The leader of the knights sat tall in his saddle, unaware of the shadow watching from the branches of a great tree twenty paces behind him. The figure clung there in silence, hidden, patient.
Then the tall man in black at the front of the crowd spoke a single name.
In that instant, the shadow dropped.
The boy launched himself from the tree like an arrow loosed from a bow. He fell so fast that none of the knights had time to react. Midair, his crimson eyes locked on the narrow gap between helmet and breastplate. His dagger slid into the space with one clean strike.
The leader toppled from his horse before anyone could even gasp. One blink, and the man lay on the ground, lifeless, a pool of blood darkening the soil beneath him.
The knights froze. Their horses pawed the earth nervously, neighing as if they too had sensed the danger.
"Was it a trap?" one muttered, tightening his grip on his weapon.
The boy crouched before them, dagger dripping red. His small frame looked almost fragile, but there was nothing fragile about his eyes. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he wiped the blade against his black pants.
He was only eight years old. His name was Fazer. His long, silky black hair reached down to his lower back, and his crimson pupils glowed faintly in the fading light. He wore a funnel-neck shirt and dark cargo pants, the kind of clothes that let him melt into the shadows.
From the crowd of villagers, Brad stumbled forward. His heart hammered in his chest as he stared at the boy. He was about the same age as Fazer, yet the difference between them felt like night and day. Brad's legs shook just watching him. That level of confidence, of raw power—it was terrifying.
A chuckle came from the front. The hooded man stepped forward, pride glinting in his eyes. "Nice kill, son," he said calmly. "Now, it's my turn. Let's see who takes down the most."
Fazer grinned back at his father. "This time, I'll win!" Without hesitation, he darted straight toward the knights.
The spell of shock broke.
"Attack!" a knight roared.
Weapons appeared in their hands—spiritual weapons, shimmering like glass forged from light. Their formation tightened with military precision: shields at the front, spears behind them, swords at the ready, and archers raising their glowing bows.
Fazer leapt high, dagger aimed for the throat of the nearest knight.
But the shield came up just in time. His blade struck it with a ringing crack. The fragile dagger shattered in his hand, shards scattering across the dirt.
"Damn it…" Fazer hissed, staring at his empty palm.
The knight sneered. "You thought iron could touch a spiritual weapon?"
Before the boy could retort, a shadow blurred past him. His father appeared, moving faster than the eye could follow. A flying kick slammed into the knight's shimmering shield, breaking it like glass and hurling the man into the roots of a tree. He didn't get up.
The hooded man landed lightly, brushing dust from his coat. His tone was sharp, but not without warmth. "How many times must I tell you? Never use iron against spirit. Aim for the kill, nothing else."
Fazer scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Hehe… my bad."
The knights, rattled but not broken, rallied again. "All at once!" another shouted. Horses thundered forward, weapons gleaming.
The hooded man waited until the last possible heartbeat—then leapt, grabbing a low branch overhead. From his coat, he tossed a small bottle into their midst.
The glass shattered, and fire erupted. Flames swallowed several knights and their mounts, heat searing the air. Men screamed. Horses reared in blind panic.
Before the chaos consumed everything, another bottle flew. This one burst into a spray of cool water, dousing the terrified animals. The fire hissed and died on their hides, though the knights themselves writhed on the ground, coughing from smoke and ash.
In the confusion, one knight slipped free. His eyes burned with hate as he crept behind the boy. A spiritual sword glowed in his grip. He raised it high, ready to split the boy's skull.
But Fazer's instincts screamed. He ducked at the last moment. The blade hissed through the air just above him.
"You coward!" Fazer snarled, spinning. "Attacking from behind? Now you're dead!"
The knight laughed. "Then summon your spirit weapon, boy! Or… don't tell me you can't?" His grin widened. "What are you—cursed?"
Fazer's fists tightened. His jaw trembled with rage.
From the safety of the villagers, Brad whispered to the elder beside him. "Why isn't he summoning one? Everyone has a spiritual weapon."
The old man's face darkened. He leaned close, voice hushed. "He's from the Fossa Clan."
Brad frowned. "The Fossa Clan? What's wrong with them?"
The elder glanced around nervously before speaking. "That clan was cursed long ago. Some say they betrayed their allies in war. Others claim they defied the gods themselves. Whatever the truth, the heavens punished them. Since then, no Fossa child has ever been born with a spiritual weapon. Their souls are empty. They fight with nothing but their bare hands."
The weight of his words hung heavy between them.
Out on the field, Fazer faced his opponent with nothing but his fists.
The knight slashed again. Fazer ducked low, seizing the horse's leg. With a grunt, he yanked hard. The beast toppled with a panicked cry, crushing its rider beneath its weight.
The knight struggled, pinned. His eyes widened with fear.
Fazer didn't hesitate. He drove a kick into the man's face. Bone snapped with a brutal crack. Blood sprayed. The knight went limp, his spirit weapon fading into nothing.
Breathing hard, Fazer wiped sweat from his brow. "Told you," he muttered, ripping the helmet from the corpse. "I don't need a weapon to kill." He slammed the knight's head into the dirt one last time before standing tall.
"That makes two for me!" he called.
But when his gaze swept the battlefield, his triumph faltered. Every other knight was already down. His father stood among their bodies, brushing dust from his coat, barely even winded.
"Two?" the man laughed. "And you're bragging about it?"
Fazer groaned. "How are you so fast?"
His father winked. "Because I've learned to let go of the good side. Once you embrace the bad, killing becomes easy. Nothing can hold you back."
The boy frowned. "But Mom says the opposite."
At that, the man stiffened. His smug grin faltered, replaced by sudden unease. "Right… your mother. We'd better head home before she gets angry."
Fazer smirked. Watching his father—this unstoppable, terrifying man—turn sheepish at the mere mention of his mother filled him with a strange warmth.
"The strongest man I know," he thought, a small laugh escaping him, "and he's still scared of Mom."