The sky hung heavy with grey clouds as the boy was dragged through the gates of Velken territory.His tiny arms struggled against the iron grip of the guards, but it was useless. His mother's soft cries and his father's heavy breathing were the only things he could hear above the roaring crowds.
"Traitors!" someone spat from the crowd."Jungle rats!" another shouted, throwing a stone that struck his father's cheek.
The boy flinched. His parents didn't.They walked forward with heads held high, refusing to show fear.
The execution ground was little more than a raised stone platform in the center of the square. Rusted chains dangled from old poles, stained dark from countless ceremonies like this one. The boy's heart pounded like a drum as he and his parents were shoved onto the stone.
An official from the Velkens stepped forward, a long scroll in his hand.
"By decree of the City of Velkens," he announced, voice cold and practiced, "these two members of the forest tribes stand accused of murdering city citizens who ventured too close to the border. Their sentence: death by blade."
The boy whimpered, clutching his mother's hand tightly. She squeezed it once, firmly."Be brave," she whispered. "Whatever happens... survive."
Before he could respond, rough hands tore them apart.
The boy was thrown to the ground. Forced to watch.Two guards pinned him down, hands cruelly pressing into his back. He lifted his head just enough to see his father kneel first. A hooded executioner approached with a massive, chipped axe.
"No!" the boy screamed, thrashing.
The axe rose.
His father's eyes found his.There was no fear there. Only love. Only a silent goodbye.
The blade fell.
A sickening thud echoed across the square.The boy's world shattered.
Before he could even process it, his mother was next.Her eyes glistened with tears, but she didn't beg. She didn't plead.
She just smiled at her son — one last time — and mouthed three words:I love you.
The blade fell again.
Something inside the boy broke so deeply that it would never mend.
The crowd cheered. Some laughed.The guards pulled him up roughly by his arms.
"What about this one?" one guard asked, kicking at him like he was trash.
The Velken official sneered. "Too young to kill. Let him rot."
The boy didn't fight anymore.He didn't cry.
He just stared ahead, empty, as they dragged him away into the cold, dark depths of the city's prison.
The first night was the worst.The small stone cell smelled of mold and blood. There was no bed, no blanket, just cold stone.He curled into himself in a corner, shivering, replaying the moment — over and over again. The blade, the thud, the blood. His mother's smile. His father's steady gaze.
He screamed into the darkness until his voice gave out.No one came.
Days passed.Then weeks.
The boy learned quickly:Don't cry. Don't beg. Don't trust.Eat when you can. Defend yourself when needed.
The guards treated him like a ghost. They threw stale bread into his cell without a word. Sometimes they kicked him for fun. He took it all in silence.
He remembered his father's strength.His mother's kindness.And somewhere, deep inside him, a new feeling was born.A fire.
I will never be weak again.
By the time he turned ten, the boy was different.
Each morning, before the guards stirred, he trained.Push-ups on bloody knuckles. Pull-ups from the rusted bars. Running in circles inside the tiny cell until his legs gave out.
He struck the stone walls until his fists bled.He practiced silent movement, breathing techniques, memorizing the way shadows danced across the walls at different times of day.
Every insult the guards hurled at him became fuel.Every slap, every kick — another brick in the wall he was building inside his heart.
He studied them too:
Their schedules.
Their shift changes.
The way the keys jingled at certain times of day.
He was patient. He was careful.
One day, I'll leave this place.One day, I'll make them pay.
When he was eleven, he stopped waiting for kindness.He stopped looking at the sky through the small, barred window.Hope was dead.
Only his mission remained.
The night he turned twelve, a storm broke over Velken City.Thunder roared across the rooftops.The rain lashed against the prison walls like the gods themselves were screaming.
The boy sat in the corner of his cell, heart steady.Tonight was the night.
When the guard opened his cell to toss him a crust of bread, the boy moved faster than the man could blink.A swift strike to the throat.A twist of the wrist — keys stolen.A silent slip into the dark halls of the prison.
He was small. Fast. Deadly.
He moved through the prison like a whispering shadow, his eyes cold and empty.
One by one, the Velken guards fell.Some tried to fight.Some tried to run.It didn't matter.
By the time dawn broke, the prison was silent.
Blood pooled in the cracks of the stone floor.The boy — no, not a boy anymore — stood at the gates of the prison, dripping rain and blood, staring out toward the misty outline of the jungle in the distance.
Without a word, he stepped into the storm and vanished into the trees.
Deep within the jungle, a new storm was coming.And it wore the face of a boy with nothing left to lose.