Mirakos

"Hector," Altan says slowly, walking toward the crowd. Some people make way; others freeze in fear. His presence commands attention—a shadow looming over the chaos.

"Do you all want to see a dragon?" His voice cuts through the air, resonating with every person in the room.

A child's voice suddenly breaks through the silence. "Yes! Dragon sir!" he shouts with innocent excitement.

The boy stands out, dressed in a simple, loose-fitting brown tunic slightly too large for his small frame.

His worn sandals barely cling to his feet, and a frayed scarf wraps around his neck, swaying as he bounces on his toes. His black, unusually floating hair moves like it's caught in a wind only he can feel.

The boy's mother, a woman dressed in a tattered blue gown, shivers at the sound of her son's words.

Panic floods her face as she desperately tries to hush him, placing a trembling hand over his mouth. "Oh no, Dragon…" she mutters, her voice barely a whisper.

Altan's head slowly tilts to the side, his cold gaze locking onto them as people step back, parting in fear to let him pass.

Hector joins the scene, his voice smooth yet filled with tension. "You wouldn't want to miss the right star, would you?" He repeats himself, more insistent this time, voice trembling with a strange mixture of awe and horror.

"Come," Altan says, beckoning the child.

Without hesitation, the boy, Mirakos, rushes forward, his dark hair still floating eerily in the air. His mother lunges to stop him, her voice cracking as she screams, "Mirakos!" Her fear fills the room as she desperately tries to catch him.

Altan pauses, a twisted grin forming on his lips. "That's a weird name, isn't it?" he muses, picking at his ear absentmindedly, like none of this matters.

"It's what his dad wanted," she replies, her voice barely holding together as she tries to follow her son.

By now, only Altan and Hector stand in front of the transparent Polsium wall, an indestructible barrier separating them from the rest of the terrified onlookers.

Every time Altan speaks, the crowd pulls back, retreating in fear. Everyone knows the legends of the Five Dragons—powerful forces, not beings, autonomous objects that move toward any threat without mercy.

Altan turns to Hector, amused, then back to the crowd.

"I'm the fierce one, right?" he asks casually, gripping Mirakos' head in his hand, his spear-like fingers carefully positioned to avoid piercing the boy's soft skull.

"Y-yes…" Mirakos's mother stammers, her voice shaking with terror. "My floor… we're about to get down," she mutters, as if clinging to the hope that the nightmare will end.

"Oh, you won't," Altan says with chilling calmness.

Without warning, he swings his spear and splits her head cleanly in half.

Blood sprays across the room, splattering against the cold, sterile floor like a macabre signature. Her head slowly tumbles to the ground, leaving a bloody mark where it lands.

Mirakos, still held by Altan, stares blankly as his mother's body crumples before him. His small voice wavers, "M-Mom?" His breath catches, his entire body shaking.

Altan, still smiling, looks down at the boy with a disturbingly cheery tone.

"I'm not a demon, okay? I just need energy. In short." His words are almost playful, but the room is filled with screams as people panic, clawing desperately at the lift's walls, trying to escape. The lift won't stop until it reaches floor 760—The Mall.

"Altan please stop—" Hector tries to say, his voice faltering before Altan cuts him off.

"I wasn't planning on killing you," Altan mutters dismissively. "And you can try to make this junk move quicker. I'll just kill them faster." His cold eyes land back on Mirakos, who trembles in his grasp. The boy's mind swirls with terror, wanting to run but paralyzed by the sight of his mother's brutal death.

"Mom, wake up…" Mirakos whimpers, his voice barely audible, repeating the words over and over as if saying them enough would make them true.

Altan finally lets go of the boy's head and begins walking toward the crowd. His voice echoes menacingly through the room. "Alright, children first," he says, almost gleefully. 

"Please, don't—!!" A man cries out, his voice breaking, but before he can finish, Altan flings his spear, and the man's face is impaled against the seemingly indestructible Polsium wall on the opposite side of the life. His jaw dangles grotesquely, blood pouring down the once pristine surface.

Altan turns to Hector, who's hiding his face beneath a gray cap, unable to look at the carnage.

"I knew it was easy to break," Altan spits in a rapid, stinging tone, each word lingering in the air like poison.

The crowd stands still, frozen in a mix of terror and disbelief.

A man, dressed in a dark trench coat with torn sleeves, his hat pulled low over his face, nervously raises his hand. Water gathers in his palm—a small, fragile attempt—and flings it toward Altan. It's barely a splash, but it lands on Altan's face.

For a moment, everything seems to stop.

Altan wipes his face slowly, a twisted grin forming once more. "Now you want to play?" He laughs as if he's genuinely amused by the pathetic attempt.

His eerie, white eyes gleam with madness as he looks toward the man who dared attack him. "You thought your little drop could drown me?!"

It was like he took the hit personally.

The crowd, emboldened by the man's action, begins to rush him, screaming for him to stop. To die.

Altan's voice rises again, louder this time, his mocking tone cutting through their cries. "You all don't use skills.

You even think it's only for the rich or whatever," he sneers, wiping his face again like the water had somehow insulted him.

He pauses, letting the tension build before continuing. "Skills aren't for the rich—they're for the reckless! For those who laugh while the realm rots! Come on, then! Let's see how long you can keep up before you break."

As the crowd charges toward him, Altan's laugh grows, slow and menacing.

His hands reach out, grabbing the nearest person—a woman dressed in a white blouse, stained now with blood—and with one swift motion, he breaks her head until it's nothing but red mush.

Another man, wearing a suit torn at the sleeves, finds his limbs twisted beyond recognition, bones snapping with sickening cracks.

Men and women alike rush him, most without combat skills, yet desperate enough to try. Their bodies hit the floor one after another, torn apart by Altan's sadistic hands.

"Conductor?..." Mirakos' small voice trembles, his wide eyes turning to Hector, who looks away, unable to meet the boy's gaze.

"Floor 875… floor 874…" Hector mutters under his breath, desperately willing the lift to move faster, knowing it's futile.

The lift becomes a blood-drenched slaughterhouse, limbs flying, blood splattering across the walls, painting the floors red. The once orderly space is now transformed into a grotesque nightmare.

Amidst the chaos, Altan locks his gaze onto the man who had dared to splash water at him.

"You. Come here," he says, his voice cutting through the screams.

The man hesitates, terror written across his face, but he's too paralyzed to refuse. Slowly, he steps forward, trembling.

Altan's voice is low, almost a whisper, but it carries across the room with horrifying clarity. "Take my hand and kill yourself."

The man's breath hitches, his body shaking violently, but Altan's eyes leave no room for defiance. Helpless, the man reaches out, his hand trembling as it touches Altan's.

With a twisted smile, Altan grips his hand and the man screams, his own power turning against him as his body begins to burn from the inside out. His skin blackens, peeling away, his screams echoing until his voice dies with him.

The crowd, now fully aware of their doom, tries to flee once more, but the lift's doors remain sealed. There is no escape.

Altan stands in the center of the carnage, surveying the destruction he's caused, his cold, white eyes glinting with satisfaction.

His laugh fills the blood-soaked air, the sound of a madman reveling in the chaos he's created.

"It's almost amusing, isn't it?" Altan muses, his voice low, head tilted slightly as if in thought.

He wipes a hand over his face, smearing the blood that streaks down from his forehead like crimson warpaint.

"How easily they charge at me... after a few words. Driven by fear, by anger... by emotion." He pauses, his fingers absently tracing the red lines staining his armour.

"Humans are so quick to follow their feelings, even when it leads them to ruin. They don't think—they react. Instincts control them more than any reason ever could, that's why it's easy to be addicted to the allure of Rasvian energy."