** “KILL THAT DAMN BRAT!” a voice, as jarring and venomous as an enraged banshee, shattered the serene stillness of the forest. It was Jester's, the leader of the Spoiled Sons, a notorious crew of low rank thieves usually operating around Karum.

High above, birds abandoned their nests in panicked flurries, their wings slicing the air like knives. Below, the wild beasts feasting on the scattered remains of merchants—the Spoiled Sons' latest victims—jerked their heads upward, ears swiveling toward the source of the commotion.

Jester’s anger was as real as the blood he left behind on the road. But his frustration was understandable. After all, what had begun as a day of easy riches had spiraled into a bloody nightmare.

From the first light of dawn, the Spoiled Sons’ plan seemed flawless. They had received a tip from their inside man—a corrupt guard whose loyalty could be bought for the right price. The note detailed the arrival of a merchant carriage laden with spare parts and components.

While the cargo lacked the glitter of jewels or the heft of gold, it was valuable enough to keep the crew fed and armed for a few more weeks.

Jester had scrutinized the info on the note with experienced eyes. The carriage wasn’t heavily guarded, and its origins suggested it belonged to a modest merchant, likely supplying a mid-tier shop in Karum.

Not a life-changing haul, but a necessary one.

With tactical efficiency, the Spoiled Sons laid their ambush well beyond the protective reach of the city’s guards. The plan unfolded like clockwork. They overwhelmed the carriage’s defenses, looted it clean, and even stripped the dead of their weapons.

To erase their tracks, they activated a dinal* and left the wild beasts to feast, erasing any human trace better than any cleaner could.

But the road back to Karum—always the most treacherous part—held a cruel twist of fate.

The ambushers became the ambushed. Not by a rival gang, as they initially feared, nor by the forest’s predators. Their undoing came in the form of a boy. A boy with eyes like crystalline daggers and copper hair that gleamed like fire in the dappled sunlight.

He was no ordinary child as his appearance suggested. This solitary figure was a predator cloaked in innocence.

The first blow given to the crew was swift and deadly. Azyen, as the boy was called, slit one of the men’s throats with an ease that belied his youth. His eyes met with Jester's in a brief, searing moment of defiance.

For Jester, a veteran of over thirty years steeped in blood and crime, the insolence was an affront too great to ignore.

But as swift as Azyen came, just as fast he went, wielding the forest itself as his ally. He threw stones into the underbrush, drawing the Spoiled Sons’ attention. Flux bolts from shardspire rifles and arcs of energy from mancer blades tore through the foliage, their power wasted on empty space.

From his concealed vantage points, Azyen’s energy blades struck with lethal precision, severing the regulars' lives as easily as cutting through silk. The Spoiled Sons could not endure this without retaliation.

“Is he alone?” Jester roared at Marlow, his second-in-command, who crouched behind the gnarled trunk of an old tree.

“It seems so, but how the hell should I know?” Marlow snapped back, his tone laced with irritation.

The exchange only stoked Jester’s fury.

“Spread out and hunt this brat down like the rat he is!” Jester barked, veins bulging on his forehead.

“Keep close enough to cover each other. Don’t give him room to pick us off,” Marlow added more calmly. He adjusted his stance, readying his rifle to provide suppressing fire should the boy show himself.

The Spoiled Sons responded with mutual understanding. They fanned out, tightening their formation to minimize vulnerabilities as they slowly advanced.

Azyen, however, was unfazed. “Right call. You’re doing well enough!”

His sarcasm lingered in the air, barely finished when a scream tore through the forest. One of the Spoiled Sons had fallen into a concealed pit, one of the dangers of the wild. Nearby members rushed to help, breaking their already fragile formation—if their worry steps and stumbling movements could even be called that.

Azyen smirked, perched high on a tree branch, watching their disarray. He cupped his hands around his mouth, distorting his voice to keep them from guessing his location.

“I took two bushcraft experts down. You only have one left, if I’m not mistaken.” Azyen had observed the crew's movements from the moment they set the ambush site. He just happened to be hunting near. He still had some of the money Girath had given him, but meat was expensive.

It came at a much lower cost when one was able to procure it by himself. And if the opportunity arrived to punish and steal from the thieves, why let it slide away?

“He’s there! Shoot that tree!” Torum, the last bushcraft expert, shouted. Marlow reacted instantly, releasing a fully charged flux bolt. It slammed into the trunk, shattering it into splinters. The tree collapsed with a groan.

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Amazed that he was found so easily, Azyen leaped to the ground, narrowly dodging incoming shots. The crew advanced now, emboldened by the brief glimpse of their target.

“Move! Before he disappears again!” Jester barked, staying behind with Marlow to guard their loot. No sane person would go hunt a madman with a bag full of metal scraps to slow them down.

Azyen landed softly, activating Flux Burst on his feet to propel himself away from the onslaught. Splinters rained down as another tree exploded behind him. Sword in hand, he retaliated with a series of energy blades, slashing through the air as he ran.

Marlow tracked him through his scope.

“Steady...” He pulled the trigger. A charged bolt streaked through the forest, hissing as it tore the air apart.

Azyen felt it. Danger, sharp and immediate. Instinctively, he triggered another Flux Burst, veering sharply. The bolt detonated into the earth behind him, sending a geyser of dirt and roots skyward.

“He's above Sky 1,” Marlow muttered, adjusting his aim. “A Sky 1 could never hope to dodge that.”

Jester frowned. “Then what’s he doing here? Stalling?”

“Maybe,” Marlow replied. He slid a thick, three finger-sized bullet from his belt, showing it to Jester.

Jester nodded grimly. “Do it.”

Having his confirmation, Marlow loaded the specialized round into his rifle. The weapon hummed, charging the bullet. He aimed, locking Azyen in his sights once more.

He fired.

Azyen’s senses screamed again. He used Flux Burst, darting away. But this time, it wasn’t enough to take him out of the harm's way. The bullet curved mid-air, like a deadly predator homing in on its prey.

Under relentless fire from his pursuers and under the threat of two mancers flanking him, Azyen’s mind raced. He couldn’t pinpoint the immediate threat. But he knew it was coming.

The bullet closed in. Fast. Unstoppable.

Azyen propelled himself upward with another Flux Burst, a mere moment after landing. This was his only choice. It was the best outcome his split-second instincts could muster.

Yet, as he ascended, something flickered at the edge of his vision. A trace. A light. The bullet. It wasn’t just coming—it was curving, twisting through the air, following his trajectory.

Fuck, Azyen cursed. Panic clawed at his chest. He was outmatched in speed, hunted from all sides by numbers. Desperation sparked a trained reaction. With a thought, he activated Phantom Armor I. With his arms crossed and flux surging, he braced for impact.

But time was a cruel enemy. The armor’s shimmering form began to coalesce, yet it was incomplete.

Too slow.

The bullet struck.

A blazing orb of orange lightning exploded mid-air, casting the dense vegetation below in an unearthly glow. A sharp, ear-splitting crack that drowned the world in sound but carried no shockwave followed after the light.

Azyen was hurled like a ragdoll through the chaos. His body slammed into the ground three times, each impact jarring and violent, before a towering tree arrested his momentum. The collision sent bark splintering and leaves tumbling like confetti.

“Chase after him!” Jester’s sharp command cut through the haze.

His men sprang into action, the 1st Sky mancers being the first to dart forward with a grace and swiftness impossible to be reproduced by the regular people .

Azyen groaned, his arms falling limply to his sides. The hilt of his broken sword slipped from his grasp. Pain surged through his body, but it wasn’t just physical. His pride burned.

“My mistake,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. They got me. I didn’t want to use it, but, I’m too weak. Too inexperienced... His thoughts spiraled. Astaroth, take it from here! The name surfaced in his mind like a lifeline.

The world around Azyen dimmed. His consciousness retreated, pulled into the depths of his own mind. In its place, Astaroth State I awakened. The transformation wasn’t a gradual shift—it was instant, absolute.

A machine-like precision replaced Azyen’s sloppy tactics.

“He’s here!” shouted the first mancer to reach the crash site. The man’s voice tinged with the eagerness to claim the kill.

He gripped a knife, its blade glowing with the general blue flux of the planet. Only those at the 2nd Sky and above could refine their flux into elemental or conceptual forms, but this man didn’t need sophistication.

His intent was simple: Kill.

The mancer lunged. However, the unripe style and mentality of a sixteen years old boy was no longer what the Spoiled Sons were facing. They were now confronting a self defense program meant to eradicate any and all threats directed at the host without any consideration for pain, thoughts, emotions or allies.

Astaroth moved. Flux Burst ignited in his palms, and he propelled himself forward like a cannonball. The two mancers collided, but only one emerged unscathed.

Astaroth’s flux-coated hand struck true. It pierced the sky one’s throat with brutal efficiency. Blood spattered, the man gasping and clawing at his attacker. Yet Astaroth’s empty gaze didn’t falter. The program controlling the body had no room for compassion or hesitation.

The man’s struggles were irrelevant.

The knife fell from the dying man’s grip. Astaroth caught it before it hit the ground. Purple flux enveloped the blade as he turned toward the closest foe. The second mancer barely had time to react.

Astaroth hurled the knife with mechanical precision. It sliced through the dense vegetation, embedding itself in the mancer’s neck. He was taken by surprise when trying to make his way through the bushes and roots blocking his path.

And now, his body crumpled, lifeless.

The Phantom Armor encasing Astaroth and shielding Azyen from the full brunt of the explosion, was chipping and slowly vanishing as the webbing cracks on its incomplete surface drained its integrity.

Astaroth also seemed to not pay any attention to it as he preserved his remaining flux, choosing to run in a straight line toward the next closest target.

“Torum, he’s not dead! He’s coming for you!” a desperate warning from one of Jester’s regulars rang out.

“Shoot him down!” Torum roared. He assumed a defensive stance, bolstered by the covering fire of his comrades. Blots of flux streaked through the air, carving paths of destruction.

Astaroth charged. His movements remaining tough to anticipate. Flux Bursts propelled him in sharp, erratic patterns. Shots zipped past him, close but never close enough.

Torum’s resolve wavered when seeing his opponent. Doubt flickered in his eyes.

Astaroth seemed to have sensed that as he seized the moment. With three rapid Flux Bursts forming a jagged Z-line, Astaroth closed the distance in an instant. His hand, coated in flux, delivered a devastating chop to Torum’s neck.

Though it lacked the raw force to sever the head, the strike was lethal. Torum collapsed, lifeless.

“You bastard!” the regular screamed again. Fury and fear burning in his voice as he fired wildly.