The wind howled harder that morning.
A dry, biting wind, cold not with the innocence of winter but with the warning of blood. Kieran sensed it long before he saw the smoke—tendrils of it curling into the sky, far to the west, where the forest broke open into low hills. The pendant at his chest vibrated in slow pulses, as if echoing the rising tension in the air. The system remained dormant, letting instinct guide him now.
He moved quickly, cutting through snowdrifts and frozen roots, following the rising column of smoke like a wolf scenting a wounded stag. The sun hung low, casting orange light across the frost. There were no birds. No sound but the wind and the distant, muffled scream that followed it.
He reached the village by midday.
It wasn't much—just nine or ten huts made from stone and thatch, surrounded by a low wooden palisade that had long since given up pretending to be a wall. Chickens scattered at his approach, and a mangy dog limped past him, blood trailing from a torn ear. The gate was open.
He didn't hesitate.
Inside, chaos.
Two bodies lay face down in the snow—men, both stabbed through the back, their hands bound. Smoke poured from one of the huts, black and thick, heavy with the stench of burned wood and something else. Something human.
Kieran crouched behind a pile of firewood and scanned the center of the village.
There were six of them. Bandits, judging by the mismatched armor and crude weapons. One wore a red scarf stained dark at the ends. Another had a flail still dripping with blood. They laughed as they circled what remained of the villagers—four women and two older men, all herded together like livestock beside the well.
One woman clutched a child to her chest, sobbing into his hair. The boy couldn't have been more than five.
The bandits didn't seem in a hurry. They were playing with their prey. One of them knocked an old man to the ground, kicking him in the ribs as the others laughed. Another reached toward the woman holding the boy.
Kieran moved.
He didn't run. He walked—straight into the center of the square, snow trailing behind him like smoke from a blade.
They didn't see him at first. But the cold around him shifted. The mana in his blood coiled tighter, rising toward his skin like heat from a flame. By the time the nearest bandit noticed the figure walking toward them, Kieran was already reaching out with his hand, fingers weaving invisible threads in the air.
The first glyph shimmered to life—a radiant blue circle spinning around his wrist.
The man with the red scarf raised his sword, but it was too late.
Kieran didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The blast of force that followed was silent—a wave of compressed kinetic pressure that erupted outward from his palm, not in a flash of light, but like the crack of a mountain splitting open.
The nearest two bandits were thrown backward into the palisade, bones snapping audibly. One landed in a crumpled heap. The other didn't move.
The remaining four turned, shouting curses, blades raised, suddenly very aware they were not alone.
Kieran raised his other hand.
This time the mana gathered slower, thicker. He twisted it into a spiral—a crude spell he'd memorized from the glacier, unstable but devastating at close range. His blood pounded in his ears. Not from fear. From rage. From memory. From nights in a hospital room watching people die because no one came in time.
Not this time.
The third bandit lunged. Kieran sidestepped. The pendant flared—and the glyph ignited, a ring of searing light bursting from the center of his palm. It struck the man's side, slicing through armor like heated glass. He dropped, screaming, smoke rising from the wound.
The remaining three hesitated.
And in that hesitation, Kieran advanced.
His movements were not graceful—not yet. But they were decisive. Efficient. His cloak flowed behind him like shadow, and the snow barely shifted beneath his steps. Another spell formed—a shield of mana shaped like a disc, spinning between his fingers. The fourth bandit's axe met it mid-swing—and shattered.
The man's arm broke on impact.
He fell, crying out. Kieran didn't stop.
The fifth tried to flee.
He didn't make it far.
Kieran conjured a chain of frost and launched it forward. It caught the man by the leg, freezing into place instantly, dragging him back across the snow. He kicked, shouted, begged.
Kieran said nothing.
The last bandit dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, begging in slurred northern dialect. Something about children. About mercy. His eyes were wide with panic.
Kieran looked at the man. Really looked. The stubble on his jaw. The way he twitched, bloodshot eyes darting toward the villagers behind him.
This man had done it before.
There would be no redemption here.
Kieran raised his hand.
But before he could finish the spell, the child cried out behind him.
Don't.
A single word. Small. Frightened. But enough.
He stopped.
The mana wavered in his palm, trembling, unsure. The bandit stared, eyes wide, still frozen. Kieran closed his fist. The spell dissipated.
He turned his back and walked away.
He wasn't sure why.
The village was silent again, save for the crackling of fire as it ate through the ruined hut. The survivors huddled together. No one spoke to him. No one dared. He could feel their fear—not of the bandits. Of him.
He had killed five men in under a minute.
And they'd watched.
The woman with the boy finally approached as he stood at the edge of the square, cloak bloodied, face expressionless. She offered no thanks. Just a quiet glance—grief, shock, and something else. Not warmth. But respect.
That was enough.
He left before the sun had fully set.
Later, alone again beneath the trees, he sat beside a frozen stream and stared at his reflection.
His hands were still trembling.
The pendant had gone silent.
He remembered each face. Each scream. Not one of them felt good. Not satisfying. Not noble. Just... necessary.
He didn't cry.
But he didn't sleep, either.
Not that night.
And not for many nights after.
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