The sky had begun to glow orange and purple. The clock read 5:05 PM.
Al stood at the edge of the sidewalk, slightly out of breath.
"Wow... being a good kid is really exhausting."
As he looked up at the sky, he realized—coming home late meant family drama. But if he ran now, he could still make it home before six.
He glanced toward a bus stop far down the road. In front of him, taxis passed by one after another.
"It’s not that I don’t have allowance money... but explaining why I took a cab would be a pain."
"Mmm... teleportation?"
"In a city , with CCTV and drones connected to cyber-police systems, suddenly disappearing from a frame could land me on a missing persons list."
He groaned as he stared at all the cameras on buildings and street poles.
"This is such a pain. Guess I’ll walk."
With a small grumble, Al decided to walk. He used the stroll as an opportunity to scan the city’s spiritual energy.
"Who knows? Maybe I’ll find a wandering spirit to chat with."
As he passed through a narrow alley between two old buildings, Al felt something—a pulse of magical aura, like a whisper only those with spiritual eyes could hear.
"Hm?" His gaze sharpened toward the alley.
Without hesitation, he stepped into the darkness. The narrow passages smelled of dust, rats, and forgotten history.
But... there was nothing. No one. The aura vanished.
Al frowned, then closed his eyes briefly. His right hand lifted and formed a subtle mudra. A wave of invisible energy rippled outward like a magical sonar.
No result. The aura was too subtle—or too skilled at hiding.
"Maybe it’s just my imagination."
Just as he turned to leave...
At the far end of the alley, familiar silhouettes appeared—the thugs from earlier that morning, now accompanied by four hulking henchmen.
"Well, well, look who’s strolling through our turf."
"You little punk! This morning you got saved by Miss Rina. This time, you’re done for."
"Better make your final request..."
Al stood calmly, eyes half-lidded. He muttered dryly:
"In that case... I’d like to be left alone. Thank you."
Then he stepped forward.
The gang leader, feeling mocked, snapped.
"You think we’ll grant your wish? Get him!"
The henchmen rushed in.
In under five seconds, all four thugs were down—no magic, just hands, feet, knees, and inhuman precision.
The gang leader flinched, still holding on. He pulled out a knife and charged, growling.
"Don’t act tough, you brat! Die!!"
Al stopped. He stared directly into the thug’s eyes, voice low but piercing.
"If you’re ready to hurt someone..."
"...then be ready to be hurt."
"And if you’re ready to kill..."
"...you better be ready to die."
Suddenly, the air thickened. Al’s eyes radiated a wild, ancient killing intent—one that carried the weight of countless battles.
The thug froze, paralyzed by the sheer pressure. Then... collapsed unconscious without even being touched.
At a traditional-modern dojo, Master Palaka, a scar-faced elder and head of one of Makazhar’s top martial arts schools, was in discussion with Rina, the charismatic vice leader.
Suddenly, a massive wave of aura struck them. Both turned sharply, stunned.
"Rina... did you feel that?"
"Yes. That wasn’t normal killing intent... it was overwhelming."
In a matter of seconds, five major martial arts groups across Makazhar reacted. Moving fast across rooftops and shadows, they converged on the scene.
At the site, all five groups met—staring at one another, recognizing old rivals.
"You again?" said a fit older man in black dojo uniform.
"Still breathing, huh, old dojo master?"
"Huh, still arrogant, black cat," replied Master Palaka.
"I’d challenge you again—but this isn’t the place for petty insults. There’s a deadly aura here."
They discovered five thugs sprawled out—one still unconscious.
After waking them, they began questioning—but the thugs just looked dazed and confused.
"I like the color purple..."
From a distant rooftop, Al let out a long sigh.
"Too much. Why is my killing intent so overpowering in this dimension? Are humans here really that fragile..."
He looked down, watching the five martial groups argue and blame one another. He nearly laughed—but then remembered the time.
"Ugh... family drama’s waiting."
The sky had turned dark. Streetlights blinked on. Al broke into a run along the sidewalk.
"Why am I being so nice today..."
As he ran, a thought struck him: sometimes, being a good kid was far more exhausting than fighting a war—especially if you were a good kid and the son of a wealthy family.
Al arrived at the front gate of his house just as the light faded from the sky. The sun had set too quickly—or perhaps he’d just delayed too long. In his rush, he hadn’t noticed his shirt was rumpled, pants torn at the knee, and one shoe soaked from a dirty alley puddle.
At the same time, a black SUV pulled into the driveway. From the slowly lowering window, Sarah stared at Al with a tired expression. Then a small smirk curled on her lips—the smug grin of a sister who had just discovered new ammo to defeat her long-time rival... her little brother.
"Perfect," she whispered, stepping out like a drama queen fresh from filming a family soap opera.
Meanwhile, Al hurried to his room, mind swirling with one troubling question: why had his killing intent spun out of control just now?
It had been six years since he last used it. Six years living as a normal human. Maybe—just maybe—he had started to forget how to control the darkness inside him.