The deafening crack of the gunshot shattered the tension in the ruined town. Poe's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, his revolver slipping from his gloved hand. The eerie glow of the Holy Crystal dimmed as it rolled from his coat pocket, coming to a stop in the dirt.
For a moment, silence reigned, the oppressive weight of Poe's presence lifting like a dissipating storm. Charlie stood frozen, staring at the body in disbelief. "Uh… I did it. Somehow."
A low groan snapped him out of his stupor. He turned sharply to see Jed, his monstrous form shrinking, his twisted features smoothing back into his gruff but familiar self. Jed rubbed his face, blinking as though waking from a long nightmare.
Charlie approached cautiously, his voice shaky. "Jed? Are you… you okay?"
Jed sat up with a grunt, stretching his stiff limbs. "Yeah, thanks to you. How the hell did you beat him?"
Charlie scratched the back of his neck, glancing toward Poe's corpse. "I… I somehow made him kill himself."
Jed let out a low whistle. "Well, damn. That's a hell of a trick. At least you saved these people's lives."
"Uh-huh, sure," Charlie muttered, clearly uninterested in the town's fate as his eyes scanned the ruins. Then he froze, his voice rising in alarm. "Wait—where's the Holy Crystal!?"
Frantically, Charlie turned, his gaze darting across the wreckage. His heart sank when he spotted Jose sitting on a horse at the edge of the ruins, the crystal gleaming in his hand.
Jose smirked, his sharp features lit by the fading glow of the crystal. He raised it slightly in a mocking salute. "Thank you, Charlie, for beating him. I know I couldn't." Without waiting for a response, he turned his horse and galloped off into the night.
Charlie's jaw dropped, and he exploded. "DAMN IT! HOW DID HE GET HIS FUCKING HORSE OVER HERE THAT QUICK?!"
Jed, ever the cynic, chuckled dryly as he rose to his feet. "Maybe he left his horse over here earlier. Don't take it so hard, kid."
Charlie slammed his fist into the ground in frustration, kicking up a cloud of dirt. His teeth clenched, his fury palpable.
Meanwhile, Jose rode through the barren fields under the moonlight, his expression calm but his eyes sharp with purpose. He glanced down at his left arm as strange, glowing symbols began to etch themselves into his skin, lines twisting and connecting to form intricate patterns.
His lips curled into a calculating smile. "Shape-shifting into any animal, huh?" he mused, flexing his hand as the power coursed through him. "With this, I can get revenge on the higher-ups... or maybe humanity itself."
His voice dropped to a venomous murmur, his eyes hardening. "They're all to blame for what happened to my grandmother."
The horse's hooves pounded against the dirt as Jose rode further into the darkness, his figure fading into the horizon. The weight of his vendetta and newfound power hung heavy in the air No he killed himself he died and everyone turned back to normal Charile said uh I did it somehow and Charile sees Jed go back to normal and Charile walks up to him saying Jed are you Ok ?Jed said ya thanks to you how the hell did you beat him, Charile said I some how made him kill himself Jed said well damn,well at least you saved these people live Charile said uh-huh sure Charile looks around and says where's the holy crystal!? Charlie turn's he's head and looks and looks and sees Jose has it he looked back saying thank you Charile for beating him I know I couldn't he then rides off Charile said DAMN IT HOW DID HE GET HIS FUCKING HORSE OVER HERE THAT QUICK,Jed says maybe he had left his horse over here, Charile slam his fist into the ground,We then see Jose ride his horse and looks on his arm symbols being to appear on his left arm saying he has the ability to shape shaft into any animal Jose said oh really,with this I can get revenge on the higher ups or maybe humanity it self,there all to blame for what happened to my grandmother The Year 1852 – Age 6
The streets of Zacatecas, Mexico, were not kind to the weak, and Josa learned that lesson far too early. The dust-covered roads, teeming with broken men and hollow-eyed children, were his home—a home he shared with the only person who had ever truly loved him: his abuela, Isadora. She was his world, his shield against the unrelenting cruelty of the city and the memory of parents who had tried to discard him like trash.
Josa had no recollection of his father's face, only the heavy fists that struck his mother when he drank. His mother, in turn, had resented Josa for being born at all. "Should've drowned you in the river," she hissed one night, her voice laced with venom. But she didn't get the chance. Isadora, with hands hardened by years of weaving and scrubbing floors, had fought tooth and nail to claim him.
"She is no mother," Isadora spat, cradling the infant Josa in her arms as his parents screamed and fought. "This boy will not die under your roof. I will raise him."
And so, at the age of six months, Josa's journey with Isadora began.
By 1852, the two were homeless, wandering the bustling markets and crowded alleys of Zacatecas. Isadora had been cast out of her family for standing up to Josa's parents, labeled as a fool for choosing a life of poverty over familial loyalty. But to her, Josa was worth every sacrifice.
They slept in abandoned doorways and under bridges, wrapped in thin blankets that barely shielded them from the cold desert nights. During the day, Isadora would sew scraps of fabric into small dolls, selling them for a few pesos while Josa begged for scraps of bread or tortillas. It wasn't much, but it kept them alive.
Isadora never let Josa see her despair. "You are a miracle, mi niño," she would say, her voice soft and warm despite her calloused hands and tired eyes. "One day, the world will see what I see."
But the world didn't see miracles. It saw a dirty boy and his aging grandmother, struggling to survive.
By 1858, Josa was twelve, and Isadora was growing frail. Years of hunger and harsh conditions had taken their toll, and her once-strong frame had withered to almost nothing. Josa worked tirelessly to keep them afloat, stealing when he had to and fighting off other street kids for scraps. He hated it, but he knew Isadora needed him.
One night, during a particularly cold winter, Isadora's cough worsened. They huddled together in an alley, her frail body wrapped in a thin shawl. Josa tried to keep her warm, offering her the food he had stolen that day, but she refused to eat.
"You eat, Josa," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. "You have your whole life ahead of you."
"But I need you," Josa said, tears streaming down his face.
Isadora smiled weakly, reaching out to touch his cheek. "And I need you to be strong, mi corazón. Promise me… promise me you'll find a way to live, no matter how hard it gets."
She passed away that night, her hand still resting on his cheek. Josa held her body until morning, refusing to leave her side even as the city woke around him.
After Isadora's death, Josa was consumed by rage and despair. He blamed the city, the wealthy, and the so-called "leaders" who allowed people like his grandmother to suffer and die. He watched as the rich feasted in grand houses while children like him starved in the streets.
When Josa was sixteen, his hunger for power and recognition had grown sharper, fed by years of resentment and hardship. By then, he had managed to get into a American local school, not because he craved education, but because he saw it as another battlefield. If he could dominate here, he could prove his worth to himself and everyone else who had ever looked down on him.
It didn't take long for Josa to find his target: Charlie. Charlie wasn't just a top student; he was the top dog. He walked through the schoolyard with confidence, surrounded by admirers, including the prettiest girl in town. He had charm, a sharp tongue, and an arrogance that gnawed at Josa like an itch he couldn't scratch. To Josa, Charlie represented everything wrong with the world—a man born lucky, never knowing what it meant to suffer, to struggle for every scrap. And worst of all, he flaunted it.
One afternoon, Josa confronted Charlie in front of the entire schoolyard. The students gathered around, sensing the tension. Josa, with his piercing glare and sharp jawline, spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Charlie," he said, his voice steady but laced with venom. "You think you're untouchable, don't you? The king of the hill? Let's see if that crown's worth anything outside your little circle of bootlickers."
Charlie raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What're you gettin' at, Josa? You jealous I don't have to pay people to talk to me?"
A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd, but Josa didn't flinch. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on Charlie's. "I'm talkin' about a challenge. You and me. One race. Horseback. Best man wins. The loser? He's done. Leaves this school and takes his sorry reputation with him."
Charlie smirked, crossing his arms. "And what's the prize for the winner, aside from proving what we already know?"
Josa leaned in, his voice dropping so only Charlie could hear. "Respect. Power. And this town's loyalty. If I win, everyone turns their back on you. No more followers, no more throne. You'll be nobody."
Charlie's smile faltered for just a moment before he extended his hand. "Deal. But don't cry when you're the one packin' your bags."
They shook on it, and the crowd erupted in whispers and cheers. The race was set for the following Saturday, and the entire school buzzed with anticipation.
Josa wasn't one to leave things to chance. As the day of the race approached, he began working behind the scenes, ensuring every advantage would be his. He spread whispers about Charlie, planting seeds of doubt in even his most loyal followers. The weak, skinny boy who Charlie had bullied for months became Josa's ally, eager to see the school's "king" taken down a peg.
"Help me win," Josa told him, his tone calm but commanding. "And I'll make sure nobody picks on you again."
The boy nodded eagerly, and Josa handed him a small vial of poison. "Just enough to slow his horse. Make it stumble, lose its footing. We're not tryin' to kill it—just him."
Word spread quickly through the school. Josa didn't need to pay most of the students; his charisma and promise of change were enough. "When I win," he told them, "this school will belong to us—the ones who actually work for what we have. Not to spoiled, arrogant brats like Charlie."
By race day, the entire school had turned against Charlie. Even his girlfriend, swayed by Josa's charm and the growing consensus, began to question her loyalty.
Saturday arrived, and the field was alive with excitement. Students lined the makeshift track, cheering and placing bets. The tension was electric as Charlie and Josa approached the starting line. Charlie sat tall on his horse, a sleek chestnut stallion named Comet. Josa, on the other hand, rode a black horse with fierce eyes and a restless energy.
As they prepared to start, Josa met Charlie's gaze. "Hope you're ready to eat dust," he said, his tone sharp and confident.
Charlie smirked. "Hope you're ready to see what a real rider looks like."
The whistle blew, and they were off. The horses surged forward, hooves pounding against the dirt. Charlie took an early lead, his natural skill and bond with Comet shining through. The crowd held its breath as the two riders sped toward the halfway point.
But just as Charlie began to widen the gap, Comet faltered. The horse stumbled, its powerful legs buckling beneath it, and Charlie was thrown from the saddle, landing hard on the ground. Gasps rippled through the crowd as Josa surged ahead, his black horse racing across the finish line.
The cheers were deafening. Students rushed to Josa, lifting him from his saddle and chanting his name. "Josa! Josa! Josa!"
Charlie struggled to his feet, clutching his ribs as he watched the celebration. His girlfriend, who had been cheering for him moments earlier, now stood among the crowd surrounding Josa. She didn't even glance back at Charlie.
Josa dismounted, his face a mask of triumph as he approached Charlie. He leaned in close, his voice low enough that only Charlie could hear. "This is what happens to kings who think they're untouchable. Welcome to the bottom."
Charlie glared at him, his fists clenched, but he said nothing. There was nothing left to say.
From that day forward, Charlie became a ghost at the school, shunned by everyone he had once called friends. He left not long after, his reputation in ruins. Josa, on the other hand, rose to power, his name spoken with both fear and admiration.
But deep down, Josa knew the truth. His victory had been orchestrated, his rise built on manipulation and deceit. Yet, as he stood atop his new pedestal, he couldn't bring himself to care.
"Life isn't fair," he told himself, the memory of his grandmother's frail hands clutching his cheek flashing in his mind. "And if you want to survive, you make your own rules."
Jose's mind raced with the memories of his past, the weight of his grandmother's death anchoring every step he took on the path to power. She had been his only light in the dark, the one who shielded him from the harshness of the world. But when the higher-ups turned their backs on her, leaving her to die in poverty and illness, something inside Jose broke.
He gripped the reins tighter as his horse galloped through the barren wasteland, the Holy Crystal's glow faint in his hand. He cast a glance at his arm, where the strange, glowing symbols pulsed faintly like veins of molten fire. His new ability filled him with a sense of invincibility, his mind already turning over the possibilities.
"I'll be the one to control it all," he muttered, his voice low and unwavering.