Alaric's eyelids snapped open, the thick darkness suffocating, pressing against him like the weight of a thousand years. His body lay against the cave floor, naked and cold, but it wasn't the chill that disturbed him. It was the silence in his mind—the absence of power, of the unstoppable force that once surged through him. He reached for it instinctively, expecting that familiar hum of energy to answer his call, but instead, he felt... nothing.
Nothing.
The thought gnawed at him, sinking sharp teeth into his mind. He let out a low, ragged breath, his fingers curling into the dirt beneath him, trying to claw back something—anything. His head throbbed with memories, jagged and broken. Faces, screams, chains… a figure looming above him, releasing him from his prison. The memory was fragmented, but it didn't matter. Whoever had freed him had unleashed something far worse than they could have imagined.
Alaric's lips twisted into a slow, cruel smile. A thousand years. The words slithered through his thoughts, dripping with malice. He had been invincible once. A nightmare. And now... he felt hollow. That familiar rush, that thrill of power coursing through his veins, was gone.
He sat up suddenly, the motion jerky, unnatural. The cave spun around him, shadows stretching like fingers in the dim moonlight. His muscles ached, stiff from centuries of stillness, but the pain barely registered. It was nothing compared to the seething rage bubbling beneath the surface of his mind. His eyes, dark and gleaming with madness, darted around the cave, drinking in every detail, every shadow.
The memory of his freedom flashed in his mind again. Someone had freed him—someone had dared to touch him....drink from him.He felt his neck that had traces of blood. The idea that someone had dared to touch him made him curl in disgust. He couldn't remember their face, but he remembered the feeling of their large strong hand on his chest. He remembered the softness of it, and how he'd wanted to rip that hand from their body, to see what color their insides would be when the light faded from their eyes.
He chuckled under his breath, the sound echoing in the cave—cold and hollow. His jaw clenched, and his fingers traced the scars on his wrists where chains had once been. The fool who set me free. He would find them, and they would learn the true meaning of regret.
Alaric slowly rose to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him like a newborn animal, weak and exposed. His naked body felt foreign, frail, and vulnerable. He used to be a god, a nightmare carved from flesh and blood, and now he was reduced to this—a shell. His lips curled in disgust at the thought.
The moonlight filtering through the cave's entrance cast faint, eerie shadows on his skin, and for a moment, he stood there, just staring at his hands. He could still remember the feel of power crackling through them, tearing through flesh, bone, and sinew as if it were nothing. But now, now he was just... a man. His nails dug into his palms, the sharp sting of pain grounding him, fueling the twisted thoughts that swirled in his mind.
I should be dead. I should be a corpse, forgotten and rotting. But I'm still here. And they'll wish I wasn't.
He began to walk, each step deliberate, slow, the night air cutting into his skin like knives. His gaze fixed on the cave entrance, and a twisted grin spread across his face. The world had forgotten him. But he hadn't forgotten the world. No, it owed him. Every moment of agony he had endured, every breath he had wasted and the person who he loved taken from him—it would be repaid in blood.
They thought they could bury him. They thought they could escape the nightmare. But nightmares never die.
And Alaric was the worst kind of nightmare—the one that smiled as it tore you apart.
Alaric's eyelids widened, the darkness pressing in on him like a living thing, thick and oppressive. He was cold, his skin pale. He had been like this his whole life— cursed with skin as white as snow, hair bleached of all color, and eyes that gleamed too brightly in the dark.
He had always hated it. He had been a monster to them, even when he was powerful, even when he could crush them like ants beneath his heel. His appearance, unnatural, had drawn hatred and fear for as long as he could remember. He had learned to embrace the fear, to become something even more monstrous than they had imagined. But deep down, the bitterness lingered, gnawing at him, a constant reminder of how different he was. How hated.
And now, after a thousand years locked away, he looked worse than ever—frail, ghostly, a pale specter of what he once was. His once-powerful body had withered in the darkness, his long white hair now tangled and filthy, clinging to his too-thin shoulders. His skin—always so pale—seemed almost translucent in the moonlight, stretched tight over sharp bones, the veins beneath visible like dark, twisting roots.
Alaric clenched his jaw, a slow, seething anger bubbling up inside him. He raised a trembling hand to his head, feeling the long strands of his hair between his fingers, coarse and thin like brittle straw. This is what they reduced me to.
His fingers tightened around the hair, pulling hard, testing the strength of the strands. A sneer twisted his lips as he looked down at his reflection in a small pool of water that had gathered in the dirt near his feet. The moonlight caught his face—sharp, hollowed, gaunt—and the sight filled him with disgust. He had always hated how he looked, but now… now he was truly repulsive. The sight of his own albino features, drained of life and vitality, felt like a sick mockery.
His breath hitched, and a sudden wave of fury overtook him. His hand, still gripping his hair, tightened violently. The memories of those who had spat at him, cursed him for his appearance, flashed in his mind. He had shown them what true fear was, once. But now? Now, he was nothing. Weak. Powerless.
The rage erupted.
With a guttural scream, Alaric yanked at his hair, ripping it from his scalp with savage force. The pain was sharp, cutting through the madness for only a moment, but it wasn't enough. He tore again, pulling out more, each violent tug sending fresh waves of pain through his skull. He wanted to tear himself apart, to rid himself of this cursed body, this cursed life. Blood splattered onto the ground, thick and hot, running down his face as he pulled harder, ripping through skin and flesh until his scalp was raw, exposed, gleaming white bone peeking through the gashes.
He dropped to his knees, gasping, his hands drenched in blood, trembling. His vision swam, but still, he kept pulling. Every part of him screamed to feel the pain, to destroy the part of him he hated most—the part that had made him a monster in their eyes. His nails dug deep into his skull, scraping against bone, each yank more violent than the last.
Blood poured down his face, his scalp shredded under his relentless assault, but even through the agony, he could feel it—the cursed healing power stitching him back together. His flesh, torn and bloody, began to close at a rapid pace, his scalp knitting itself back into place. The pain dulled as his body restored itself, healing against his will, and that only fueled his madness further.
His chest heaved, his bloodied hands still gripping the remnants of his hair. His head throbbed, and the last shreds of torn skin sealed over the wounds, leaving him whole again with his hair growing back to the same length. The bleeding stopped, but the anger did not.
Alaric's fingers twitched, still slick with his own blood. His breath came in ragged gasps, his mouth twisted in a grin that bordered on deranged. It wasn't enough.
He stumbled to his feet, swaying, the cave spinning around him. His white hair, now matted with blood, clung to his face. He could still feel the phantom pain, the sting of his self-inflicted wounds, but it had already faded to nothing.
His lips curled into a snarl as he stared at his reflection in the blood at his feet. The pale, lifeless eyes stared back at him—hollow, empty, still hated. The healing, though swift, had done nothing to soothe the broken mind beneath.
"I'll show them," he muttered, his voice shaking, almost breaking. His nails scraped against his scalp again, drawing fresh blood as he let out a sharp laugh. His once-beautiful hair, now drenched in red, hung in long strands around his face.
"I'll show them all."
He would tear apart the world that had rejected him, a world that had feared him for what he was. If he couldn't destroy himself, he would destroy them. Let them bleed. Let them suffer.
The world had forgotten him, but Alaric—mad, broken, and seething with hatred—had not forgotten the world.He has been forced to endure confinement and every second ,every day that went by he swore he would make them remember him .He would make them bleed as they had done him