The smile on Sunamy's face didn't waver for even a second as he watched the Ultran's shocked expression. The three-meter-tall creature had clearly expected any reaction—fear, pleas, attempted escape—except that brazen provocation.
"Interesting," Sunamy murmured, pocketing the red Tria in his jacket with a casual movement, as if he were simply grabbing his house keys. "You really managed to defeat two heroes alone. Impressive."
Instead of moving away from the creature, he did exactly the opposite. He walked deliberately toward the Ultran, passing so close he could feel the supernatural heat emanating from the creature's rocky skin, and headed toward the red-haired hero lying among the rubble.
The Ultran's eyes widened—small red spheres that glowed like burning coals—and its expression shifted from surprise to something that could be described as genuine nervousness. Never, in all its confrontations with humans, had it encountered anyone who reacted this way. Heroes fought with desperate courage. Civilians fled in absolute panic. But this ordinary young man simply... ignored all the threat it represented.
Sunamy knelt beside the injured hero, examining the damage with the clinical curiosity of someone studying an interesting problem. The man was conscious, but barely—his breathing came in irregular gasps, and a dark stain of blood continued spreading across the side of his technological uniform.
"Man, you're really badly hurt," Sunamy commented, as if observing the weather. "That attack was truly devastating."
"You insolent fool!" the Ultran roared, finally finding its voice. "How dare you?"
The question echoed through the destroyed station, carrying a fury that made loose pieces of concrete tremble on the ground. But Sunamy merely looked over his shoulder, still kneeling beside the injured hero.
"Wow," he said, genuinely impressed. "You really are quite strong. Managing to defeat both of them... this one here is really badly hurt."
As he spoke, he slid his hand into his pocket and adjusted the Tria better, the movement so natural he could have been organizing his wallet or phone. The stone pulsed against his fingers, radiating a heat that seemed to synchronize with his heartbeat.
This display of complete fearlessness—or perhaps total disrespect—was the last straw for the Ultran. The creature exploded in a fury that made the surrounding air vibrate with malignant energy.
"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU NOW!" it bellowed, its voice emerging like underground thunder.
Sunamy stood up slowly, wiping his hands on his jacket, and turned to face the enraged creature. Even with the Ultran towering almost two meters above him, he showed not a trace of intimidation.
"How interesting," he said, tilting his head slightly. "How do you plan to kill me?"
The question was asked in the tone of someone asking about a restaurant menu. Casual, curious, almost bored.
The Ultran clenched its fists, its claws making metallic sounds as they collided. "You arrogant fool! You're going to die!"
"How am I going to die?" Sunamy insisted, taking a step toward the creature. "Are you going to crush me like you did with these heroes?" He gestured toward the two defeated combatants. "You're so funny."
It was at that moment that something changed in the air around them. A sudden pressure, as if the atmosphere itself had become dense and charged. The Ultran raised its right fist, and Sunamy could see energy accumulating around the claws—a red, pulsating light that made the surrounding space distort like hot air over asphalt.
The strike came with physics-defying speed. A movement that had pierced through the black-haired hero's supernatural armor like wet paper, that had sent the red-haired hero flying like a rag doll.
The fist struck Sunamy right in the center of his chest.
The energy explosion was devastating. Dust and debris flew in all directions, creating a cloud that completely obscured vision. The sound of impact echoed through the station like thunder, making the few remaining windows finally shatter.
For long seconds, nothing moved. The dust danced in the air like dirty snow, and the only sound was the dripping of water from burst pipes somewhere in the depths of the station.
Then, gradually, the cloud began to settle.
The Ultran's eyes widened.
Sunamy was exactly where he had been before the strike. He hadn't moved a centimeter. There were no impact marks on the ground beneath his feet. There wasn't even an additional wrinkle in his jacket. It was as if the devastating attack simply hadn't happened.
"You should work out more," Sunamy said, brushing a dust stain off his chest with disinterested movements. "Are you sure you're the one who defeated the heroes? You weren't possessed by something?" He paused, as if considering something profound. "That strike of yours is so pathetic."
The Ultran stepped back, for the first time in battle showing something resembling uncertainty. During millennia of existence, it had faced countless enemies. It had fought against legendary heroes whose names were still whispered in terror. It had broken mystical artifacts and devastated entire cities.
But never—absolutely never—had it encountered an apparently ordinary human being who could receive its most powerful strike and simply... ignore it.
More than that, be mocked by him.
The creature could sense something different about Sunamy now. A presence that hadn't been there moments before. As if the young human was much more than he appeared, someone of a completely different level than it had initially imagined.
"Impossible," the Ultran murmured, more to itself than to Sunamy.
"What's wrong?" Sunamy asked, tilting his head with genuine curiosity. "Didn't expect me to withstand it? How disappointing."
But then, as if someone had flipped a switch, all that confidence disappeared.
Sunamy spat blood.
A frightening amount of dark red liquid gushed from his mouth, splashing the concrete floor in front of him. His eyes widened in genuine shock, as if he himself couldn't believe what was happening.
"Man," he said, his voice coming out shaky and weak, "this hurts like hell!"
More blood dripped from his mouth, falling from his chin in heavy drops. His legs trembled, losing the strength that had sustained them seconds before. His vision began to darken at the edges, as if someone were slowly closing black curtains around his field of vision.
"I don't... don't understand..." he murmured, before his knees gave out completely.
Sunamy collapsed. His unconscious body fell toward the hard station floor, but before it could crash against the concrete, everything around him simply... disappeared.
When his eyes closed, a memory came.
Sunamy was sitting in his room, but it wasn't the same small, messy apartment he shared with loneliness. It was a spacious, well-furnished room, with a dining table covered by an impeccable white tablecloth. And on that table, a feast of flavors that made his mouth water just by looking.
"How delicious," he said, taking a generous portion from the nearest plate. "This is delicious."
The food had a taste different from anything he had ever experienced. Rich, complex, with layers of flavor that revealed themselves with each bite. He ate with the pleasure of someone who had been starving for a long time, savoring each forkful as if it were the last meal of his life.
The table seemed infinite, full of different dishes, each more appetizing than the last. Succulent meats that melted in his mouth, aromatic sauces that made his senses dance, side dishes that perfectly complemented each main flavor.
He ate. And ate. And kept eating.
But then, like a whisper carried by the wind, he began to hear voices. Distant at first, almost imperceptible, but gradually becoming clearer and more distinct.
"What kind of monster is he?" said a voice he didn't recognize.
"He actually ate that thing," came another, laden with horror and disgust. "How horrifying."
"He should be beheaded," whispered a third voice, cold and relentless.
"We can't live with such a monster," agreed a fourth.
Sunamy stopped eating, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. The voices weren't coming from inside the room—they seemed to float through the walls, as if originating from somewhere very distant but still close enough to be heard clearly.
"Monster," one of the voices repeated. "Monster."
He tried to get up from the table, but found he couldn't move. His arms and legs seemed to have become immensely heavy, as if made of liquid lead. The delicious food in front of him suddenly lost all flavor, becoming bland and artificial in his mouth.
The voices continued, a growing chorus of accusations and condemnations that echoed through his consciousness like funeral bells.
"Death sentence."
"Monster."
"Cannot live."
"Beheading."
And then, as if someone had pulled a veil from his eyes, Sunamy understood that this wasn't just a memory or dream. It was something more complex, a strange overlap between past and present, between consciousness and unconsciousness.
The whispers didn't stop. They became louder, more insistent, until they were all he could hear. And in the midst of this whirlwind of condemning voices, his eyes closed one last time.
When he opened them again, reality hit him like a punch to the stomach.
He was no longer at the train station. He was no longer facing the Ultran. He was no longer anywhere he recognized.
He was surrounded by people.
Dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, organized in rows of seats that rose around him like the bleachers of an amphitheater. And all of them—absolutely all of them—stared at him with expressions ranging from disgust to pure hatred.
"You monster," someone whispered in the upper rows.
"Kill him," came from another corner.
"Death sentence," echoed a third voice.
Sunamy's eyes widened, perception slowly organizing in his confused mind. The whispers he had heard during the dream... weren't a dream at all. They were these people, talking about him while he was unconscious.
He was in the center of a tribunal. A tribunal of heroes.
The surrounding walls were made of polished white stone that reflected light from crystals suspended in the high ceiling. Symbols he didn't recognize were carved into every surface, glowing with a soft light that suggested ancient magic. It was a place of judgment, of final decisions, of sentences that could not be appealed.
And he was right in the center, chained.
Heavy silver metal shackles bound his wrists and ankles, connected to chains that disappeared into the stone floor. When he tried to move, he discovered that the shackles not only physically restrained him—they seemed to drain his strength, leaving him weak and dizzy.
His heart raced when his eyes met the figure before him. An elderly man, with hair white as snow and an equally white beard that reached his chest. He wore ceremonial robes embroidered with the same symbols as the walls, and in his hands he held a gavel made of the same silver metal as the shackles.
A judge. The judge.
"Why..." Sunamy began, his voice coming out hoarse and broken. "Why am I here? How did I get here?" Panic was beginning to take over, making his voice rise in desperation. "Let me go!"
The gavel rose and came down with force on the stone pedestal.
The sound echoed through the tribunal like thunder, cutting through all the whispers and murmurs. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy, charged with an authority that admitted no questioning.
The judge raised his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of millennia of judgments.
"Silence, you monster."