The night was unusually quiet, the kind of silence that settled over Dustvale only when the city held its breath. The streets were bathed in the flickering glow of gas lamps, their light casting jagged shadows on the walls of crumbling buildings. Rod stood at the edge of the railyard, the staff Albus had given him gripped tightly in his hand. His jaw clenched, his mind replaying every sneer, every kick, every slur the Viper gang had hurled at him.
Tonight, it was their turn to feel powerless.
The Vipers were known to gather in a dilapidated saloon on the edge of town, a place where the laughter was cruel and the whiskey was cheap. Rod had watched them from the shadows many times, his anger simmering as they boasted about their conquests and bullied anyone unlucky enough to cross their path.
Tonight, the saloon was alive with noise—raucous laughter, the clatter of dice, the occasional outburst of an argument. Rod approached the building cautiously, his heart pounding. His powers had grown since the fateful night at the alley, but this was different. This was a deliberate act of retaliation.
He hesitated at the door, his grip tightening on the staff. Albus's warning echoed in his mind: "The more you use your power, the more attention you'll attract." But Rod shoved the thought aside. The Vipers had stolen too much from him already.
Pushing open the door, Rod stepped into the saloon. The stench of stale beer and unwashed bodies hit him like a wall. Heads turned toward him, a moment of silence falling over the room before one of the Vipers, a hulking man with a scar running down his cheek, sneered.
"Well, well, if it ain't the street rat," he drawled, leaning back in his chair. "What's the matter, boy? Come to beg for scraps?"
The room erupted in laughter, but Rod didn't flinch. He stepped further inside, the staff tapping against the wooden floor with each deliberate step.
"I'm not here to beg," he said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "I'm here to make sure you never hurt anyone again."
Another burst of laughter, this one tinged with derision. The scarred man rose from his seat, towering over Rod.
"And how exactly are you gonna do that, huh? You think you can take on all of us?"
Rod didn't answer. Instead, he closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. The air around him shifted, the faintest whisper of wind snaking through the room.
The scarred man reached for his belt, his hand closing around the hilt of a knife. But before he could draw it, a sudden gust of wind slammed into him, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Gasps and curses filled the room as the other gang members scrambled to their feet.
"What the hell?" one of them shouted, his eyes wide with fear.
Rod opened his eyes, the calm determination in his gaze unnerving. He raised the staff, and the wind answered, swirling around the room with increasing ferocity. Chairs toppled, glasses shattered, and the fire in the hearth sputtered under the onslaught.
The Vipers tried to fight back, lunging at Rod with fists and knives, but the wind was his shield, deflecting their attacks and throwing them off balance. Rod moved through the chaos with purpose, his strikes precise and unrelenting.
It didn't take long for the saloon to descend into chaos. Tables were overturned, the bar splintered, and the air was thick with dust and the acrid smell of spilled liquor. The Vipers were no match for Rod's fury, their bravado crumbling as they realized they were facing something far beyond their understanding.
The scarred man, battered and bleeding, struggled to his feet. His eyes were wild with fear as he stumbled toward the door, but Rod blocked his path.
"Please," the man begged, his earlier arrogance replaced by desperation. "I'll leave you alone. I swear."
Rod hesitated, his grip on the staff tightening. The wind howled around him, mirroring the storm inside his mind. Part of him wanted to end it here, to make sure the Vipers never hurt anyone again. But another part of him, the part that still clung to the ideals Albus had tried to instill in him, hesitated.
"This is your only chance," Rod said, his voice cold. "Leave Dustvale. Tonight. And if I ever see you again…"
He didn't finish the sentence, but the look in his eyes was enough. The scarred man nodded frantically, stumbling out the door and disappearing into the night.
As the dust settled, Rod stood in the wreckage of the saloon, his chest heaving. The Vipers who were still conscious dragged themselves out the door, too terrified to look back.
Rod lowered the staff, the adrenaline ebbing away to leave a strange emptiness in its place. He had won, but the victory felt hollow. The saloon was a mess, the lives of its patrons upended, and a nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered that he had crossed a line.
He turned and walked out into the night, the wind that had been his ally now a gentle breeze at his back.
Back at the warehouse, Albus was waiting, his expression unreadable.
"You went after them," he said, not bothering to phrase it as a question.
"They deserved it," Rod replied, his tone defensive.
Albus sighed, shaking his head. "Maybe they did. But what happens when word gets out? When others come looking for you?"
Rod didn't answer. He knew Albus was right, but the satisfaction of standing up to his tormentors still lingered.
"Power is a tool, Rod," Albus said, his voice softer. "But it's also a responsibility. If you're not careful, it'll consume you."
Rod nodded slowly, the weight of Albus's words sinking in.
"Good," Albus said. "Now get some rest. You're going to need it."
As Rod lay down that night, his mind was a whirlwind of emotions. He had taken the first step toward reclaiming his life, but the path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and temptation.
For the first time in years, he felt a flicker of hope—and a flicker of fear.