Chapter 5 Evil isn’t born, but created — Part 2

Evil isn’t born, but created — Part 2

12th October 2024 (17th April Revamp)

Harith charged at the old man, his fist crackling with electricity.

The old man spoke calmly,

“A student attacking his new teacher? Where are your manners, kid?”

He casually pulled out a black stylus pen and held it vertically, blocking Harith’s strike.

As Harith’s electric punch made contact with the stylus, his attack was nullified. It was as if the old man had canceled it—just like a video game parry. Harith was left wide open.

(Where did my electricity go…?! Did this guy just cancel my attack like a game character?)

The old man, his pen still clashing with Harith’s fist, smirked.

“But yeah… it was rude of me not to introduce myself. You may call me Mr. Mutakamel.”

“I couldn’t give a damn who you are. You’re going down, Mutakamel.”

“Honorifics, student!”

Taking advantage of Harith’s vulnerability, Mr. Mutakamel quickly shifted the stylus and stabbed him in the side.

Harith gritted his teeth and spat out blood. The stylus was sharp. A thin line of blood trickled from the wound.

“Y-You…”

Harith winced in pain, then suddenly released a surge of electricity around his body to push Mr. Mutakamel back.

“What?!”

Mr. Mutakamel was thrown off by the sudden discharge. Harith glowed a sharp blue for just a moment as it happened.

“You should introduce yourself,” Mutakamel muttered. “I can’t keep calling you ‘student.’”

Harith sighed.

“I’ll humor you. My name’s Harith Kharaba. And trust me when I say this—I’ll cook you.”

“Hmm… interesting. You know, Mr. Kharaba, I could simply issue a death threat and you’d obey me. Resisting would be futile.”

The words sent a chill down Harith’s spine. He broke a nervous sweat.

“But where’s the fun in that? I might fight you a bit without using that power. Or… I might use it at any moment. Who knows?”

Harith dashed forward again—this time without charging his fist.

“My observations are sharp,” Mutakamel said. “I noticed you didn’t charge your fist. You’re not much of a fast learner, huh?”

He raised the stylus again.

But as Harith got closer, he charged his right foot instead—just slightly—and kicked the old man in the knee.

Mr. Mutakamel dropped to one knee.

“Damn brat…”

“Playing dirty, aren’t—”

Before he could finish, Harith took the opening to charge his fist and punch Mutakamel square in the face, sending him crashing to the ground.

“What’s wrong? Thought your observation was sharp? Didn’t notice a simple switch from punch to kick?”

Mutakamel hit the floor hard, blood trickling from his forehead.

Harith approached him, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

“Didn’t I tell you? I’d never forgive you, old man.”

“W-Wait… hear my story first. It’s worth your time.”

“You’ve got five minutes. Speak before I change my mind.”

The old man took a deep breath.

⸻

A Long Time Ago…

Mutakamel’s father was just an average school nerd—black hair, black glasses, a clean uniform. He aimed for the highest grades possible.

While eating lunch one day, a group of bullies walked by. One of them shoved his head into his plate of foul. They all laughed.

Then came the Arabic insults:

“عيل فاشل يلا. ده انا لو كنت مكانك كنت فنشت تفسي من زمان.”

“Such a loser. If I were you, I’d have ended it a long time ago.”

“فكر في الموضوع ده. هينفعك بدل من الحياة المملك الي انت عايشها.”

“Think about it. It’s better than the pathetic life you’re living.”

Mutakamel said nothing. He knew he shouldn’t listen, but it was hard. He couldn’t focus, and later that day, his exam results suffered.

The bullying never stopped. Boys, girls—everyone seemed to join in.

For the final exam, he studied relentlessly—every day, every hour, every minute.

Then came the popular trio. Three rich girls no one dared to mess with. Two sat behind him. The third wanted his front-row seat to cheat.

She spoke down to him.

“Get up, you boring-ass nerd.”

“What? No! I sat here first. You’re clearly planning to cheat, and since you paid the teacher, he’ll probably help you himself.”

“Oh, you’re not wrong,” she said. “I’ll just use a little force—”

She reached out to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist tightly.

“What made you think I’d let you touch me, bitch?”

The girl dramatically screamed.

“OH! TEACH! HE’S TOUCHING ME AND CALLING ME NAMES!”

“Everyone knows that’s not—”

The teacher appeared behind him and tapped his shoulder.

“Mr. Mutakamel, you’re causing trouble. No final exam for you. You’ll repeat the year while the others graduate.”

The words struck like lightning.

“ENOUGH! ENOUGH! ENOUGH!!”

He shouted three times, voice shaking with rage.

“YOU ALL PAY THE TEACHER TO CHEAT WHILE YOU CAN’T EVEN SPELL! YOU’RE SCUMBAGS!”

He turned to the teacher.

“AND YOU—GETTING BRIBED BY GIRLS THREE TIMES YOUNGER THAN YOU? NO WONDER YOU’RE UNMARRIED. YOU SHOULD’VE BLOWN YOUR HEAD OFF WITH THAT GUN UNDER YOUR DESK!”

The teacher froze. Without a word, he walked to his desk, grabbed the hidden gun—and ended his life in front of everyone.

Screams echoed.

Mutakamel laughed quietly, feeling lighter.

He turned to the girls.

“Look at you. The definition of prostitution. How many times did you spread your legs last week? All for money…”

“And what do you even spend that money on? Makeup and clothes? You still look like clowns.”

“All three of you.”

They stood frozen, falling under his Disposition’s control.

“Do something useful. Take this stylus.”

He tossed a luxurious black pen to the first girl.

“Kill your friends. Two to heaven. You, to hell.”

She obeyed. The others tried resisting, but they couldn’t. They walked toward her—helpless.

One girl even picked up the pen to stab herself.

“It was all bloody, Harith. And I enjoyed every last bit of it.”

Harith stood stunned, speechless.

Then Mutakamel yelled:

“BUT THAT STORY WAS JUST TO DISTRACT YOU!”

He shot a blob of black ink at Harith’s foot. The ink melted through flesh like acid.

Harith dropped to one knee, gritting through the pain.

“How does it feel, ya damn brat?! Getting a taste of your own medicine!”

But Harith simply glared.

Then Mutakamel screamed:

“EVERYONE—KILL EACH OTHER AND YOURSELV—!”

Harith cut him off.

“You lost the moment you tried such a scummy move.”

He reached into the air, grabbed at invisible strings, and pulled.

Suddenly, Mutakamel was electrocuted, the charge continuous and violent.

“When I tricked you and kicked you earlier, I filled your nervous system with electricity. That’s why the kick seemed weak—it wasn’t.”

Despite the pain in his leg, Harith stood and approached.

“Pretty… shocking, isn’t it?”

Mutakamel shrieked,

“N-N-N-N-N-NOOOOOOOO… Y-Y-YOU!”

He reached for his stylus—but crumbled into black ash, blown away by the wind.

Harith turned to Amina, who had just recovered from her trance.

“You okay?”

She replied shakily,

“Y-Yeah… I’m much better now.”

Harith’s injured leg suddenly healed, the wound disappearing completely.

“Let’s go. Before we run into another Disposition user.”

She nodded, and they walked home together.

⸻

Later that night, Harith received a phone call—from Tariq himself.

On the phone:

“Yo, Harith! Come over quick. I need to talk to you about something important. You’ll have to know eventually.”

(Damn… what’s that even about? It’s like 12 AM. But whatever. Rookie numbers.)

Harith replied,

“Yeah, I’m coming right now.”

To be continued…