Chapter 5

"When life gives you demons, you roast them until they cry for their mommies."

Alex woke up to the same thing that haunted his mornings like a passive-aggressive ghost.

Burnt toast.

And not the kind of burnt that's crunchy on the edges. No—this was carbon-grade, post-apocalyptic toast. The kind that made your lungs question whether they still wanted to participate in breathing.

He peeled his eyes open, slow and reluctant. As if his own eyelids were staging a rebellion. The ceiling above him was a tapestry of decay—peeling paint flaking like sunburnt skin, water stains blooming like bruises, cobwebs curling like whispers in the corners.

Everything was off-kilter.

Even the silence.

The kind of silence that didn't just sit in the room—it listened back.

He sat up with a dry groan, the kind that came from somewhere between his spine and soul. His fingers trembled as they ran over his face, palms lingering on the hollows under his eyes.

For a single second—just a breath—he forgot who he was.

Then it came back.

Like a car crash in his chest.

The memories. The guilt. The voice.

"You were nothing before me." "You're still nothing." "Magic powered by insults? Pathetic."

It didn't sound like a demon. It didn't sound like a villain.

It sounded like him.

Or… a version of him. One rotted by fear, rejection, and every inch of trauma he'd tried to laugh away. That voice didn't live in shadows.

It lived in his bones.

He clenched his fists so tight his nails left little red moons in his palms. "Great. I disappoint everyone and I hate myself. Guess I'm doing the trauma speedrun."

Dragging himself up, he stumbled into the kitchenette, greeted by the gentle hissss of his burnt culinary crime. The ancient toaster looked like it had survived the Magical Cold War.

He took a bite anyway.

Crunch.

Yup. Gravel and misery.

"Delicious," he mumbled, chewing through the ashes. "Just the way existential dread likes it."

"Morning," Lia called from the other room, her voice as smooth as silk over broken glass.

She didn't look up—eyes fixed on a glowing spellpad, fingers dancing around floating runes that shimmered like lazy fireflies on mana-drunk autopilot.

Alex glanced at her. "Is that 'morning' as in 'we survived another apocalypse' or 'yay, I still have unresolved emotional baggage'?"

She gave a half-smirk. "Bit of both."

He studied her, really studied her. The way her fingers moved—precise, rehearsed. The way she always avoided eye contact when he pushed too hard. The subtle tension in her shoulders. It was like watching someone juggle knives with a smile plastered on.

She was hiding something.

She always danced around questions about the Awakened Regulation Bureau. Her bag was off-limits. And her smile? It arrived too late. Like a script she'd memorized but never believed in.

He wasn't dumb.

But he wasn't ready to face the truth yet, either.

"If you're gonna stab me in the back," he said dryly, "at least wait until I'm done eating this burnt nightmare. It sucks, but I'm committed."

She laughed.

But there was something behind her eyes for a flicker of a moment.

Not irritation.

Guilt.

And guilt never wore smiles well.

Halfway to the front door, reality decided to punch him in the metaphorical nuts again.

[DING]

> System Alert: Emotional trauma detected. Magic grid stabilizing... Insult Reservoir Expanded.

New Skill Unlocked: "Verbal Shrapnel."

Because sometimes, the best bullets are words.

Alex blinked. "What am I now, a sentient Reddit thread?"

No answer.

Typical.

He tapped the floating icon on his forearm, sighing.

> Verbal Shrapnel: Launch a high-pressure wave of compressed insult energy. Deals magical, psychological, and emotional damage. May induce hallucinations, regret, guilt spirals, or unexpected personal growth in emotionally unstable targets.

"...So I've literally weaponized emotional damage."

He whistled low.

"Somewhere out there, a therapist just burst into tears and doesn't know why."

Outside, the city simmered under the weight of too many secrets and not enough kindness.

Quiet streets. Too quiet.

He never trusted quiet anymore. It was just the universe holding its breath before a scream.

And then—he heard it.

Screaming.

Real. Raw. Terrified.

He ran without thinking, boots hitting cracked concrete, weaving through alleyways painted in neon decay until he turned a corner and—

There she was.

A girl. No older than thirteen. Pressed against a crumbling wall. Eyes wide with disbelief. She looked like someone had just erased the rest of her world.

In front of her stood something that should not exist.

A demon.

Canine in shape, but corrupted. Its fur steamed with hellfire, eyes bubbling like molten tar, jaws layered with impossible rows of teeth. Every breath it took poisoned the air—mana oozing off its skin like venom.

Everyone had run.

Except her.

And now—him.

"Hey, overcooked poodle!" Alex yelled. "Your breath smells like fermented bat pee!"

The demon twisted its neck toward him, growling.

[Skill Activated: Verbal Shrapnel]

And then he let loose.

> "You look like a failed taxidermy experiment!" "You're the reason hell has an HR department!" "Even your fleas are ashamed of you!"

The insults didn't echo.

They detonated.

Sound became force. Words became knives.

The demon shrieked, ears bleeding black tar. Its mind shredded under the storm of insult-fueled mana. It stumbled, convulsing like a possessed marionette.

Alex's fist glowed with crimson heat.

[Basic Spell: Fist of Fury – Enhanced by Insult Magic]

He lunged.

One punch.

The thing evaporated into ash and shame.

The girl stared at him like he was a glitch in the world. A miracle. Or a mistake.

He crouched down, panting. "You okay?"

She nodded shakily. "Y-yeah… Are you… are you a hero?"

The word hit him harder than any monster.

Hero?

He didn't even know what that meant anymore.

Heroes didn't live in moldy hideouts.

Heroes didn't wake up wanting to scream into the void.

Heroes didn't cry silently in the shower because their own voice wouldn't shut up in their head.

"No," he said quietly. "Just a guy with trust issues and trauma-powered sarcasm."

Her tiny smile hurt worse than her question.

Somewhere, far away, behind walls that hummed with spells and surveillance…

A crystal screen showed Alex's fight.

Agent Rhiva leaned back, unimpressed. "Subject: Alex Thorn. Grade: Unknown. Power Source: Insult Magic. Unregulated."

She scoffed. "Still sounds like a joke."

Her partner, eyes sunken and dead of hope, said nothing.

Rhiva crossed her arms. "He's evolving faster than we projected. Too fast."

The man finally spoke. "Lucan won't be pleased."

"Lucan's never pleased. That's why we observe. Not interfere."

"What if he finds out about Lia?"

Rhiva didn't blink.

"If he does…" Her tone changed. "Then she's not an asset anymore."

"She becomes a liability."

The applause was gone. The cameras had faded.

The girl was safe.

But Alex?

He sat alone in the hideout.

His hoodie clung to him, soaked in sweat. His body vibrated with leftover adrenaline. His magic burned beneath his skin like a memory he couldn't forget.

He stared at his hands. They were still glowing faintly.

And shaking.

"What if I lose control next time?" he whispered.

No answer.

Until…

> [System Note: You're still you, Alex. Even when the world isn't.]

He blinked. "Since when do you do emotional pep talks?"

> [System Update: Sometimes, the insults stop. Just long enough to remind you you're human.]

He exhaled slowly.

"…That's almost worse."

Later that night, Lia went out for "supplies."

Alex stayed behind.

Alone.

And suspicious.

Her bag sat on the desk. Unattended. Vulnerable.

It had always been forbidden. Always zipped. Always close to her like a second heartbeat.

But now?

Now it whispered.

Look inside.

His fingers hovered.

Then gripped the zipper.

He unzipped it.

No scrolls. No gold. No relics.

Just a single envelope.

Marked with a black sigil.

From the Awakened Regulation Bureau.

His breath froze.

> Operative Name: Lia Vorez

Objective: Monitor Subject A. Thorn

Status: High-Value Target

Directive: Engage only under Bureau command

If emotional attachment forms—terminate the subject.

The words hit harder than any demon.

They didn't just burn.

They betrayed.

His chest tightened.

The system pinged.

> [System Alert: Emotional Shock Detected. Auto-defense Mode Activated.]

But it was too late.

The damage was done.

The door creaked open behind him.

Lia stood there.

Groceries in hand.

Eyes wide.

And already full of tears.