The rain hadn't stopped.
It fell like the heavens themselves couldn't stop weeping for what was about to return.
Adexander sat alone beneath a shattered archway, drenched in cold, dirty water, his bruised fingers clutching a rusted dagger. Around him, the alley festered with rot and silence.
But inside—inside was fire.
Memories screamed behind his crimson eyes.
Gods begging. Demons burning. Betrayers laughing.
His chest rose and fell slowly.
Not from pain.
From restraint.
---
Footsteps.
The thugs returned, four of them now. Bigger. Armed. The leader, a bulky brute with a split nose, pointed a jagged blade at him.
> "Still got that death wish, runt?"
> "Didn't break enough bones yesterday?"
They laughed.
Adexander didn't answer.
He rose.
Slowly.
The dagger scraped the wall as he stood. His back cracked. The bruises screamed. His breath hissed.
But he stood.
> "You deaf, freak?"
"Oi, say something!"
Adexander raised his head. Crimson eyes glowed faintly under the stormclouds.
He said one word.
> "Power."
And moved.
The first thug never saw the blade coming. Adexander buried the rusted dagger into his thigh, twisted, and wrenched it free.
Screams echoed.
He dodged the second's swing with an inhuman roll, slammed his elbow into the man's throat, and grabbed his falling body as a shield.
The third hesitated—too slow.
Adexander hurled the body into him and charged. No wasted movement. No mercy.
Brutal. Efficient. Silent.
He stabbed. Twisted. Broke the arm. Crushed the wrist.
Then whispered low, almost kindly—
> "Live."
And threw the broken thug aside.
Only the leader remained. Sword trembling.
> "W-what are you—what are you?!"
Adexander approached slowly, rain trailing down his face like blood.
> "I'm your future."
> "Run."
The man turned and bolted.
Adexander didn't chase.
---
He sat again under the broken arch, breathing steadily.
This weak body. This fragile shell.
It couldn't yet summon his old magic. It couldn't yet call upon his true form.
But his will? His brutality? His instincts?
Unbroken.
---
Later that night...
A young girl peeked around the corner. Barefoot. Muddy.
> "Um… Mister? Are you… okay?"
She held out a soggy piece of bread.
Adexander looked at her.
He didn't smile. He didn't speak.
He just took the bread slowly—and nodded once.
She smiled and ran off.
He watched her go.
Then, barely audible:
> "…Kindness is weakness."
But he held the bread like it mattered.
---
Somewhere else…
Kael'Rith stood before a glowing altar, sensing a shift in the weave of magic.
> "Something's stirring…"
Velessia stared into a cracked mirror, hand trembling over her staff.
> "No… it can't be…"