The village was silent.
Zhao Fei's feet crunched through the scorched earth as he moved forward, barely able to see through the smoke that still lingered in the air. The remnants of his home—burnt wood, broken stone, shattered dreams—lay before him, a haunting reminder of what had been taken. The flames had died down hours ago, but the agony inside him burned stronger than ever.
His father… his father lay cold and lifeless, discarded like a piece of trash in the dirt. His mother—he couldn't find her. She had been in the house when the bandits came, had screamed for his father, had cried for help. And now… now she was gone too. No. She can't be gone. She must be alive. I just need to find her. She has to be here.
But there was no one left to help him. No one but the memories of his parents, and the burning desire to make the bandits pay.
He clutched the piece of jagged wood in his hand, its rough edges cutting into his skin, as though the weapon itself shared his fury. He didn't know what to do with it, but it was all he had. It was pathetic, and he knew it. A boy, armed with nothing but a broken stick, walking into the heart of chaos. But it was all he had.
He stumbled forward, toward the center of the village, where the bandits had been last seen. His heart beat heavily in his chest as fear clawed at him, but it was overpowered by something else—an intense, burning desire to end this. To avenge his parents. To destroy the ones who had torn his life apart.
But as he rounded the corner, the sight that met his eyes made him freeze in his tracks.
There they were. The bandits. Four of them, lounging around a smoldering fire, laughing as though they hadn't just burned down a village and slaughtered its inhabitants. The man with the scarred face, the one who had led the attack, was tossing a bag of coins between his hands, clearly amused by the whole situation.
Zhao Fei's breath caught in his throat. No. No. This can't be real. They're still here. They're the ones who did this.
For a long moment, he stood there, his body trembling. The piece of wood felt heavier in his hand. His mind screamed at him to act, to charge, to fight. But his body wouldn't move. He wasn't ready. He wasn't strong enough.
The bandit with the scar turned his head, spotting Zhao Fei standing in the distance. The grin on his face was slow and cruel. "Well, well. What's this? Another one of the village brats come to play hero?"
Zhao Fei's heart pounded, and his legs almost gave way beneath him. He couldn't let them see his fear. He couldn't back down. But all he could do was stare at them, the blood pumping in his ears, the fear threatening to swallow him whole.
The scarred bandit stood up and dusted his hands off. "What's this? You think you're gonna stop us? You really think you can get revenge for your pathetic little village?"
Zhao Fei's throat constricted. What can I do? He clenched his teeth, trying to steady his shaking hands. The bandits hadn't seen him as a threat before. They had seen him as nothing but a child. They were wrong. I'll show them. I'll show them all.
But the fear inside him was a cold reality. He wasn't ready. His legs wouldn't move. The stick in his hands felt like a useless twig, too weak to hurt anyone.
The bandit with the scar stepped forward, his sword glinting in the dim light. "You've got guts, kid. But that's all you've got. This'll be fun."
Zhao Fei swallowed hard. His mind screamed for him to fight, to do something—anything—but his body refused to cooperate. He wanted to die. He wanted to make them pay for what they'd done to his family, to his life. But there was nothing he could do.
The bandit's blade slashed toward him with terrifying speed.
At the last second, Zhao Fei moved. Instinct took over. He threw himself to the side, feeling the wind of the blade pass by his face. His heart was pounding in his chest as he struggled to regain his footing.
The scarred bandit let out a bark of laughter. "A little faster than I thought, eh? Too bad you're still just a child."
Zhao Fei backed away, his legs unsteady. He didn't know what to do. The stick in his hands was pitiful, worthless. The bandit advanced, swinging his sword again. But this time, Zhao Fei didn't run.
He couldn't run anymore.
The rage that had been simmering inside him bubbled to the surface, a cold and burning fury. He gritted his teeth, forcing his feet to remain rooted. I can't run. I can't die. I won't let them get away with it.
The bandit raised his sword for another strike. Zhao Fei's body reacted, his hands tightening around the wooden stick. With a desperate scream, he lunged forward, swinging it with all his might.
The blow was wild, untrained. It missed the bandit by a mile.
The scarred man's eyes gleamed with amusement. "You think that's gonna stop me?"
Zhao Fei's breath came in ragged gasps. The adrenaline in his veins burned like fire. He could feel the power—the hunger, the thirst for vengeance. It surged in his chest, urging him forward, but he couldn't control it. It was a firestorm without direction, without purpose.
The bandit lunged again, and this time, Zhao Fei's feet carried him backward, his legs buckling as the weight of his fear and grief overtook him. He fell to the ground, hard, gasping for breath.
The world spun around him, a blur of smoke and pain. He was weak. He was nothing. He couldn't even protect his mother, couldn't even save his village. And yet, the power was still there, inside him. It burned, restless and wild.
He closed his eyes, feeling the power surge through him once again, but it wasn't enough. Not yet.
The scarred bandit loomed over him, sword raised high, ready to strike the final blow.
But something stopped him.
A voice. A command. From a distance.
"Stop."
The bandit froze, his sword hovering above Zhao Fei's head. He turned toward the voice, his grin fading into confusion.
A new figure appeared from the shadows, cloaked in dark robes, his aura pulsing with an overwhelming presence.
"You'll not touch this one," the figure said, his voice low and commanding.
Zhao Fei's vision blurred as darkness took him.