Thorne's fury ignited like a wildfire, consuming him in a storm of unrestrained violence. Days of frustration, simmering anger, and the constant grind of survival had been building toward this moment, and now, it exploded in a relentless assault.

The boy's grin barely had time to falter before Thorne's fist connected with his jaw. The sound of impact—a dull, sickening crack—echoed through the tunnel. The boy staggered back, shock etched into his features as blood sprayed from his mouth. But Thorne didn't give him a second to recover. His body moved with instinctual precision, every strike an outlet for the inferno roaring inside him.

He lunged forward, grabbing the boy by the collar and yanking him close. Thorne's knee drove into his gut like a battering ram, knocking the air from his lungs in a single, devastating blow. The boy folded in on himself, gasping, his knees threatening to buckle. But Thorne wasn't done—not even close.

"You think you're untouchable?" Thorne snarled, his voice low and guttural, each word dripping with venom. His knuckles slammed into the boy's face again, sending him reeling. Blood and spittle flew in a crimson arc, painting the stone floor. The boy's head snapped to the side, but the raw force of the punch wasn't enough to bring him down.

Thorne grabbed him by the neck, fingers digging into flesh, and threw him to the ground with the force of a falling hammer. The boy hit the floor hard, his limbs sprawling awkwardly, but Thorne didn't give him a moment to regain his senses. A savage stomp to the ribs sent a sickening crunch reverberating through the air, and the boy let out a strangled cry.

Thorne stomped again, the impact jolting up his leg, but he relished the feeling. He welcomed the sound of cracking bone, the boy's breath hitching into desperate gasps. It wasn't enough—not yet. Rage clawed at Thorne's chest, demanding more. He wanted to hear the boy scream, wanted to see the terror in his eyes. He wanted to make him pay for every ounce of rage and pain that had been building inside him since he first set foot in this cursed city.

"Get up!" Thorne spat, grabbing the boy by his blood-matted hair and jerking him upright. The boy's face was a mess of blood and broken teeth, his eyes glassy with pain. Thorne didn't care. He slammed the boy's head against the unforgiving stone floor, the dull thud of impact momentarily silencing his cries.

The boy's weight sagged in Thorne's grip, but he forced him to his feet, only to hurl him against the tunnel wall with a roar of rage. The sound of the boy's body colliding with stone was sickeningly satisfying. He slumped to the floor in a heap, blood pooling beneath him, his breaths coming in weak, ragged wheezes.

Skill Level Up: Unarmed Combat!

The notification flickered in the corner of Thorne's vision, but it barely registered. All he saw was red—his vision narrowed to the boy crumpled at his feet, the embodiment of everything that had pushed him to the edge.

Another kick, sharp and precise, cracked against the boy's ribs. The boy let out a weak, garbled cry, blood bubbling from his mouth as Thorne's boot connected with his side. The sound was pitiful, but it didn't stir an ounce of mercy in him. Thorne aimed another kick at the boy's head, sending him sprawling. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, sharp and bitter.

Behind him, Vance's voice broke through the haze, urgent and panicked. "Thorne! Stop it! You're gonna kill him!"

The words were faint, distant—barely audible over the roar in Thorne's ears. His fists clenched, trembling with the need to continue. But it wasn't until he felt a sudden presence at his back, too close, too quick, that his instincts snapped into focus.

Thorne's body moved on pure instinct, his Combat Reflexes saving him in the critical moment. He spun just as the girl lunged, her dagger gleaming wickedly in the dim light, its blade aimed with deadly precision at his back. The world seemed to slow for a heartbeat, every detail etched sharply into his mind: the wild determination in her eyes, the trembling desperation in her grip, the faint whistle of the blade slicing through the air.

His hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-thrust with unerring accuracy. Her momentum stopped abruptly, her eyes widening in stunned disbelief as Thorne's iron grip clamped down. For the briefest moment, fear flickered across her face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, swallowed by the rising tide of Thorne's fury.

With a savage twist, he wrenched her arm. The snap of bone was loud, like the crack of a dry branch breaking underfoot, and her scream tore through the tunnel—a high, piercing wail that sent a chill racing down the spine of anyone who heard it. The dagger slipped from her grasp, clattering uselessly to the ground, but Thorne wasn't done.

His free hand struck like a hammer, his fist colliding with her face in a brutal, bone-jarring blow. Her head snapped back, blood bursting from her nose in a spray of crimson as her body crumpled to the cold stone floor. She groaned, clutching at her shattered arm, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps as she tried to crawl away.

Thorne stepped over her without a second glance. She was nothing. A minor nuisance. His rage was fixated elsewhere, unrelenting and consuming.

The boy lay sprawled on the ground, his body twisted and broken, a grotesque parody of its former self. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and viscous, staining the stone like a spreading shadow. His breaths were shallow, ragged, each one a struggle. Yet even now, the sight of his pathetic state wasn't enough to sate Thorne's fury.

A strangled cry tore through the air, yanking his attention briefly to the remaining girl. She stood frozen, her face pale and eyes wide with horror as she took in the bloodied chaos before her. The girl's trembling hands hovered near her waist as if debating whether to intervene, but her nerve broke before she could decide.

With a panicked scream, she turned and fled, her footsteps echoing wildly as she disappeared down the tunnel.

Thorne barely noticed her retreat. If he did, he dismissed it. His focus snapped back to the boy, and his vision tunneled. Everything around him faded—the distant shouts, the flickering torches, even Vance's voice, calling his name in alarm. All that mattered was the boy lying helpless before him.

Thorne straddled the boy, his knees pinning the battered figure to the ground. The boy's broken body offered no resistance, his limbs splayed awkwardly, his breaths coming in shallow, pitiful gasps. Thorne's hands closed around his throat, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with an unyielding grip.

The boy's eyes bulged, terror flashing in their depths as Thorne's thumbs pressed mercilessly against his windpipe. He thrashed weakly, his hands clawing feebly at Thorne's arms, but it was no use. The boy was too broken, too weak to fight back.

"You should have stayed down," Thorne hissed, his voice low and cold, each word dripping with venom.

The boy's gasps grew fainter, his struggles slower and more desperate. His face turned an alarming shade of red, veins standing out on his forehead and neck as he fought for air that wouldn't come. Thorne's grip didn't waver, his thumbs pressing deeper, cutting off the boy's lifeline with ruthless precision.

The light in the boy's eyes began to dim, the faint spark of life flickering like a candle in a storm. His movements stilled, his body going limp under Thorne's weight.

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Still, Thorne held on. He wasn't satisfied until the boy's chest stopped rising altogether, until the last vestiges of life had drained away. Only then did he release his hold, his hands trembling as he let the boy's lifeless body slump to the ground.

The world around him returned in a rush—Vance's panicked breathing, the faint drip of blood pooling beneath him, the oppressive silence of the tunnel. Thorne didn't look at the body. He didn't need to. He knew the boy was dead.

Thorne stared down at his bloodied hands, his chest heaving as the reality of what he'd done began to sink in. The rage that had consumed him, so fiery and all-encompassing, now smoldered into ashes, leaving behind a stark, hollow void. His knuckles, raw and bruised, were smeared with blood—not just his own but theirs. The metallic tang hung heavy in the air, a suffocating reminder of his brutality.

His legs trembled as he stumbled back, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The adrenaline that had driven him now abandoned him, leaving his limbs weak and his mind awash with clarity he didn't want. His gaze swept over the scene, each detail clawing at his already frayed nerves.

The red-haired girl was crumpled on the ground, her body a tapestry of bruises and blood. She lay motionless, save for the shallow rise and fall of her chest, each breath a strained, desperate effort. Her hair, once vibrant and wild, was matted with blood and dirt, a stark contrast to her pallid skin. Thorne couldn't tear his eyes away. She was alive, barely, clinging to life by the thinnest of threads.

Then his gaze shifted to the boy. The boy he had killed. The body was grotesque, limbs splayed at unnatural angles, blood pooling beneath him. His lifeless eyes stared unseeing, his expression frozen in terror and pain. Thorne's stomach churned violently. That was his doing. He had crossed a line he couldn't uncross.

The girl with the broken arm was still crawling away, her movements slow and pained. Her shattered nose had left a trail of blood across her face, and her arm dangled uselessly at her side. She kept glancing back at Thorne, her wide, tear-filled eyes brimming with raw terror. She whimpered as she moved, a pitiful, animal-like sound that cut deeper into Thorne than any blade could.

And then there was Vance. Standing a few feet away, his face pale as ash, his eyes wide with something Thorne recognized immediately: fear. Not fear of the carnage around them—fear of him. Vance's gaze darted between Thorne and the broken bodies, his lips parting as if to speak but no words came.

Thorne's heart sank like a stone. He wanted to shout, to explain, to justify the carnage as something he had to do. But no words came. The weight of Vance's horrified expression bore down on him, the shame coiling in his gut like a viper.

And as if mocking him, the familiar glow of a notification appeared in his vision.

Congratulations! You have leveled up.

You have reached level 32.

The words hovered there, detached, coldly indifferent to the carnage around him. Thorne felt his chest tighten, his breath hitching as the reality of what the system was rewarding him for hit home. He had leveled up—not through training, not through skill, but through violence. Through death. He had killed, and he had been rewarded for it.

His vision blurred, the edges darkening as if the world itself was closing in. His mother's voice surfaced in his mind, soft and chiding, the echo of a life far removed from the blood-soaked one he now lived. Thorne, never let anger control you. But her voice was a whisper, distant, almost unrecognizable, a remnant of a life that felt worlds away.

A sudden movement snapped him back to the present. Vance knelt beside the red-haired girl, his hands shaking as he checked her pulse. His face twisted with a mix of relief and worry as he glanced up.

"She's alive," Vance said, his voice shaky, barely above a whisper. "She's pretty beaten up, but… she'll make it. I think."

The words felt distant, muffled, as though they were coming from underwater. Thorne's eyes remained locked on the blood on his hands, the sticky warmth clinging to his skin like a brand. It was everywhere—his hands, his clothes, the floor beneath him. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't escape it.

The nausea that had been rising in his throat threatened to spill over. He swallowed hard, forcing it down, his body trembling as he fought to keep control. He wanted to run, to put as much distance as possible between himself and this gruesome scene, but his legs felt like lead. He was rooted to the spot, trapped there.

Somewhere, deep inside, a small voice whispered that this was who he had become. A killer. A weapon. And no matter how much he hated it, he couldn't deny the truth.

Vance's voice finally broke through the suffocating fog in Thorne's mind, dragging him back to the present. "We should get her to the room," Vance said, his tone careful, like he was treading on glass. His words hung in the air, tentative, as though he feared one wrong move would shatter whatever fragile control Thorne had left.

Thorne nodded stiffly, the motion mechanical, devoid of thought or feeling. When he spoke, his voice sounded foreign to his own ears, hollow and flat. "Yeah… let's get her to the room."

Vance hesitated before standing, his eyes flicking to Thorne with an expression Thorne couldn't quite read—caution, maybe, or something closer to fear. That look sent a sharp pang through Thorne's chest, but he didn't have the strength to examine it. Instead, he took a step forward, moving toward the girl's crumpled form, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw it—Vance flinching. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. Thorne froze for half a heartbeat before pretending he hadn't noticed, forcing his feet to keep moving.

He crouched down beside the girl, her bloodied body barely stirring. As he slid his arms under her, lifting her as gently as he could, his eyes caught a glint of metal on the ground. A dagger. Without thinking, he grabbed it, tucking it into the waistband of his pants. The cold weight of it against his hip grounded him.

The girl moaned softly as he lifted her, the weak sound twisting Thorne's gut like a knife. Her broken bow lay awkwardly against her back, the wood splintered and useless. He left it where it was. Taking it away felt wrong, as if it would strip her of the last shred of strength or dignity she had left.

Vance, crouching nearby, sifted through the mess on the ground until his hand closed around a small bag. He opened it, peering inside, then let out a soft, incredulous breath. "Food," he muttered, shaking his head. "All that… for some food."

Thorne swallowed hard, his throat dry, the weight of Vance's words settling heavily in the pit of his stomach. He didn't respond—couldn't respond. Instead, he watched as Vance slung the bag over his shoulder, the silence between them laden with unspoken truths.

Together, they started the long walk back to the room, the girl limp in Thorne's arms.

When they finally arrived, the room fell deathly quiet. The few recruits inside stopped what they were doing, their gazes snapping to Thorne like moths drawn to a flame. Whispers rippled through the group, soft but insistent, as they took in the blood splattered across Thorne's face, his hands, his clothes. Fear radiated from them like a palpable force, and one by one, they edged back, pressing themselves against the walls as if distance could shield them.

Thorne ignored their stares, his focus fixed on the girl in his arms. He moved to his bed, laying her down carefully, as though she might shatter if he wasn't gentle enough. Her bow and the bag of food were placed beside her. Vance perched at the edge of the bed, his leg bouncing nervously, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on his knee. Thorne stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do, the weight of the recruits' stares burning into his back like a brand.

The silence stretched until Vance finally broke it, his voice barely above a whisper. "You should go clean yourself up, Thorne. You're freaking everyone out."

Thorne glanced at him, then at the others, their wide, fearful eyes a mirror of Vance's earlier flinch. Shame and frustration swirled inside him, an ugly, volatile mix. But Vance was right—he needed to get out of there. To escape. To breathe.

"Yeah… okay," he muttered, his words clipped and hollow. He turned and walked out, his movements stiff, robotic.

The corridor felt colder than before, the damp chill gnawing at his skin. Each step echoed in the silence, the sound of his own breathing too loud, too fast. His stomach churned violently, and his head swam with fragmented thoughts that refused to settle. The walls of the tunnel seemed to twist and close in, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he thought he might collapse.

Two recruits appeared ahead, their quiet conversation dying the instant they saw him. Their eyes widened in unison, mouths hanging open in shock. One of them stumbled, grabbing the other's arm, and they both quickened their pace, nearly running as they passed him.

Thorne barely registered their reaction. Their fear didn't matter. Nothing did—not the blood still caking his hands, not the whispers in the room, not even the growing weight of what he had done.

He kept walking

Finally, he found a door slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he stumbled into the small, dark room and fell to his knees, the nausea finally overwhelming him. He barely made it to the corner before the contents of his stomach came up, the acidic taste burning his throat. The retching shook his entire body, leaving him trembling and weak, but he didn't stop until there was nothing left.

When it was over, Thorne wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his entire body trembling. He felt empty, drained, as if the fight had ripped something vital from him and left him hollow. He slumped against the wall, closing his eyes, trying to block out the memories of what he had just done, but they played on a relentless loop in his mind.

The room was silent, save for the sound of his ragged breathing. Thorne pressed his palms against his eyes, willing the darkness to swallow him whole, but he knew there was no escaping what he had become.

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