Void Tree Chronicles

Wes' breath came in wet, rattling gasps. Blood in his lungs? Probably. Didn't matter.

Twenty-five years.

And the void-eyed bastard had taken it all away again.

Last time, he'd left Wes alive. Spared him, in a way that had never felt like mercy. Why now?

Too many questions. Not enough answers. But none of it mattered anymore.

Because the void-eyed man was dead.

Wes could still see it—the shock in those abyss-black eyes when he'd unleashed an Ideal Mana Law at Rank C. The disbelief, the raw, gut-deep recognition that Wes had clawed his way to a level of power he was never supposed to reach.

Oh, the struggle it had taken to get here. The pain. The sacrifices. The years spent in the dark, sharpening himself against the grindstone of survival.

And the slaughter that had followed? Glorious.

Wes grinned, teeth slick with blackened blood, tasting iron and triumph.

But even now, even as his body failed him, his mind drifted back. Further. Past the years of war, of blood, of the endless climb.

Back to the day it all started.

The day he was sold.

The warehouse stood as little more than a hollowed-out relic of the past, gutted of anything useful, its rusted metal walls barely holding against the wind's relentless assault. The air reeked of dust and decay, the scent of rotting wood and stale sweat clinging like a second skin. Light leaked through jagged cracks in the walls, cutting across the dirt-covered floor in uneven shards, illuminating the wreckage of another era—splintered crates, rusted tools, forgotten debris from a world that had long since left them behind.

The space was too vast, too empty. Sound stretched and lingered, turning every movement into an echo that seemed to hang in the air too long. The slow shuffle of boots against concrete. The groaning protest of weakened beams overhead. The ragged breaths of the orphans pressed against the far wall, huddled together like cornered prey.

Then they came.

King's men entered without urgency, moving with the easy confidence of those who already owned the ground they walked on. This wasn't a hunt. The hunt was over.

And then there was him.

The last to enter, deliberate and unhurried, each step grinding into the dust-coated floor. He wasn't the biggest or the strongest, but he didn't need to be. His presence filled the room like an iron weight on the chest, suffocating without a word.

Broad-shouldered, scarred, his armor a mismatched patchwork of steel and hardened leather—battered but intact, each dent and crack a testament rather than a flaw. The sword at his hip rested with casual ease, sharp, well-kept. A weapon, not an ornament.

His gaze swept over the orphans, slow, indifferent.

Most were nothing—skin, bones, fear.

The weak wouldn't last. The strong? Maybe. But even they were brittle, still too young to understand the depths survival demanded.

He exhaled, stretching his shoulders as if shaking off a dull, practiced routine.

Then he smiled.

It wasn't friendly.

A voice, low and edged with impatience, cut through the thick, stale air.

"Line up. Now."

No explanations. No coaxing.

But, of course, no one moved.

Because orphans didn't obey.

They ran.

That was what had kept them alive. That was what they did best.

And King's men knew that.

They weren't here to give orders. They were here to end the chase.

The lead man stepped forward, the weight of his presence pressing down on the room like a stone sinking in deep water.

He sighed, almost disappointed.

"I get it," he said, voice light, almost casual, as if he weren't standing in a room full of half-starved children. "You hear 'line up,' and you think, 'That's not gonna end well for me.'"

He spread his hands in an open gesture—one that might have seemed inviting if not for the dried blood crusted along his knuckles.

"But let's be honest." His gaze flicked over them, unimpressed. "You lot are small. Weak. Barely worth the trouble. Not a single one of you is making it out there alone."

A pause. A tilt of the head, considering.

"But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe one of you is different. Real clever. Real fast. Maybe you think you can slip out, scurry into the dark, live another day."

The smirk that followed was slow, amused.

"Go ahead. Try."

And they did.

Because orphans didn't obey.

They ran.

The first bolted. Then another. Then all at once, a frantic scramble toward the exit, toward the slim, impossible hope that maybe—just maybe—one of them would make it.

The lead man didn't move. Didn't chase.

He sighed, long and tired, like a man weary of teaching the same lesson.

Then, without urgency, without effort, he reached out.

A hand caught a wrist.

A girl yelped, wrenched off the ground like a discarded rag.

She was weak. Too weak. Skin stretched too thin, legs that wobbled even when standing still. A survivor by accident, not ability.

And the orcs wouldn't want her anyway.

That was why they chose her.

She thrashed, kicked, but there was nothing behind it. No weight. No real fight.

Her breath hitched, horror creeping in slow, sinking deep.

"No—"

Crack.

Her arm snapped like dry wood.

The scream that tore from her throat wasn't just pain—it was raw, shrill, something primal. Not the cry of a person but of an animal caught in a trap, realizing too late that escape was no longer an option.

She crumpled, her small body folding in on itself, curling around the ruined limb as if holding it tighter could undo the break. Her fingers spasmed, clenching and unclenching, reaching for something—help, mercy, anything—that wasn't coming.

The lead man barely reacted. He adjusted his grip, hoisting her higher with the ease of someone lifting a sack of grain.

She was ten, maybe younger, though starvation had stolen the softness from her face, leaving behind sharp bones and hollow cheeks. Her stringy brown hair, uneven and matted, stuck to the dirt-streaked skin of her face. A tattered winter coat, two sizes too big, hung from her frail frame, its fabric stiff with old grime, its sleeves torn at the ends where desperate fingers had clutched it for warmth. Beneath it, her bare legs, scraped and bruised, trembled with the effort to hold herself together.

Her sobs hitched—sharp, gasping, the sound of something drowning in air.

"Get in line."

Calm. Bored. Like he wasn't holding a broken, sobbing child in his hands.

No one moved.

He sighed.

Crack.

Her leg this time. The sound was wetter, flesh and bone caving under his grip. Something dark splattered onto the dirt floor.

The girl howled.

But this time, it wasn't just pain.

This was the moment she stopped believing the world would ever let her go.

Wes stared, frozen, watching as she convulsed in the dirt, her body shuddering, curled around itself like she could shrink small enough to disappear.

No one breathed.

"This is what happens when you make things difficult," the man said, finally letting her go.

She hit the ground in a heap, whimpering, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. She didn't move to run. Didn't even try to crawl. There was nowhere left to go.

The lead man turned his gaze on the rest of them.

"Get. In. Line."

No hesitation this time.

They listened.

Wes shuffled forward, head down, staring straight ahead. Some of the orphans cried, muffled sounds of fear swallowed by the silence. Others, like him, only watched, empty-eyed. They didn't know where they were going.

But they had no tears left to shed.

King's men led them out, footsteps crunching in the dirt, leaving the broken girl behind, sobbing in the cold.