At that moment, the last thread of Stanley's sanity snapped.
He let out a roar so loud it echoed through the village, his massive body lunging forward like a bull. He slammed into Ethan, pinning the boy beneath him with crushing weight. His fists came down like hammers—striking Ethan's face, chest, neck—anywhere flesh gave way. Blood splattered the floor. Ethan could only grunt, his small frame trembling beneath the assault.
For a full relentless minutes, Stanley's rage burned unchecked. His screams filled the house, a storm of fury and frustration.
Wayla stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief. Then panic overtook her—not for Ethan, but for herself. If the boy died, the panther would come. That thing—the one who'd made the deal—wouldn't let them live.
"Stanley, stop! That's enough!" she shrieked. "Are you trying to kill him?!"
But Stanley didn't hear her. His fists kept falling, guided by madness.
Desperate, Wayla lunged forward and grabbed his arm, yanking him back with all her strength. Stanley resisted for a moment, then finally staggered off Ethan, panting heavily.
He looked down—and froze.
Ethan wasn't unconscious but wide awake as if he didn't get the beating of his life
His face was a swollen, bloodied mess. One eye was nearly shut. Blood ran freely from his nose and lips. But those blue eyes... they were wide open. Unblinking. Full of hate. Full of something else.
Stanley felt the temperature drop. His heart skipped a beat.
This boy—this thing—was still staring at him. No fear. No tears. Just a silent, burning promise.
Even Wayla went quiet, her eyes darting between them.
Stanley shuddered. He's not just a helpless kid anymore. He's a threat. A monster in the making. A ticking time bomb.
"What if he comes back after I sell him? No—what if he kills me in my sleep before that even happens?"
Stanley staggered back a step. "Clean his wounds," he ordered, voice trembling. "I'm going to Diggen's to get something to patch him up."
Wayla scoffed, annoyed despite her nerves. "If you were going to heal him, why beat him like that in the first place?"
Stanley didn't answer. He threw on his clothes and made for the door.
But Ethan's voice stopped him.
Weak. Ragged. But sharp as a dagger.
"Remember… this," Ethan rasped, his breath ragged. "Someday… I'll make… you… pay. So if you've got the chance… to get rid of me… you'd better take it."
Stanley turned back.
Ethan was on his knees, blood dripping from his chin, smiling.
A twisted, bloody grin.
Stanley froze.
That face—it didn't belong to a ten-year-old. It belonged to something else. Something wrong.
I have to kill him, Stanley thought. Before he grows up. Before it's too late.
Even selling him as a slave is too risky. What if he escapes his masters? What if he comes back—to torture me before finishing the job?
No, no... the runt has to die. I'll make sure his fifteenth birthday is his last day on this cursed land.
But not today. Today, he had to make sure the boy lived. No matter what.
Back at the house...
Wayla cleaned Ethan's wounds in silence. Whether from fear or indifference, she said nothing. Ethan didn't speak either. He flinched now and then when her cloth touched a particularly raw bruise, but he didn't cry out.
Inside, though, he felt a strange satisfaction.
That look on Stanley's face—that fear—it was the first real victory of Ethan's life.
From this day forward, he vowed silently: No one dictates my life. Not Stanley. Not Diggen. Not the gang. Not anyone. They'll all pay.
Then, like a flash of lightning through the fog, a realization struck him. It came with calm clarity, cold and clean.
Why am I making this so complicated?
The people making my life hell...
They should just…
His thoughts were interrupted by the door creaking open.
Stanley had returned—this time with Dan, still half-asleep, and two other men.
Ethan looked up, blood still crusted on his face.
He smiled faintly as if found the answer to a question burdening him since ages ago.
And whispered, "…Die."
Somewhere far away...
In a place beyond comprehension, there was only darkness. Not night—not the mere absence of light. But true void. An all-consuming, eternal nothing.
No light had ever existed here.
Even time hesitated to move.
No creature, no god, no monster—not even the panther that haunted Stanley's dreams—could survive in this place.
And yet... at the center of the void, there was a shape. Looking like a cube. Small and faint, like the outline of something ancient that had never fully been built.
Then, the cube opened and a thick black fog seeped a voice echoed through the nothingness.
The void started to dissipate little by little, showing an outline of structures and pillars in the darkness barely noticeable.
It made the space look like a fancy throne room, worthy of the most powerful and most glorious emperor that has ever existed if not dark and without any lighting
It was a child's voice.
Sweet. Innocent.
And wrong.
Too sweet. Too innocent. Too clean.
A voice that made brave men's skin crawl. A voice of lullabies... and butchered dreams.
At first, it whispered.
Then it giggled.
The giggles grew into laughter—high-pitched, chaotic. It bounced off unseen walls. It came from everywhere. And nowhere.
Then it stopped.
Silence.
Followed by a sigh.
Long. Pleased. Almost... nostalgic.
But the sweet. the innocent. the clean voice changed to a disturbing squeaky and obnoxious voice
"Ahhhhh... finally awake from my long slumber," the voice said, loud and sinister. "Wait. Slumber? No, no... I've been reborn. Hahahaha!"
Another pause.
Then, sulking like a bored child: "This place is so boring. You can't see anything, and there's no one here except for this unconscious idiot."
In front of the cube, a raised podium supported an ornate chair—and upon it lay the unconscious figure of a young man.
It brightened. "When does the fun start?"