Chapter 56: A girl in the valley
"Damn pain in the ass to track," another soldier muttered, pulling out a set of energy bracers—the kind used to suppress magical abilities in prisoners.
"Should’ve just come quietly. Would’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble."
They snapped the bracers onto her wrists, and Jorghan saw the way her body went slack as whatever power she possessed was forcibly contained.
Then the lead soldier grabbed her by her hair, lifting her partially off the ground in a grip that made her whimper with pain.
"Let’s get this bitch back to the compound," he said.
"Command’s been waiting long enough."
"Careful with her. Our lord would kill you if you let a scratch on her face."
"Don’t worry, there are a lot of healers who can heal this pretty face," the former said as he held her face.
They dragged her through the street like a carcass, her limp body scraping against the stones, each jolt tearing skin from bone. She was too weak to lift her head, too broken to even stumble properly.
The crowd gave way without a word, parting like a tide before soldiers. Faces turned aside in practiced avoidance, that universal mask worn by people who had learned never to cross authority. Eyes glanced, then darted away. Not a hand reached out.
Some shrank back in fear, clutching their cloaks tighter.
Others watched with cold calculation, weighing the risk of intervening and wisely choosing silence.
A few smirked, relieved it was not them.
Most simply told themselves it was none of their concern.
This was how people survived—by doing nothing.
They whispered about injustice behind closed doors, spoke of fairness over ale, and cursed the cruelty of the strong when it was safe.
But when it unfolded before them, when a girl bled and broke on their cobbled street, not a single soul moved.
Not unless it was their own chains, their own blood staining the ground.
And in that moment, something deep within Jorghan’s chest gave way.
A soundless crack, a tearing of restraint.
He’d spent seven years suppressing his power, hiding his nature, and swallowing his rage for the sake of peace. He’d endured insults and discrimination, had walked away from countless provocations, and had built a quiet life through sheer determination to be something other than what his bloodline demanded.
But watching that girl being dragged through the streets by soldiers wearing uniforms that reminded him of the previous world, seeing the casual cruelty in their faces, feeling the weight of his rage rising in his chest—it was too much.
The tattoos on his neck began to glow beneath his collar.
[BLOODBORNE RAGE INITIATION]
[EMOTIONAL CONTROL: FAILING]
[CARNAGE REQUIEM: ACTIVATION IMMINENT]
[HOST PSYCHOLOGICAL STATE: ENTERING COMBAT MODE]
Jorghan appeared before them.
Not walked, not run—appeared, space compressing and folding around him in a way that shouldn’t have been possible without active magic.
One moment, he was across the street; the next, he stood directly in the soldiers’ path, his expression calm but his eyes beginning to glow with that familiar lava-red light.
"Let her go," he said quietly.
The lead soldier’s face twisted with irritation.
"Move along, brat. This is military business."
"I said," Jorghan repeated, his voice dropping into registers that seemed to resonate in multiple dimensions, "let her go."
The soldier’s hand moved toward his gun, and in that moment, he made a fatal mistake.
He looked into Jorghan’s eyes—really looked—and saw something that made his blood run cold.
Those weren’t the eyes of a random civilian interfering where he shouldn’t.
They were the eyes of something ancient and terrible, barely restrained, and absolutely done with pretending to be harmless.
Around them, the late evening air began to shimmer with heat that had no natural source, and in the growing darkness, the tattoos crawling up Jorghan’s neck started to cast their own crimson light.
The time for hiding was over.
-
The soldiers surrounded Jorghan, their weapons pointed directly at his chest.
Their fingers trembled on the triggers, sweat dripping down their faces despite the cool evening air.
They had their orders.
They had their training.
But none of it had prepared them for this.
There were twelve of them in the first wave, all veterans of numerous conflicts. They had faced rebels, criminals, and even rogue mages. But the man standing before them was different.
They could feel it in the air—a pressure that made their bones ache, a presence that whispered of ancient power barely contained.
Jorghan didn’t even raise his hand.
He simply looked at them, his eyes glowing with that otherworldly light that seemed to pierce through their very souls.
The red tattoo on his neck pulsed with a faint crimson glow, responding to his will.
It was at this moment that something happened.
The soldiers felt an invisible force grip them, pulling them down to their knees like puppets with cut strings. They fought against it with everything they had, muscles straining, tendons threatening to snap from the effort.
But it was like fighting against gravity itself, against the very laws of nature.
Their guns began to twist.
The metal barrels bent like soft clay in a child’s hands, curling in on themselves with a horrible screeching sound that echoed through the empty street. The weapons groaned and buckled, their internal mechanisms shattering.
Within seconds, what had been deadly firearms were nothing more than useless balls of twisted, smoking metal. The soldiers dropped them, their eyes wide with terror, hands shaking uncontrollably.
One soldier, braver or more foolish than the rest, tried to rise.
He made it halfway to his feet before Jorghan’s gaze shifted to him.
The man gasped, suddenly unable to breathe, clawing at his throat as if invisible hands were strangling him.
Jorghan released him after a moment, and the soldier collapsed, gasping for air.
"Stay down," Jorghan said quietly. His voice carried no threat, no emotion. That somehow made it more terrifying than any shout could have been.
Jorghan walked past them without a second glance, his boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris.
His focus was entirely on the girl lying on the ground ahead, her body bruised and pale.
Her breathing came in short, painful gasps.
When Jorghan reached her, he knelt down beside her, his expression softening in a way that would have surprised anyone who knew his reputation.