Slave of Fate

Rudra's voice was devoid of emotion, his eyes cold, like two lifeless voids. His words fell from his lips as if they were merely a reflection of the world he had come to know world that was broken and full of self-serving lies.

"I'm not a fan of other people's logic. Everyone harbors darkness within themselves, buried beneath their carefully constructed facades

. If you gave them a choice—a simple trade: 'Tear me apart, and you'll be free.' Ninety percent of them would do it without a second thought. No hesitation. They'd relish it, tearing me apart, piece by piece, like they were gutting an animal for sport. And the rest? They'd pretend to think about it, but in the end, they'd do the same. They'd justify it. Call it 'the right thing.' A sacrifice for the greater good. But it was never about saving anyone else. It was always about saving their own worthless skin."

Rudra's lips twitched into a bitter smile, a twisted mockery of what might have been considered a grin.

"They'd slice me open and smile while they did it. They'd call it mercy, call it survival. But deep down, they'd know: it wasn't about me, or anyone else. It was about them. It's always about them. They'd kill me without blinking, and then tell themselves it was the only option, the 'noble choice.' But that's just the lie they tell themselves to sleep at night. In the end, they're nothing but self-serving monsters, willing to burn anyone and anything to stay alive. No different from the rest of them."

His voice dropped to a guttural whisper, each word carrying a heavy, suffocating weight.

"They say they're protecting others, but that's just a shield they hide behind. The truth is they'd cut me up in an instant if it meant their own survival. It's not about saving the innocent—it's about saving themselves. Always has been. And I don't need to pretend otherwise

The words hung in the air, like a heavy fog. The people around Rudra, those 999 souls, along with the two others, stood frozen. Their thoughts churned, unable to comprehend what had just transpired. They were all caught in an unsettling dissonance. How could an eight-year-old child speak with such cold clarity? With words so calculated, so detached from the innocence they expected?

They stood, questioning their own reality.

One by one, their minds wandered:

"Is he really just a child?"

The first thought flickered like a spark of doubt in their minds. His voice was so sure, so devoid of fear or hesitation. His words had carried weight, a weight not belonging to his fragile body. *What kind of child speaks like that?

"He's holding 999 lives in his hands… and he doesn't even seem to care."

Another soul shuddered, the implications of his words sinking in deeper than they wanted to admit. A child—small, frail, helpless in appearance—had just shown them that appearances meant nothing. Beneath that childlike exterior lay something far darker, something capable of destroying their entire existence with a mere decision. How could they have underestimated him so completely?

"What would it be like to live in a mind like that?"

One of them began to question themselves. Was it fear? Resentment? Or was it envy? Could they be that cold? That honest? The brutal truth of Rudra's words dug into their psyche, and they found themselves wondering how much of it was true. How much of it did they bury inside themselves out of necessity, just to survive in a world like this?

"What does he really want?"

The person called master, the one who had stood at the center of all their plans, finally spoke, his voice heavy with desperation, yet tinged with the faintest trace of curiosity. "How about it? Stay here, and I can grant you freedom..."

But Rudra's response was unwavering, a sharp slap to all their assumptions.

Rudra's voice pierced through their doubt like a blade through flesh, cold and unyielding.

"Do you think I'm doing this for freedom? For the first time in my life, I've desired something. Something I need to get for myself. And even if I wish to stop here, it won't stop when the light stops coming out of this world."

The words crashed into them like a storm. A final declaration. Rudra wasn't driven by the same desires they understood. He wasn't motivated by survival or some hope for a better life. He spoke as though the very concept of 'freedom' had become a trivial thing, easily obtained, but empty. What he truly craved… what he sought, was something far more elusive.

And then, it hit them—the cold realization.

"How many of us have chosen to simply survive? How many of us have given in, compromised, become tools of this world just to stay alive?"

Their breaths caught in their throats. They didn't speak it aloud, but the question gnawed at them from within. What had they become? The more they listened, the less they recognized themselves. The guilt of their own choices began to take root.

"He's a child, yes. But he sees things more clearly than we ever will."

Their confidence faltered. They weren't heroes. They weren't fighting for the greater good. They were all just players in a game they didn't understand— puppets, each of them with strings to be pulled.

"Maybe we were the ones lost all along…"

In their hearts, a chill settled. Rudra, an eight-year-old child, had shattered the illusions they had carefully built. His words had no comfort. His words didn't seek to console or justify anything. They were truth, raw and untamed. And with each word, the foundation of everything they thought they understood crumbled beneath them

And suddenly water splashed on rudras back

The moment the water splashed across Rudra's back, his eyes flickered, not in shock, but in cold acknowledgment. He turned, slowly, with a deliberate calm that felt unsettling in the midst of the chaos. But what he saw made his heart freeze. The liquid was not water. It was blood—fresh, crimson blood splattered across him from the gaping neck of a fallen body. The warmth of it seeped into his skin, and it felt almost intimate as it trickled down his chest.

A low, chilling chuckle escaped his lips, void of any emotion. He turned to his other side. What met his eyes was a sight so grotesque that even the hardened hearts of the onlookers couldn't avoid their stomachs churning. The heads of 999 people had rolled, lifeless, across the blood-soaked earth, their expressions frozen in horror, and yet, Rudra's gaze remained unchanged. Unfeeling. He took a step closer, as though the heads were mere objects for study. Blood pooled beneath his feet as he moved forward, soaking his sandals, coating his skin in an unholy veil. He was immersed in it now—covered, drenched in it—as though he had been born into this crimson world.

Rudra's face remained blank, even as blood dripped from his hair and down his face. His reflection in the blood below shifted with every droplet that splattered on the surface, disturbing the calm of his countenance. He stared at it—at the chaos, at the horror—without a flicker of emotion.

He glanced around, his voice eerily calm amidst the carnage. "The fresh blood... it's warm. Quite fitting. I haven't had a proper bath in days. At least this blood feels like something."

His words were sharp, slicing through the stillness of the moment. Every drop of blood that fell from his face, from his hair, splashed against the ground, yet he remained untouched, almost serene in the ocean of death surrounding him. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and yet, Rudra's presence stood out like a predator in the midst of its prey.

The silence was broken by No.1's voice, trembling with an unsettling realization. "What... what kind of monster is this child? Even in this chaos, his expression never falters."

In the middle of the blood-drenched battlefield, only four remained standing. Three adults, their faces contorted with unease, and the child—Rudra—his stance unwavering, his presence undeniable, like a dark omen among the fallen. His beauty, or perhaps it was something darker, more lethal, was impossible to ignore. His blank face only heightened the terrifying allure he exuded.

No.1, unable to contain the fear crawling up his spine, spoke again, his voice almost breaking, "Master, can we even call that child... a child?"

The master, his voice heavy with awe and terror, responded with a tone laced in dread. "Every action he takes makes me question everything. I had my conclusions about him, but now... every decision he makes... forces me to rethink."

With every step he took in the blood, with every word he spoke in the midst of this slaughter, Rudra's presence grew more defined, more imprinted into the very fabric of this nightmare. He was both beautiful and horrifying. The kind of beauty that demanded fear