As Alistair left, Zeke leaned back into the bed, the weight of everything starting to catch up with him. He closed his eyes, trying to find some peace in the stillness of the room. But sleep, when it came, was far from restful.
In his dream, Zeke found himself in a dark place. He couldn't make out the faces of the people in front of him, but he could hear someone yelling, their voice sharp and frantic. He couldn't tell who it was, but it was clear they were happy. Then, a figure—someone standing in the shadows—watched them, smiling in a way that felt unnervingly satisfied. The scene felt like it was happening right in front of him, and yet, he was an observer, disconnected from the reality unfolding.
The dream shifted, and Zeke saw a flash of something—a glimpse of a face, maybe even a memory—but before he could focus on it, he was jolted awake, his heart pounding.
Zeke sat up quickly, drenched in sweat, his breath shallow. He looked around the room, confused, disoriented. The dream left an eerie feeling in the pit of his stomach. What was that?
But there was no answer. Just the silence of the room. Zeke's thoughts raced, but sleep refused to return, leaving him with a lingering sense of unease. Something was wrong. Zeke rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of the strange dream. It felt so vivid, so real, but he quickly dismissed it as nothing more than his mind playing tricks on him. Just a dream, he thought, but as he tried to focus, the images of the dream stayed with him. They lingered, like a persistent echo.
He felt it—something odd, like a thread connecting him to someone, far away. A strange, almost magnetic pull that he couldn't explain. It wasn't just the dream, it was something deeper. His brow furrowed as he sat up, his mind trying to piece everything together.
Zeke closed his eyes and focused. He began to channel his Soul energy, gathering it inside him, feeling the familiar warmth of it moving through his body. Then, he extended his focus outward. Slowly, cautiously, he awakened his special ability. His Soul power flared, and he reached for the bit of mist he had left on the attacker's hand.
To his shock, he felt it.
The faint trace of something—an odd, cold sensation that felt like a faint breath against his skin, a reminder of his encounter with the attacker. Zeke's eyes snapped open, heart racing. The mist... It's still there.
He felt it again, clearer this time. The faint thread of his Soul energy, still lingering in the attacker's body. It was like an invisible connection—an imprint, a mark that he had left behind. But it wasn't just lingering; it was alive, moving, pulsing with faint energy, like it had a mind of its own.
Zeke shuddered. It wasn't just a piece of his Soul—it was a part of him, still tied to that person. Zeke leaned back against the bed, trying to calm his breathing. The strange feeling only grew stronger. The realization hit him like a wave: whatever this was, it wasn't just a mistake or a random happenstance. He had connected to the attacker in a way that he couldn't understand—and the consequences of that were just beginning to reveal themselves.
Zeke spent the entire day training, pushing his body to the limit. His wounds were slowly healing, but it wasn't just about physical recovery. He focused on regaining his strength, honing his Soul power, and increasing his control over his abilities. His mind was fixated on the lingering connection to the attacker, the strange mist that still clung to the man's body.
As night fell and the moonlight crept through the cracks in the walls, Zeke sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes closed in deep concentration. The connection to the attacker was still there, faint but undeniable. He could feel it, the tiny but persistent pulse of energy, like a parasite feeding on something far beyond his control. Zeke thought. He had tried using his Soul power to break the link, but it was resistant, almost as if it were immune to his force. But then, a thought came to him, as clear as day.
He could move it. He could shift the mist, the energy, and make it flow wherever he desired. No. I don't need to destroy it. I need to use it.
Zeke's lips curled into a smirk, a cold, ruthless smile that twisted his features.he decided that he would give an idea he has a chance. Slowly, painfully. He would make the attacker suffer for everything that had happened, for the pain he'd caused. Zeke would rip the man apart from the inside, feeding off the connection, draining his very essence.
A shiver of satisfaction ran through him as he visualized the plan. The more Zeke concentrated, the more he could sense the attacker's soul energy, a little like a flickering light in the distance. Zeke could make that light burn out, could make it flicker and fade with each passing moment.
Let's see how long you can last, Zeke thought, eyes narrowing with determination.
He focused all of his attention on the link, reaching out with his Soul power and slowly pushing it into the attacker's body. He didn't need to rush. No, he'd let the pain build, like a slow, torturous drain. Zeke could sense the attacker's energy being siphoned, a faint, desperate resistance. But it wasn't enough to stop him.
The attacker wouldn't know what hit him.
A dark thrill ran through Zeke as he imagined the suffering the man would experience. The attacker had humiliated Zeke, tried to kill him, and now Zeke would make him pay. The power, the control, was finally his.
The attacker returned to his base, his steps light, filled with the kind of pride only someone who thought they had achieved something monumental could feel. He had done it—he had nearly killed Zeke. The boy had been weak, no match for him, and the plan had gone off without a hitch. The pain from the wound Zeke had left on his hand had faded, but he knew it would still need attention. Tomorrow, he thought, I'll deal with it. I'll remove this strange mark that boy left on me.
As he stepped into his dimly lit room, a sense of satisfaction settled in. He glanced at the clock, noting the late hour, but it didn't matter. Tonight, he could rest easy, secure in the knowledge that his task had been completed.
But as he settled into his bed, preparing for sleep, something felt... off. The usual comfort of his surroundings didn't quite reach him. A discomfort twisted in his gut, gnawing at him. The mark on his hand, the faint pulsating energy, had begun to throb once more. It was different this time—stronger, more insistent.
It's nothing, he told himself, brushing the feeling aside. It's just the wound still healing. Nothing more.
But as he closed his eyes, the pain surged, sharp and relentless. It started in his hand, a searing heat spreading up his arm, and then deep into his chest. The feeling was unbearable, more intense than anything he had ever felt before. It was as if his very soul was being ripped apart, torn at the seams. He gritted his teeth, clutching at the sheets as his body twisted in agony.
The pain wasn't just physical. It was a suffocating, gnawing force that burrowed into his mind, tightening around his thoughts like an unbreakable chain. The more he tried to fight it, the worse it became. Every breath felt like it was being sucked from his lungs, and yet, the pain continued to grow, impossible to escape.
The attacker gasped, his mind swimming in confusion. This wasn't just a wound. This was something far more dangerous. He had been hurt before, but never like this. The agony was unrelenting, and it made him wish for the sweet release of unconsciousness.
No, he thought, this can't be happening. Not now. Not after everything.
But he couldn't fight it. His body thrashed, his limbs twisting in unnatural ways, as if trying to escape the invisible force that held him captive. His mind, too, began to fracture, pieces of his thoughts scattering like glass shattering on the floor.
And then, as suddenly as it started, the pain halted. The darkness took him, and the world around him spun into an endless void.
the attacker panicked as the days dragged on, the pain never fully subsiding. Each time he tried to use his soul power to rid himself of the mysterious wound, it only intensified. His usual techniques, which had always been reliable, failed him now. He pushed his soul power to its limits, trying to crush the strange mark, to erase it completely, but it was as if the very essence of the wound refused to be touched by his abilities.
Frustration built inside him as each attempt brought nothing but failure. The pain wasn't just a nuisance now; it was a constant reminder of his vulnerability, something he couldn't control or overpower. He had always prided himself on his strength, on his ability to defeat anyone in his path, but this… this was different. It wasn't a wound that could be healed, it was a lingering presence, tied to him in a way he couldn't understand.
In desperation, he sought out the best healers in the city, hoping that their skill would be enough to remove the curse, the mark, or whatever it was that was attached to him. He went to renowned individuals in the city—each one offering their best methods to cleanse him. But no matter what they tried, the result was always the same: they couldn't heal him.