Chapter 146: Holy Smite

*Date: 33,480 Third Quarter — Thornbrook Village* - A month ago

Light.

Morning light, streaming through the open windows.

Aris opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't. His arm throbbed worse than before. His body felt hollow, drained. And on the table across the room, he saw them.

Glass tubes filled with blood. His blood.

Dark red against the morning sun, lined up like trophies.

Aris's stomach turned. The madman had drained him while he slept. Taken his blood hoping to infuse nanites into himself. Hoping to steal what Aris was born with.

He felt like death. Weak. Empty. But beneath that weakness, something else stirred. His arm felt stronger than it should. His legs too.

The stone must have worked while he slept, he realized. The witness stone had been feeding him power, slowly raising his temporary levels even as Rodran drained his life away.

At the table, Rodran had his back turned. He had somehow found a glass needle and was carefully injecting Aris's blood into his own arm. The man's face was twisted with concentration. With hope.

Aris tested the chain. Still too strong for his normal strength.

He reached for the magic blocker strapped to his head. The metal bands were secured with leather straps, buckled tight. His fingers fumbled at them, but he was too weak. The straps wouldn't budge.

One chance. One hope.

If the witness stone had raised his temporary levels high enough, he might be able to bypass the magic blocker entirely. The device was designed to suppress low-rank magic. But if his power exceeded its threshold...

Aris closed his eyes and began to chant.

The words came from somewhere deep inside him. The prayer he had learned at the academy. The spell that channeled divine wrath. Holy Smite.

His mumbling started low, barely audible. But Rodran heard.

The man spun around, needle still in his arm. "What the hell..."

Aris opened his eyes. They burned with golden light, reflected from within. The rage of four years. The pain of every loss. The fury of every betrayal. It all poured into the spell.

Rodran's face went white. He dropped the needle and scrambled toward the bat by the fireplace. "It's impossible. Someone of your level shouldn't..."

But Aris completed his chant.

"HOLY SMITE!"

The words tore from his throat like thunder. Above Rodran's head, the air split open. Golden lightning manifested, crackling with divine fury.

Rodran looked up. For one frozen moment, his eyes met Aris's. They were begging. Pleading. The eyes of a man who finally understood what he had done.

But Aris was past mercy.

He dropped the lightning.

The small room roared. The windows burst outward. The door exploded off its hinges. Golden fire consumed everything in its path.

The force wave slammed Aris against the wall. His chains rattled. His vision swam. But he kept his eyes fixed on Rodran.

On what was left of Rodran.

The man lay motionless on the floor. His body was red and black, skin charred and cracked. His veins had burst open, dark lines visible beneath the ruined flesh. Smoke rose from his clothes.

He wasn't moving.

Aris breathed heavily, trying to process what he had done. His heart hammered in his chest. His hands shook. But he felt no regret.

Only relief.

---

Voices outside. Shouting. Footsteps pounding on dirt roads.

People rushed through the shattered doorway. Villagers in simple clothes, their faces shocked and confused. They looked from Aris, chained to the wall, to Rodran's burned corpse on the floor. And back again.

No one moved.

Then an elderly woman pushed through the crowd. She was small and bent with age, her white hair pulled back in a severe bun. But her eyes were sharp, and they missed nothing.

She walked past Rodran's body without a second glance and stopped in front of Aris.

"My child," she said softly. "Are you alright?"

Aris tried to hold back his tears. Failed. "No..."

The old woman turned to the gathered villagers. "What the hell are you waiting for? Free him! Bring hot tea and bread!"

A man raised his arm, pointing at Aris. "He killed Rodran! Why should we help him?"

"And he did good." The old woman's voice cut like a blade. "You all know his dark nature. I was telling you for years. He killed his mother when he was young. And last year, his father."

Gasps from the crowd. Murmurs of disbelief.

"No, it can't be..."

"Can't you see?" The old woman walked to the table and gestured at the blood tubes. "The boy is chained. Look at these. Blood tubes. He was draining this child's blood like a vampire."

The crowd fell silent. Their eyes moved from the chains to the tubes to Rodran's corpse. Understanding dawned on their faces.

Someone stepped forward and began working on Aris's shackles.

---

They freed him.

Someone brought warm water and helped clean his wounds. Someone else pressed bread and cheese into his hands. The old woman made him drink tea with honey, saying it would restore his strength.

But Aris barely tasted any of it.

He was still seeing Rodran's face. Those begging eyes. That moment of recognition before the lightning fell.

When his hands stopped shaking enough to hold things, he gathered his belongings. His bag. The blood magic book. The mage robe Rodran had promised him. The enchanted dagger. He stuffed them all into his pack.

Then he walked to Rodran's body.

The villagers watched in silence as Aris stood over the corpse. He looked at the man who had chained him. Beaten him. Taken his blood. Tried to steal everything he was.

Aris spat on him.

Then he walked out the door.

---

The villagers called after him. Shouted his name. Begged him to stay, to rest, to let them help.

But Aris didn't look back.

He walked through the village, past the inn where he had tried to teach Rodran, past the square where the caravan had stopped. His feet carried him toward the main road. Toward the capital. Toward everything that remained.

Footsteps behind him. Someone running.

Aris didn't turn. Didn't slow. But the footsteps grew closer, and finally a hand caught his arm.

He spun, ready to fight.

It was a boy. A child, maybe twelve years old. He was panting, out of breath, clutching a cloth bag to his chest.

The boy held out the bag.

Aris took it, confused. Inside were different kinds of food. Bread. Dried meat. Fruit. A small block of cheese wrapped in wax paper.

The boy didn't speak. He just nodded once, then turned and ran back toward the village.

Aris watched him go. His throat tightened.

"Thank you," he whispered.

But he wasn't ready to live one more second in this place. He turned back to the road and started walking.

---

The road stretched before him, winding through hills and forests toward the distant capital. He had no caravan. No companions. No map.

But he had reasons to keep going.

The animal kidnappers. Tartarus. They had taken Fox, and they would answer for it.

The tournament. He needed to win. Needed the prize. Needed the Locke to save Lyra.

And now he had another reason.

Revenge.

Revenge against everyone who had hurt him. Everyone who had taken from him. Everyone who had looked at him and seen something to exploit.

Aris pulled the mage robe tight around his shoulders and walked into the morning light. His body was weak. His spirit was wounded. But his will was iron.

He would reach the capital.

He would find Fox.

He would win.

And heaven help anyone who stood in his way