He was running through the woods, clutching his bleeding stomach with his hand as he scampered over leaves and roots, panting frantically. He glanced back at different intervals to gauge his distance from his pursuers.

He stopped under a tree and sat on an elevated branch, his breath rising and falling heavily. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was completely dry. He nearly rested his head against the tree when he heard it.

"THERE HE IS!"

He looked and saw four black horses ridden by four hefty men, all dressed in black war gowns and silvery armour, galloping toward him with amazing speed. He quickly staggered to his feet and broke into a run—more of a limping run—daring not to stop, despite being exhausted and drained of energy.

"STRIKE HIM DOWN!" their leader commanded, his voice deep and coarse, sounding as though he had lost it several times.

One of his men took out his bow, inserted an arrow, raised it high, and closed one eye as he aimed at his target. POW. He released the arrow, and it sped toward the man with astounding speed—it drew closer, heading directly for his head. The man was still running, unaware of the arrow, but he saw a branch right in front of him. He rolled underneath it just in time, and in a matter of seconds, the arrow struck the branch.

"AH! He's just so lucky," their commander grumbled. He grimaced, tugged on his horse's reins as it neighed, raising its front legs and stomping them forcefully on the ground before leaping into a full sprint, passing the other three horses. He pulled out a whip tucked into his armor, raised it above his head, and began swirling it rapidly while riding at full speed toward the man, the distance between them closing gradually.

"HAAA!" he yelled, flinging the whip at the man. It wrapped around his right ankle. "Gotcha," he mumbled, his lips curling devilishly. With a powerful yank, he pulled the man toward him. The man flew through the air, and the commander grabbed him by the neck mid-flight, slamming him forcefully against the back of a tree.

The commander stopped and dismounted his horse, followed by his men. He motioned toward the man lying face down on the ground, his arms spread, and his face twisted into a dim smile.

"Not so powerful now, Zavier," he said, his voice cold and searing, like ice running down Zavier's spine. Zavier placed both hands on the ground, trying to push himself up, but the commander had already walked up to him and delivered a sturdy kick to his stomach. The blow sent Zavier spinning and landing with a heavy thud, now facing up and lying as flat as a drained lizard.

The commander turned to his men, and they burst into laughter, the sound echoing horribly in Zavier's ears and causing anger to surge through his veins, down to his very soul. He tilted his head to the left and saw a big rock lying beside him. Turning back to the men, he gave them a sly stare cloaked in rage. Just then, the commander moved closer and pressed his foot down on Zavier's neck.

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't snap your neck, Zavier—or should I say, my lord?" the commander taunted as the men burst out laughing again. He increased the pressure of his foot and smirked contentedly.

"Well," Zavier began, his voice choking. "Because you can't," he said, pulling the commander by the leg and sending him crashing to the ground. Acting on impulse, he grabbed the rock lying beside him and smashed it against the commander's head, sending blood and lumps of brain splattering all over himself and the ground.

"What the fuck?" one of the other soldiers snarled, his eyes widening as the laughter on their faces faded instantly. Without hesitation, they all rushed at Zavier, intent on ending him. They drew their swords. The first soldier swung his blade at Zavier's head with all his strength, but Zavier rolled away from where he had been lying. The sword sank into the ground, and Zavier sprang up, kicking the weapon from the soldier's hand. He caught it mid air and swiftly slit the man's throat. His movements were quick, but his exhaustion was apparent as the remaining two soldiers charged at him, their swords swinging relentlessly.

Bright red sparks flew as their clashing blades filled the air with a metallic screech. Overwhelmed, Zavier launched himself headfirst at the first soldier like a spear, pinning him to a tree. Noticing this, the second soldier raced to his comrade's aid. He leaped into the air, sword poised to strike Zavier from behind. But Zavier, sensing the attack, rolled backward just in time. The soldier's blade missed its intended target and instead sliced his ally's head clean off.

"N-n-no... NOOOOOOOOOO!" he yelled, staring at the severed head he had just dismantled from the body. Turning to Zavier, his eyes filled with tears. "You—you will pay for this!" he stuttered, his voice shaking with rage. His entire body began to tremble, his simmering blue eyes glowing brighter as a purple storm erupted around him. Winds surged violently from his body, tearing forest leaves apart. Zavier could tell he was no longer in control of himself. Gripping his sword tightly, Zavier prepared for whatever was coming.

"HAAAAAAAAA!" the soldier roared, his deadly stare fixed on Zavier. With tremendous force, he leapt off the ground, leaving a dent where he had stood, diving at Zavier like a purple blur. A deafening boom echoed as a shockwave erupted, sending Zavier flying. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he crashed into a tree, breaking it in half. The trunk collapsed on top of him, but he slowly and painfully crawled out, his body covered in bruises. His vision blurred, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Was this what death felt like? If it was, he didn't want to die. His head pounded relentlessly, and all he could focus on was the soldier limping toward him, drained from the powers he had unleashed.

The soldier dragged his sword across the ground as he  approached Zavier and said, "Greet my brother for me when you get to hell." Raising his sword high, he prepared to strike. Zavier closed his eyes, resigned to his fate. The blade swung toward his chest, but then—a loud CLANK echoed through the air.

Zavier opened his eyes sluggishly, confused and surprised to still be alive. Tilting his head to the right, he saw two figures locked in combat. One of them was cloaked in black, his face obscured by a mask. The stranger was new to the scene—or was he? Zavier's thoughts swirled as a faint glimmer of hope pierced his despair. Could he be my guardian angel? Zavier wondered, struggling to stay conscious as the fight raged on.

He forced himself to sit up, his eyesight adjusting slightly as he looked at the black-cloaked figure. The stranger took advantage of the soldier's weakness and drove a dagger into him. Without hesitation, the figure turned towards Zavier and motioned to him courageously.

"Has he been watching us this whole time while we fought?" Zavier pondered as the figure approached. Removing the mask, the stranger shook their head, letting long hair flow gloriously in the air.

It was then that Zavier realized the figure wasn't a boy but a girl. His blurry vision, however, prevented him from fully appreciating her beauty.

"Hey, beautifu—" Zavier began to say, but the lady cut him off with a swift kick that knocked the rest of the words—and his consciousness—out of him.