The dawn had barely touched the sky when the whispers began.
"Did you hear?" A girl with braided hair clutched her books to her chest, eyes wide. "Nayra's parents… they were killed last night."
"Murdered," another student corrected in a hushed voice. "By the Red Hawk and Golden Snake Factions.?"
The news spread like a sickness—contagious, unstoppable. By the time the first bell rang, the entire academy knew.
And there, in the center of the courtyard, sat Nayra.
His shoulders trembled. His hands, clenched into fists, rested on his knees. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Silent tears traced fresh tracks down his cheeks.
A perfect portrait of grief.
One by one, they came.
"Nayra… I'm so sorry." A girl knelt beside him, her voice thick with forced sorrow. She didn't even know his parents' names.
"Stay strong," a boy muttered, patting his shoulder before quickly retreating.
"Those factions… monsters, all of them!" another hissed, shaking his head.
Nayra kept his head low, his breath hitching in fake sobs.
How easy this is.
None of them truly cared. They were here to *be seen* caring—to prove to themselves and others that they were good, compassionate people.
But he knew better.
Compassion was a currency, and they were all eager to spend it—for reputation, for guilt, for the simple pleasure of feeling righteous.
Then—silence.
A ripple passed through the crowd as three figures stepped into the courtyard.
Liam. Zefora. Sistie.
The heirs of the very factions accused of the murder.
The air turned thick with tension. Eyes darted between them and Nayra, waiting, wondering.
For a brief moment, the trio hesitated. Their gazes locked onto Nayra—the boy who had made them kneel in terror just hours before.
Their throats tightened. Their hands trembled.
But they had no choice.
Zefora was the first to step forward. Her voice was stiff, rehearsed.
"It's true."
The crowd stilled.
"We overheard our parents discussing it," Liam added, his fingers twisting the hem of his sleeve.
"They wanted to silence his family," Sistie whispered, her eyes downcast. "...But Nayra survived."
A beat of silence—then chaos.
Gasps. Shouts. Curses.
"I knew it! Those factions are rotten to the core!"
"How can they still lead? They're murderers!"
"Someone has to do something!"
Nayra let out a choked sob, pressing a hand over his mouth.
Perfect.
Then—boots against stone.
The crowd parted as a group of figures clad in dark cloaks strode forward. The Black Wolf Faction's envoy.
The lead envoy, a tall man with a scar running down his cheek, stopped before the academy headmaster and bowed deeply.
"The Black Wolf Faction offers its deepest condolences," he announced, voice carrying across the courtyard. "We will not stand by while innocent blood is spilled. From this day forth, Nayra will be under our protection."
A murmur of approval swept through the students.
"The Black Wolves are the only ones with honor!"
"Finally, someone is standing up to those butchers!"
The envoy turned to Nayra, extending a hand. "Come, child. You are safe now."
Nayra lifted his tear-streaked face, his lower lip quivering. He hesitated—just long enough to seem uncertain—before reaching out and taking the man's hand.
The crowd erupted in applause.
As he was led away, Nayra cast one last glance over his shoulder at the academy.
At Liam, Zefora, and Sistie—standing stiffly, their faces unreadable.
At the students, still buzzing with outrage, already weaving this into their own narratives.
At the Black Wolf envoy, their grip on his arm just a little too tight.
Beneath the trembling lips and watery eyes, beneath the facade of the broken orphan—
Nayra smiled.
"And so the sheep march willingly into the wolf's den."
The game had only just begun.
The grand oak doors of the academy groaned as they swung open, their sound cutting through the murmurs like a blade.
And then—he entered.
The Head of the Town, draped in deep blue robes embroidered with golden thread, his every step measured, deliberate. His graying hair spoke of age, but his eyes—sharp, unyielding—spoke of battles fought and secrets buried.
Behind him, the Academy Headmaster followed, his own presence formidable. Both men were **2nd Chakra Stage warriors**, their very auras pressing down on the courtyard like an invisible hand.
The whispers died. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Then, the Town Head's gaze landed on Nayra.
No words. Just silence.
A silence so heavy it could crush bones.
Nayra didn't flinch. But he **made sure** to let his shoulders tremble—just enough.
Then—
"Did the Red Hawk and Golden Snake Factions kill your parents alone?"** The Town Head's voice was calm, but beneath it lay something dangerous. "Or was someone else involved?"
The air thickened. The kind of pressure that made lesser men sweat, stutter, break.
Nayra let himself step back slightly, as if overwhelmed.
But his eyes?
They met the Town Head's without wavering.
Then, in a voice that rang clear across the courtyard—
"There was… one more."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"It wasn't just the Red Hawk and Golden Snake Factions."
"The Black Wolf Faction was there too."
Gasps. Sharp, disbelieving.
The Black Wolf envoy, who had just moments ago been hailed as Nayra's protectors, stiffened. Their leader's scarred face twitched—just once.
The crowd erupted.
"What?!"
"The Black Wolves too?!"
"But they just—"
Nayra continued, his voice raw, trembling with the perfect balance of grief and resolve.
"These three factions… they were fighting amongst themselves."
"All of them trying to take something from my family."
A pause. A shuddering breath.
"My parents begged for mercy."
"I tried to protect them."
"But all three factions—Red Hawk, Golden Snake, and Black Wolf—killed them."
The Town Head's eyes narrowed. His aura flared, pressing down harder.
"Then why," he asked, slow, deliberate, "did you only accuse two of them yesterday?"
Nayra's breath hitched. His fingers curled into his sleeves, gripping the fabric as if seeking strength.
Then, in a voice so quiet the crowd had to strain to hear—
"Because… because the Black Wolf Faction spared my life."
A tear rolled down his cheek.
"They told me—if I lied to the town and only blamed the other two…"
"…they'd let me live."
His voice cracked.
"And I was scared. I'm still scared."
A whisper now.
"But… I can't lie anymore."
"I want the truth to be heard."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Liam, Zefora, and Sistie stood frozen, their faces pale. The Black Wolf envoy's leader had gone rigid, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.
The crowd—once so eager to condemn, to praise, to rally—now stood in stunned silence.
Because what do you do when the truth you thought you knew shatters in front of you?
When the protectors are just another set of killers?
When the victim you pitied now stands before you, small and trembling, yet speaking with a voice that cuts deeper than any blade?
The Town Head didn't move. His gaze never left Nayra's face.
Searching.
Weighing.
Was this child truly a victim, broken but brave?
Or was he something else entirely?
Nayra held that gaze, his own eyes wide, wet, guileless.
Inside, he was laughing.
Look at them. Look at how they scramble.
The Black Wolves, exposed.
The Red Hawks and Golden Snakes, no longer the sole villains.
The town, now drowning in doubt.
And him?
At the center of it all.
Pulling every string.
The Town Head finally stepped back.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The question hung in the air, thick and suffocating:
Who is this boy, really?
A victim?
Or a devil wearing innocence like a second skin?
Nayra lowered his head, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
The perfect picture of grief.
The perfect lie.
as he think to himself that and said to himself in his mind...
Look at them.
Look at their faces—stunned, horrified, betrayed. As if the world itself has cracked beneath their feet. As if truth is something sacred, something pure.
Fools.
Truth is just another weapon. And I wield it better than any of them.
The Black Wolves thought they could use me? That I would be their pawn, their tragic little orphan to parade around while they played the heroes?
No.
All success belongs to me.
Not to them. Not to the Red Hawks, not to the Golden Snakes, not even to the Town Head with his piercing gaze and his warrior's aura.
Mine.
Every victory, every rise, every scrap of power—it all flows to me in the end.
Because I am the one who orchestrates the fall.
They'll tear each other apart now.
The Black Wolves, exposed as hypocrites. The Red Hawks and Golden Snakes, no longer the sole villains but now just pieces in a larger game. The town, drowning in distrust, in fear.
Good.
Let them fight. Let them bleed.
When the factions weaken, when the Town Head is forced to act, when order starts to crumble—
That's when I rise.
A little instability is all it takes. A crack in the foundation.
And then?
I'll be the one to reshape it all.