Ralt walked through the corridors of the house, his steps measured and cautious.
Each footstep echoed slightly against the floor, reminding him of just how empty this place truly was.
For years, this room had been his cage, but today, it felt different.
He was finally moving forward.
Finally making a choice for himself.
But just as that thought settled in his mind, a presence emerged ahead of him.
A figure stood in the hallway, blocking his path.
Tall and composed, the man didn't move, but his presence alone was suffocating.
His sharp, predatory gaze locked onto Ralt, and in an instant, the air felt colder.
The man's right hand rested close to the dagger strapped to his waist, casual, yet deliberate.
A silent warning.
Ralt knew that stance.
The posture of someone who had taken countless lives.
A killer.
No.
Not just a killer.
A mass murderer.
Slay.
Ralt's fingers curled into fists at his sides.
He had known this man for as long as he could remember, but familiarity didn't bring comfort.
If anything, it only deepened his unease.
Slay had always been there, watching, lurking in the background like a shadow that never truly disappeared.
His father had hired him, but for what purpose?
To protect him?
Or to end him the moment he became a real threat?
Ralt never knew, even when he tried to ask his father, he never got an answer.
Slay didn't speak.
He simply stared, his expression unreadable, his aura suffocating.
The hallway stretched between them, an invisible battlefield.
Ralt forced himself to remain calm, his heart pounding in his chest.
He had expected resistance, but he wasn't about to back down now.
Not when he had come this far.
Not when he had already opened the door.
Slay's cold, piercing gaze remained locked onto Ralt.
But Ralt didn't waver.
He met the man's stare with an icy one of his own, refusing to be the first to look away.
Then, Slay finally spoke.
His voice was deep, sharp like the edge of his dagger.
A voice that had commanded fear for as long as Ralt could remember.
"Go back to your room."
It wasn't a suggestion.
It was an order.
But Ralt wasn't a child anymore.
And he wasn't afraid.
His expression remained unreadable, his tone just as cold.
"No."
A flicker of something passed through Slay's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came.
His grip on his dagger tightened slightly, fingers flexing over the smooth handle.
A silent threat.
A warning.
Ralt didn't move.
"Step aside. I want to see my father." His voice was calm, unwavering.
Slay exhaled slowly, tilting his head just slightly, as if studying him.
"And why would you need to see him?"
"That's none of your business," Ralt replied flatly.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, Slay narrowed his eyes, his expression unreadable but undeniably sharp.
He was looking at Ralt in the same way he always had, searching for weakness, for a single crack in his composure.
When Ralt had been younger, that stare alone had been enough to send a chill down his spine.
Enough to make him lower his head and obey.
But not this time.
He refused to be that scared little boy anymore.
And so he stood his ground, meeting Slay's deadly gaze without a hint of fear.
Ralt stood still, his mind racing as he analyzed the situation.
His cold gaze remained locked on Slay, but beneath his impassive exterior, calculations ran at lightning speed.
Every scenario, every possible movement, every potential outcome, he considered them all in an instant.
He needed to get past Slay.
But how?
Ralt had long learned not to rely on brute force.
His ability, Death Touch, was absolute, anything he touched would die.
But against a man like Slay, recklessness would only lead to failure.
The man wasn't some common guard, easily fooled or overpowered.
Slay was different.
He moved like a predator, his every breath measured, his stance betraying not a single weakness.
If Slay were a novice, Ralt could have found a hundred ways to slip past him.
A simple feint, a distraction, a well-placed dodge, all of them would have worked.
But Slay wasn't a novice.
No, he was something else entirely.
A killer.
A professional.
Maybe even the leader of a villain group.
Every instinct in Ralt screamed that underestimating this man would be a great mistake.
His gaze flickered to the dagger resting at Slay's side.
The way his hand lingered just above the handle, fingers relaxed but ready, told Ralt everything he needed to know.
This wasn't a man who hesitated.
If Slay sensed even the slightest threat, he wouldn't think twice before striking.
The realization sent a sharp pang of frustration through Ralt.
There was no way past him.
At least, not without force.
And force wasn't an option, not yet.
He clenched his jaw slightly, forcing himself to remain composed.
There had to be another way.
A different approach.
He just needed to find it.
And he must find it.