The Night Walk

The night was a deep scarlet, a shade of dried blood painted across the sky. Around us, entire cities had become nothing but towering infernos. In the gutted streets, among the rubble and ash, silhouettes fled in every direction, desperately trying to reach the relative safety of the bunkers.

This was no ordinary night.

This was a hunting night.

My name is Rashford. I'm nothing but a simple orphan, one more lost soul in this world of ashes.

Today is January 1st. The cursed day when dragons descend from the sky to annihilate what remains of our humanity.

We gave this recurring nightmare a name: "The Night Walk."

Since these monsters first appeared, ninety-one Night Walks have already struck the earth. And never, not once, has a single one ended without its share of corpses.

"Hey, guys! This way!" the guide shouted to cover the infernal noise. "It's definitely the safest route to the eighth bunker gate!"

"We're with you!" a terrified voice answered behind me. "You're the guide, after all!"

We were running. Flames devoured the frames of houses collapsing around us. The air, thick with acrid smoke, reeked of burnt flesh. Everywhere, the ground was littered with mangled bodies.

I had promised myself I wouldn't cry anymore. But even used to death's constant presence... my heart clenched painfully. My hands trembled uncontrollably. My breathing, short and ragged, betrayed me.

It was fear. Pure, visceral terror at the thought of dying here, alone, forgotten by everyone, without leaving the slightest trace of my existence.

Suddenly, a cataclysmic roar tore through the sky.

A gigantic shadow slammed down, shattering the asphalt road right in front of us. A dragon. Its scarlet scales gleamed in the firelight, and the very air around it seemed to vibrate, warped by a crushing aura.

A province-rank dragon.

"What the hell did you do, guide?!" a man screamed, panic twisting his features. "You want us all to die here or what?!"

"We should've stayed hidden!"

"Find a solution! I DON'T WANT TO DIE! DO YOU HEAR ME?!"

No one moved. The sheer pressure of the dragon's aura was enough to paralyze our limbs. We couldn't speak, couldn't breathe... couldn't hope.

*This is the end...*

That was the only thought that crossed my mind.

I closed my eyes, resigned.

"They're here!"

Someone had just shouted. When I cautiously opened my eyes again, the gigantic dragon lay on the ground. Its titanic body was horribly crushed. And at the center of its chest, its core... shattered clean.

My brain couldn't process the scene. But when I saw him, everything became perfectly clear.

A man was walking calmly through the blaze. His face was impenetrable, devoid of the slightest trace of fear. His eyes... his eyes reflected death itself.

Joe Ng-Kak. Captain of the First Anti-Dragon Brigade.

"It's him!" the guide cried out, his voice choked with admiration. "Humanity's strongest Slayer! Captain Joe Ng-Kak!"

I stood frozen. He was young. Far too young to give off such an impression of absolute power. But his aura... it was as if he'd been built for one purpose alone: exterminating these monsters.

Every step he took echoed like a thunderclap. Every dragon unlucky enough to get close collapsed instantly, struck down by an invisible force. Never in my life had I witnessed something so... magnificent.

*I'd love to be like him... I want to be like him.*

"Hey, kid."

A voice called out from behind me. I spun around quickly. A man stood there, wearing a relaxed smile. His heavy black coat bore the Brigade's silver emblem.

"Sorry to disappoint you," he said calmly, "but your wish is simply impossible."

He paused, sizing me up.

"Even if you give everything you've got, you'll never be him. If you want to become somebody, start by being yourself first."

"I understand..." I stammered. "But when you deeply admire someone, isn't it normal to want to be like them?"

The man shrugged, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"Maybe... but not in Joe's case."

He turned slightly away before adding:

"Oh, by the way, I'm Caster. Vice-Captain of the First Brigade. Keep going this way, it'll take you straight to the bunker. And if you've still got existential questions, come by the Academy sometime."

Then he vanished into the smoke, without another word.

---

A few hours later. Aboard the First Brigade's helicopter.

"You know what, Joe?" Caster said, his voice drowned out by the roar of the blades. "During the assault today, I met a pretty funny kid."

"Why the hell would I care about your stupid stories?" Joe shot back, his gaze fixed on the burning horizon, not even bothering to turn his head.

"He wanted to be like you. He wanted to become you."

Joe hesitated ever so slightly—imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him—then let out a sigh that almost sounded like a bitter laugh.

"What a stupid idea."

"You think he'll ever manage it?" Caster asked, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

"No. Not a chance."

The radio crackled, cutting off the exchange.

"Captain," the pilot's metallic voice announced. "We're approaching the target. Prepare for landing."

---

**Chapter 2: The Captain's Burden**

Inside the bunker.

Thanks to Joe's unexpected intervention, we had survived. Three whole days of relative calm, free rations, and false security. Then, the inevitable return to everyday misery.

But this time, something had changed in me. An idea had taken hold, sharp and clear.

*I want to understand why I'm still alive. I refuse to die like a coward. And the only way to find an answer... is to get into the Academy.*

*There, I'd have a roof over my head, food in my belly, and who knows... maybe even a girl.*

Next destination: the Academy.

---

I stand motionless in front of the office's massive bay window. My gaze lost in the sickly red glow bathing the metropolis.

Me, I'm Joe Ng-Kak. Nineteen years old. Captain of the First Anti-Dragon Brigade.

Tomorrow, like every damn year, it'll be the Night Walk. Tomorrow, those creatures devoid of any natural law will sweep across the Empire of Pocina, reducing everything to ashes. As a captain, hesitation isn't an option for me. They're not worth it. They have no names, no souls. Their only destiny is to be erased from this world.

The door swings open abruptly, along with the sharp slap of several files.

"Still staring at that old photo?" a familiar, irritating voice calls out.

I don't even bother turning around. Caster bursts into the room, stacks of paperwork tucked under his arm. Twenty-seven years old. My vice-captain. Always too loud, always in a mood that's terrible for my patience.

"Don't mix your crappy stuff with mine," I growl menacingly.

He drops the files heavily onto my desk with a long, theatrical sigh.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. All this needs to be signed by tonight. Could you handle it yourself for once?"

I let out an irritated groan. His comeback is instant, almost mechanical:

"Let me remind you, oh great chief, that you're the captain. Your signature is law here."

"It pisses me off," I reply coldly.

He's half annoyed, half teasing. His usual routine.

"Watch the collateral damage during your interventions, Joe. It's entirely because of you that we're drowning in all this paperwork. You're a savior to these people, whether you like it or not."

"I'm not a savior. I'm a goddamn dragon killer."

He falls silent for a moment, giving me an unreadable look—a strange mix of genuine admiration and quiet concern.

"Tomorrow's January 1st. You know what that means?"

"I know," I say bitterly. "And I haven't slept right in three damn nights."

---

Once the signature chore is dealt with, the morning drags on at the training grounds. The vast hall echoes with the sharp clash of blades and barked orders. My elite squad is gathered: Berry, Lunin, Nice—and Caster watching from the sidelines. Every Brigade in the Empire is split into squads; mine only counts five members. But they're the sharpest, the most dangerous.

Together, we run a full-scale simulation exercise: a continental-rank dragon rises before us, roars virtually, and we take it down through a series of perfectly coordinated maneuvers. It's clean. It's surgical. Nothing exceptional, really. But nothing human either.

Later that evening, I retreat to the solitude of my armored apartment. A few hours of restless sleep, then the shrill alarm blares.

It's five in the morning. HQ wakes up all at once, like a massive organism snapping into full alert. Sirens scream their death song, the clatter of weapons being loaded echoes through the corridors, orders snap out sharply. Caster pokes his head into the prep room and spots me, already in combat gear. I never wait until the last minute.

Berry, Lunin, and Nice join me in silence. Nice catches my eye and offers a smile. A brief, sharp smile, devoid of the slightest warmth.

"Helicopter ready for takeoff," the pilot's static-laced voice announces in our earpieces.

We tear off the ground. The world unfolding beneath our feet is already nothing more than a massive playing field consumed by flames.

Suddenly, I spot my target on the horizon. A provincial dragon. Massive. Ugliness incarnate. Instantly, a familiar, dull sensation stirs deep in my gut; a violent urge I no longer even try to control. The irrepressible desire to rip out its eyes, to tear off its head, to crush its damn core in my hands. There's no point fighting my nature. When the killing impulse takes hold of me, I never suppress it.

Before I've even consciously formed the thought, I'm already on my feet. I throw myself into the void, out of the helicopter mid-flight.

The howling wind crushes my eardrums. The scorching air whips my face like shattered glass. The beast's scaly mass gives way beneath my feet as I slam violently onto its back. The intense heat of its scales climbs up through my palms, and the brutal, sickening smell of its core hits my nostrils like a morbid promise.

I let my mental energy flow freely. It answers my call. Always. It obeys my will alone.

Five minutes.

That's my absolute limit. I feel the delicate membrane of reality bend and warp between my fingers.

So, through sheer force of mind, I command it to stop.

For me, the entire world suddenly begins to slow, sharpening with an abnormal clarity. The raging fire becomes a simple frozen photograph, the furious wind freezes into a suspended breath, the swirling ash turns into microscopic, motionless dust particles. The frantic heartbeats, the clamor of terror, the widespread panic—everything stretches to the extreme, like an elastic band pulled to its breaking point.

In this zone that belongs only to me, I perceive with absolute clarity every brutally interrupted movement, every muscle fiber frozen mid-effort. The seconds tick by with unbearable slowness, heavy and crystalline. My mind is clear. I can think. I can act.

I don't speak a word, I feel no hesitation. A blade of pure mental energy materializes in my hand, sharp and merciless like a tear in the fabric of reality. I approach the precise spot. I cut.

The reptilian core gives way instantly under my surgical strike, split clean as if by an invisible cleaver. I violently absorb the residual heat, crush the vital pulse in my grip, and the nerve center shatters into a million silent fragments.

Five minutes. More than enough.

Then, I abruptly release the mental pressure.

The world resumes its chaotic course with tremendous brutality, as if a missing frame had just been reinserted into a film: a moment of unexplained violence, a titanic beast collapsing heavily to the ground without a single soul having witnessed the execution. The screams of terror rise again, the wind howls once more in my ears, and the horizon blazes as if nothing had happened.

Outside my temporal bubble, it's impossible to find the slightest trace of what just occurred there. All that remains is a gigantic corpse, a gaping hole, and the stunned disbelief of the survivors.

As I land gracefully on the scorched ground and straighten up, I spot, a few dozen meters away, a small group of terrified civilians. Among them, a grimy kid. His huge eyes shine with an improbable mix of absolute dread and boundless admiration, fixed on me. I feel no shred of desire to play the cheap hero. I know full well he's incapable of grasping the horror of what he just witnessed.

The helicopter finally lands a few minutes later, kicking up clouds of ash. Caster, already on the ground, scans the area looking for me. On his way, he catches the feverish whispers of a small group of survivors.

"I'd love to be like him," one of them murmurs naively.

Caster slowly turns his head and meets the kid's eyes. He leans toward him, wearing his usual politeness, deliberately detached.

"Hey, kid..." he begins, "I'm afraid your wish is impossible to fulfill. Even if you give everything you've got, you'll never be like him. If you want to be somebody, start by being yourself."

The kid—Rashford, if I remember correctly—answers in a trembling voice:

"I understand... but when you admire someone, isn't it normal to want to be like them?"

Caster gives a sharp, dismissive smile.

"Not in Joe's case."

He pauses briefly, theatrically, before introducing himself.

"By the way, I'm Caster. Vice-Captain of the First Brigade. Keep going this way and you'll reach the bunker in one piece. If you have more questions, come by the Academy."

Caster slips away right after, melting into the night to hunt down and eliminate the remaining scattered dragons. We regroup a little farther on, take down the last attackers in a bath of black blood, then climb silently into the extraction helicopter.

Inside the cabin, as we gain altitude again, Caster picks the conversation back up in a mocking tone.

"You know what, Joe? I met a pretty funny kid today."

I stay locked in silence.

"He wanted to be like you. He wanted to become you."

I let out a long breath, empty of all emotion.

"What a stupid idea."

"You think he'll make it?" he asks, an unbearable smile spreading across his lips.

"Not a chance," I say flatly.

The pilot's voice comes through the intercom:

"Approaching HQ. Prepare for landing."

I sink my murderous gaze into the absolute void, and let the night reclaim its place—always hungry, always lurking in the shadows, always ready to strike. My butcher's work will never end.

And tomorrow, once again, I'll have to kill.