence that wove through our world, pulsed within me like a second heartbeat—fueling my fury, amplifying my wrath.

But then, I met them.

Five Flow practitioners. Some older, some younger. None of them particularly terrifying on their own.

But at their center stood him.

The instant my eyes locked onto his figure, my confidence shattered.

My Flow—a shimmering saint silver, once blinding in its brilliance—now felt like a mere flicker against his.

His Flow burned, a violent crimson vortex that twisted the air around him. It didn't shimmer—it roared. A force of nature, an all-consuming inferno of wrath that pulsed with a heat so intense, I felt it in my very bones.

His presence alone made me shrink back.

He was a predator. A tyrant. A being who could crush me with the mere weight of his existence.

"They mentioned a Flow practitioner responsible for the slaughterhouse here."

His voice was a low rumble, each word laced with authority that sent a shiver down my spine.

I remained frozen, a trembling mess. My gaze refused to rise from the ground, my once-unbreakable will reduced to dust.

Then—

A chuckle. Cruel. Amused.

"But instead, I find a diamond in the rough… someone worthy of molding into something magnificent."

His words weren't honeyed poison.

All my life, I had been treated as nothing—a stain, a mistake, an unworthy existence.

And yet here he was. Acknowledging me.

It was a sick joke, wasn't it?

Yet, as his hand extended toward me—an offer, a path, a chance—something flickered inside me.

Was this salvation?

Or was this merely a new kind of servitude?

I didn't know.

But in that moment, I had no choice.

I reached out—

And my trembling hand met his.

His grip was firm, yet surprisingly gentle for a man who commanded such wrath.

As I left behind the carnage of my past, I stepped into a world beyond imagination.

Warm water washed away the years of filth.

Decadent meals erased the hollow ache of hunger.

Silken sheets, softer than any surface I had ever known, coaxed me into a sleep devoid of nightmares.

But beyond comfort, beyond luxury, I was no longer alone.

Six others had been chosen by him, just like me. Strays. Survivors. Ordinary fellows. Monsters in human skin.

At the center of it all stood Argentum, our savior.

A legend among Flow practitioners. A tyrant, a god, a father.

"You will surpass me one day."

The words had felt like a joke. A delusion. A cruel mockery.

Surpass him? The man who stood atop the food chain? The very idea was laughable. His crimson Flow wasn't merely power—it was authority incarnate. A force of nature, an unshakable dominion.

But we trained. Every single day.

Blood. Sweat. Broken bones.

Six years passed in a blur of brutal lessons and merciless discipline. By the time I reached twenty-one, we had become weapons.

"You are ready."

Argentum's words were final. Absolute. But beneath them, I caught something else—melancholy. Disappointment, even.

Because despite his dream, despite his impossible standards, despite all that training...

None of us surpassed him.

Not even close.

The Seven of us combined couldn't even make him break a sweat.

And yet, we were free.

Our training was over. Our purpose fulfilled. Argentum released us into the world, his shadow stretching long behind us.

But we, the Seven Disciples, weren't ready to part ways.

Because we had seen something in our years under Argentum's rule—something we couldn't ignore.

Flow was a gift—but an unstable one. Those who failed to control it were deemed unworthy, discarded like trash.

We knew what happened to them.

Left unchecked, their unstable Flow would wreak havoc upon the world.

We could not allow it.

And so, after long debates and even longer fights, we came to a decision:

We would build the Academies.

A sanctuary. A forge. A place where the unrefined, the lost, the castaways of Flow society could be shaped into something greater.

No one would suffer as we had. No one would be abandoned.

And so we became The Seven Sponsors of the Academies.

The guiding lights of a new generation.

From scavenger to slayer, from student to revered mentor—the path I walked defied all logic, all expectation.

Misery had shaped me, hammered me into something unrecognizable. But into what?

A hero?

A weapon?

Another filthy rich bastard, basking in luxury while the world rotted?

I had no answer. No one did.

Each of us Seven Sponsors bore an inscription—a word etched not into mere titles, but into our very existence. A single truth that defined our role in the Academies:

Wealth Knowledge Strength Experience Unity Legacy Creativity

Mine?

Experience.

It wasn't wisdom passed down through books. It was carved into my bones, burned into my flesh.

From the moment my Flow awakened, survival became a brutal teacher. Every second was a lesson. Every fight a test. Every scar a page in my unwritten history.

I learned to anticipate moves before they happened. To feel the emotions of those around me—too much, too deep, too painfully.

Experience wasn't just my title. It was the blood I bled. The truth I lived.

We, the Seven Sponsors, stood at the very pinnacle of the Flow hierarchy. Only two forces could command us:

Argentum the First. The Council of the Eight Ones.

And yet, even at the heights of power, the whispers never stopped.

"Lou? The Slaughterhouse? Up there with the others? What a joke!"

"I heard he was a gutter rat. A serial killer in his youth. Can you believe it?"

"An empty shell. A placeholder for the seventh seat. That's all he is."

"He barely looks alive, let alone powerful. Can we really trust him?"

The whispers crawled beneath my skin, as familiar as the hunger that once gnawed at my ribs.

I let them talk.

They didn't know the truth.

They didn't see the battlefields I had carved through, the rivers of blood I had waded in, the monster I had become to stand where I stood now.

But one day… they would understand.

Or perhaps, their doubt would remain a thorn in my side.

And I would grind them into dust all the same.

Even the surface of the mirror mocked me. While my reflection sported the prestigious title of a Sponsor, it spoke a different truth.

My shoulders, a burden under their own weight, hunched perpetually forward. My black hair, a tangled mess, mirrored the storm within.

Even my eyes, shadowed by heavy lids and dark circles, seemed perpetually half-closed, as if refusing to fully engage with the world.

The apathy carved into my face by a lifetime of hardship remained. A smile, even for a child's innocent joy, felt like a foreign concept to me.

And knowing full well that I'd slaughter anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path, I hid.

I sought solace in solitude, carving out a life on the very fringes of society—right at the border of the Beast Territory. Just a mere distance separated me from leaving the protective barrier that surrounded Alaranta.

A simple cabin, tucked away from the world. No grand estate, no towering fortress. Just a place where I could exist without consequences.

Didn't even have to leave unless it was absolutely necessary.

But survival wasn't magic. It needed effort. Effort I wasn't willing to put in.

Enter Romeo Lapis.

A fellow Harmonizer like me. The head of the Harmonization Department in Chasles Academy. Almost a big shot. Almost.

We had an arrangement.

I handed over every single bank account I owned. Full access. No restrictions.

In exchange, he became my personal secretary.

Romeo handled everything—my food, my paperwork, my insufferable responsibilities. He minimized my need to interact with the world. It was perfect.

Except for the times he got ideas.

Like training with me.

Like forcing me to leave my tranquility.

Those moments made me consider if I'd made a mistake in not killing him years ago.

Then came one of those days.

A bloodcurdling scream shattered my slumber.

Romeo. Obviously.

Sometimes, I considered taking away his keys so he wouldn't have to break in every damn time… but that would put me at a disadvantage.

Why was he here? I hadn't RSVP'd to any social gatherings.

Feigning deeper sleep, I shut down my senses, hoping he'd take the hint.

But Romeo Lapis was infuriatingly immune to the language of blissful ignorance.

The buzzing gnat had only one trump card.

With a dramatic whoosh, he ripped off my blanket—exposing me to the cursed light.

Romeo…

With a groan that could curdle milk, I cracked open an eye.

Mistake.

The harsh overhead lights, left on in my pre-sleep forgetfulness, stabbed at my retinas like angry vipers.

Why—why did I ever befriend someone as relentlessly organized as Romeo Lapis?

A guttural growl rumbled from my throat, a feeble attempt to ward off the intruder. Sleep still had its claws in me, my tongue thick and unresponsive. But then—

A pulse.

A wave of primal fear crashed over me, icy tendrils constricting my chest.

My breath hitched. My body went rigid.

My eyelids snapped open.

Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the room's chill. Instinct roared to life.

I was on my feet in an instant, sword gripped so tightly my knuckles ached.

The air was thick, suffocating. Flow.

No—not just any Flow.

Something beyond it. Something wrong.

My gaze darted across the room, muscles tensed for a fight. Who was here?

Who held this immeasurable power?

Argentum? Had he come for me?

No. It wasn't him. Argentum's Flow was blazing, a wrathful inferno.

This was different. This was villainy itself.

It didn't just radiate power—it implanted fear, deep and absolute.

Then, my eyes landed on her.

A girl. A mere child.

Huddled in the corner, small and seemingly fragile—a child.

Except... her Flow.

It wasn't a gift. It wasn't potential.

It was a storm. A maelstrom of raw, unchecked might that sent shivers down my spine.

Her eyes—devoid of innocence—bored into mine.

Not wide with terror.

Not pleading for help.

Not begging for mercy.

No, they were the eyes of an executioner.

A reaper who had witnessed countless deaths.

A child—yet her Flow dwarfed even the greatest of adults.

No.

She dwarfed us, the Seven Sponsors.

A phenomenon. An anomaly.

Had she awakened before the "gifted age?" Was she an experiment? A mistake? A monster?

I swallowed, voice hoarse as the tip of my sword hovered inches from her throat.

"Who... what are you? A god?"

A ridiculous question.

A useless question.

Because the truth had already sunk in.

This was the real thing.

Not a prodigy. Not a freak accident.

This was power in its rawest, purest form.

And in those chilling eyes, I saw something disturbingly familiar.

A reflection.

Her abyssal black. It held the same might as the crimson that burned in Argentum's Flow.

And yet—something even more.

Something more terrifying.

More untamed.

More boundless.

A goddess in the making.

Or perhaps—A destroyer of gods.