The dilapidated shack, perched on the fringe of London, became Thomas's refuge and his crucible. It was a far cry from the relative safety of his old life, but it offered him a sense of isolation, a place to delve deeper into his abilities without the immediate threat of the watchers. The new paper, with its shimmering, rainbow-hued glyphs, became the focus of his existence. These glyphs were different, not of sustenance or speed, but of pure power – raw, untamed, and potentially dangerous. They vibrated with a force that resonated deep within him, almost begging to be unleashed.He spent days poring over this new text, the book of traditional glyphs seeming pale in comparison. He realized the previous book had only focused on his internal capabilities, this new paper focused on the outward expression of raw power. These were glyphs that could shatter stone, conjure fire, and manipulate the very fabric of the elements. They were the language of creation and destruction, a power that both terrified and fascinated him. He learned how to shape his life force into temporary forms of power. The sensation was akin to drinking poison and being both alive and dying at the same time.The isolation, however, was not complete. The whispers of the watchers remained a constant presence, a subtle pressure that grew and receded like the tides, pushing him, testing him, always present on his periphery. He knew they were still observing, waiting for the right moment to act, and it was this lingering danger that led him down a darker path.He had to test the boundaries of his abilities. He couldn't practice in the open for risk of being tracked. But testing the glyphs themselves would draw too much attention. The city was still in range for the watchers, so he needed to get as far away as he could without bringing attention to himself, as that seemed to be his main method of staying safe.He started venturing out during the night, his small frame moving through the back alleys and hidden corners of the outer city. He was still using the amulet but knew that if the watchers were actively searching, it wouldn't hide him for long, so he decided to experiment a bit further. He found places where petty criminals gathered – drunkards and thugs, those who relied on strength rather than skill. He would simply observe them at first, learning their patterns, and their weaknesses, like an animal stalking its prey.Then, he began to intervene. He started small at first, merely creating small, quick barriers, making them trip on the pavement or fall on the uneven ground. These were simple displays, but he wasn't looking for trouble, merely looking for answers on how these glyphs worked. The men seemed like mere playthings to him.It didn't take long before these tricks escalated to violence. One night, he interfered in a particularly brutal mugging, of a young man with his face covered in blood desperately begging a group of older thugs for his coin. He moved faster than thought possible and used his new glyph for force. He willed a nearby wooden crate to slam into one of the attackers, a dull thud resonating in the alleyway. He used another to push the young man out of harm's way and to a different street for a quick getaway.He wasn't prepared for the immediate aggression. The thugs, drunk and enraged, lunged at him with fists and kicks. Thomas moved with inhuman agility, using the glyphs for speed to dodge their clumsy attacks. The sheer force of a controlled glyph could cause severe damage. He slammed one of the thugs into a wall with such force that the brick cracked. He did another in a second and heard a crunch as bones snapped. His inner glyphs had taken full control.But it was not just a defense anymore. The new glyphs, the glyphs of pure power, coursed through his veins. He didn't just dodge their attacks; he met them with brutal force. He punched a man so hard that it sent them flying backward, teeth shattering upon impact. Another thug who swung a knife at him ended up with his arm twisted into an unnatural angle. The raw energy within him made his strength inhuman, and the thrill of wielding it in such a violent manner, created an echo of dark hunger, a need to inflict damage.He left a trail of broken bodies behind him, a mix of blood, bone, and broken dreams in that small alleyway. The feeling was… exhilarating. It was not the cold satisfaction of solving a puzzle, it was the dark, primal urge of dominance. He felt a shift within him, something darker was growing inside his heart. The boy who had been terrified, who sought only to escape, was now capable of inflicting immense pain, and a part of him enjoyed it.He returned to the shack, his body thrumming with the aftermath of the fight, his hands shaking as he cleaned the grime from his skin. The new paper sat on his table, almost shimmering and enticing him to repeat the action. The whispers of the watchers had receded, a silence had fallen upon them, almost as if they had gone to their drawing board, trying to re-evaluate Thomas and his actions.He knew this was a dangerous path, but now that he had tasted the raw power of the new glyphs, it was difficult to turn away. He felt himself changing, becoming something more dangerous, something unpredictable. He was still a boy with a thirst for knowledge, a survivor who sought freedom, but his heart had been touched by a new desire – the chilling thrill of raw power and a hunger to inflict his will onto others. He wondered if the Eternal Spark within him was not a gift but a curse, twisting him into something he was never meant to be. His journey was leading to dark places.
The next few weeks were a blur of relentless practice and escalating violence. Thomas became a phantom in the underbelly of London, a whisper in the darkness. He spent his days learning the new glyphs, understanding their nuances, and their hidden potential. He discovered he could manipulate them to not only amplify his physical strength but also create bursts of concussive force, manipulate shadows, and even conjure small, flickering flames that danced at his fingertips. His control grew exponentially, and it was starting.
His nights were reserved for testing these new abilities, seeking out the dregs of the city's criminal underworld, those who preyed on the weak and vulnerable. He became a self-appointed judge, jury, and executioner, a silent avenger leaving a trail of broken limbs, crushed bones, and terrified whispers. The thrill of the violence was a dark addiction, a dark hunger that gnawed at his insides, his humanity fading with every blow. He justified his actions, believing he was ridding the city of its rot, but the truth was that he was simply surrendering to the raw, animalistic urges that were awakening within him. He still visited his old home on occasion, watching from a distance, the feeling of longing fading into a mere curiosity, like an observation of an ant hill. He saw his mother still working, her shoulders slumped with weariness, his father still in his drunken stupor, the world carrying on as it did with or without him like he never existed. It was in one of these moments, on a whim, that he decided to revisit his old room one last time, a final goodbye to what once was, a search for closure. He waited until late at night, the fog acting as a cloak as he quietly snuck up the creaking stairs. He knew the familiar sounds, the drunken snores, the uneven floorboards, as he stepped into the dimly lit room, an old and dull memory of the pain and discomfort. His father was still there, passed out in the same chair as he always did. But this time, something was different. A small glint of metal caught his eye, something out of place amidst the squalor and clutter. He approached cautiously, his enhanced senses on high alert, and found it tucked beneath the loose floorboards, hidden away like a shameful secret. It was a pistol, old and worn, with a polished wood grip and a dark metal barrel. He had seen similar weapons before, but never up close, and never had any interest. It was an unusual possession for his father to have, who never seemed capable of anything beyond drinking, and it didn't look cheap either. He picked it up, the weight of it surprisingly comfortable in his hand, and he felt a new connection, a spark between him and the piece of metal. He ran his fingers over the cold steel, an almost magnetic pull that made his veins hum. It felt ancient and familiar, like an extension of himself. He pulled the firing pin back, the clicking sound echoing softly in the quiet room. He had never held a gun before, yet the mechanism seemed intuitive, ingrained in some part of his consciousness. This was strange and unusual, as he couldn't see any glyphs on this, yet this object felt strangely familiar. It was another language he was ready to learn. He took the pistol back to the shack, his mind abuzz with a new, intense focus. He began to practice, tirelessly, the mechanics of firing, the feel of the recoil against his palm, and the delicate process of loading. He discovered he could manipulate the pistol just as well as he manipulated his own body and the surrounding elements, his control so precise that it was uncanny. It was more than just wielding a weapon; it was like an extension of his will, a tool for his anger. He realized his speed could help him draw the gun faster, the glyphs for accuracy made every shot pinpoint, and the glyphs for raw force made each impact more devastating than it should ever have been. He experimented with the glyphs, drawing the energies into the bullets, a flicker of flames on the metal projectile, a distortion of light that made each shot seem to bend space. He learned to move with inhuman speed, drawing, aiming, and firing in a blink of an eye. The power flowed through him, not only his body but through the pistol, creating a strange connection that was both thrilling and terrifying. He began to understand his hidden potential, the path he was unknowingly forging. He was more than just a boy; more than a weaver of glyphs, he was becoming a gunslinger, a master of precision, of power, of sheer destructive force. The whispers of the watchers seemed distant now, like background noise in the face of this new obsession, like he was now walking down a road where there would only be one winner, no compromises, and no escape. He had become a weapon, forged in the crucible of the city's underbelly, a legend born in the shadows, and without realizing it, he was stepping into a role that would mark him for eternity. Thomas was unknowingly, becoming the most dangerous gunslinger in history, a fate his life was unknowingly guiding him into with each pull of the trigger, each act of violence, and every glyph of power he had now.