Altan turned toward Mirakos.
His steps were deliberate, slow, almost savoring the moment as he advanced toward the boy. The numerous piles of bodies littering the floor made each step slightly more difficult—a grotesque landscape of fallen lives, limbs splayed in unnatural positions, blood pooling thickly around them.
The viscous liquid, still warm, clung to Altan's boots. Each squelching footstep was a sickening reminder of the massacre that had unfolded in this enclosed space.
Those corpses had once been people—individuals with families, friends, lives filled with both mundane and extraordinary moments. They had destinies, jobs they would never return to, places they'd never see again, appointments forever missed. Ties to the world, severed by Altan with the brutal efficiency of a predator, severed every connection they had to the living.
He was a beast. The beast. The supposed dragon in human form.
Mirakos, a mere child, was rooted in place. His legs refused to move, frozen by the overwhelming fear surging through his small frame. The pungent stench of urine filled the lift as his body gave in to terror, soaking through his pants. He couldn't tear his eyes from Altan—the one who had turned the lift into a tomb. His heart thundered in his chest, but no matter how much he wanted to flee, his legs wouldn't respond.
The Rasvian energy that once pulsed within the cores now rose, drifting in shimmering tendrils. A soft blue, cold-flame hue spiraled through the air, curling around Altan. It seemed to cling to him, caressing his form like an ethereal mist, bending and curling to his will as if acknowledging him as its new body.
Mirakos trembled as Altan raised his hand. The motion was slow, deliberate, almost casual—as if Altan relished the fear radiating from the boy. The energy of the dead fed into his strength.
Altan's smile deepened, a sinister edge creeping in. Hector was barely clinging to reality, his eyes hollow, his face pale. The lift slowed as it neared floor 760.
The doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, revealing a silent hallway with multiple doors. No one stood waiting. The doors did not close. It was as if the lift awaited Altan's exit.
Altan bent down, lowering himself to meet Mirakos's wide-eyed, tear-filled gaze. The boy flinched under the intensity of his stare.
"I killed your mom," Altan hissed. "I'll go kill your dad too."
The words hit Mirakos like a blow. His breath caught, chest tightening with a sharp stab of grief. His knees buckled slightly, but he remained frozen, tears streaming.
Only two were left alive in that suffocating space, but it felt like the world had ended.
Altan straightened, smirking. "And when I do that... you'll complete what your name means."
The words didn't register right away. Mirakos's mind spun, but Altan continued.
"Do you know what your name means?" he asked, mockery clear in his voice.
"N-no..." Mirakos managed, barely a whisper.
Altan opened his mouth to reply. "It means—"
"Mommy!" Mirakos screamed, bolting toward his mother's headless body.
Altan casually swiped his arm, knocking the boy into the wall with a thud. Mirakos crumpled, sobbing as pain coursed through him.
Altan rolled his eyes. "I was trying to act all cool and ancient," he muttered, disappointed.
Mirakos's wailing echoed through the lift.
Altan crouched, eyeing the boy's trembling form. "Look, come kill me or whatever," he said flippantly. "This should be traumatic enough for an ascension trial, right?"
He glanced at Hector, who looked barely alive—eyes glazed, lips cracked.
"Okay, you're my disciple now," Altan said, extending his hand.
The air hung heavy as Altan grasped Mirakos's limp hand. He guided it into a fist, extending the arm slowly. "That's a punch," Altan said. "The first thing I taught you."
A moment passed. Then something shifted.
Energy surged. The air crackled. Mirakos's body tensed, an invisible switch flipped. The once-limp arm now vibrated with power. Even his presence seemed to change.
A glowing text appeared before Altan:
Name: Mirakos
Age: 10
Story Skill: Dragon Child of Ferocity - Disciple
Attachment: ----
Altan grinned but waved the display away. "Stage three already, huh?"
He turned to Hector. "Isn't that cool? A ten-year-old with a stage three skill? Stage four maybe. I can't be bothered to check."
Hector barely responded. "I... I suppose so."
"Why..?" Hector asked suddenly, voice hollow.
Altan blinked. His gaze drifted. "Why'd I do this?" he echoed. "Oh, that guy took a picture of me... Wait, no. It was 'cause I was bored? Yeah, that." A grin stretched across his face.
Hector tried again. "People—"
"They're not people," Altan snapped. "Bags of Rasvian energy. You too!" he added, picking up his two-pronged spear.
Satisfied, Altan stretched and turned to the lift doors. "All right, I'm going now!" he called, stepping out.
The last thing they heard before the doors shut was Altan's voice, sing-song and cruel: "His dad next... can't let him find closure, can we?"