Frederick lay on the ground, gasping for air, his once unshakable composure shattered as Sabir towered above him. The pain from the blow Sabir had landed still reverberated through his body, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. He tried to lift his head but could barely move, his limbs heavy and unresponsive. How? He couldn’t make sense of it. Sabir—a boy with no Esper powers, no noble bloodline, no formal training—had brought him, a seasoned Esper of the Voltaire family, to the brink of death.


    The thought sent shivers through his body, and for the first time in his life, Frederick felt something he hadn’t experienced in decades.


    Fear.


    Sabir was equally exhausted, his chest heaving as blood dripped from many wounds. He clutched at his side, where one of Frederick’s knives had left a deep gash, but he stood tall over the defeated man. The wind had picked up, carrying the distant howls of the wasteland, but here, in this moment, everything was quiet. Grim silence passed between them.


    Frederick’s mind, however, was far from quiet. His thoughts raced, connecting dots that had once seemed unrelated, and a cold realization dawned on him. How could Sabir be so strong? It wasn’t just raw strength—it was something more. Something unnatural.


    Suddenly, an old memory resurfaced, a scene from the Voltaire patriarch’s office. Noah—usually composed, the pride of the family—had been shaken, unnerved after his evaluation of that boy they’d imprisoned. Zabo, that was his name. Noah had been adamant that the boy had power, even though every test showed him to be a dud. The orb said nothing. But Noah couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, that there was power lurking beneath the surface.


    Frederick had brushed it off as paranoia. He laughed at the young Voltaire overthinking things. But now, seeing Sabir standing above him—bloodied, battered, but victorious—Frederick felt a creeping sense of dread. What if Noah had been right? What if there were more like Sabir, people hiding in plain sight, posing as duds but possessing something far more dangerous?


    Frederick’s chest tightened with fear. The implications of his thoughts spiraled out of control. Five percent of the population were duds. That was the statistic. What if even a fraction of them were capable of what Sabir had just done? How many people were walking around, unnoticed, harboring untapped power?


    Sabir bent down and picked up one of Frederick’s knives, flipping it in his hand as if testing the weight. The cold metal glinted in the dim light as he stared at it, his face devoid of emotion.


    Frederick swallowed hard, his throat dry. “You’ve got me,” he said, his voice shaky but defiant. “So... what now?”


    Sabir didn’t hesitate. His voice, low and dark, cut through the stillness. “I’m going to kill you.”


    Frederick’s eyes widened as Sabir stepped closer, the knife glinting ominously in his hand. But before Sabir could make the fatal move, Frederick forced himself to speak again, knowing he had to buy time, had to try something. “Wait,” he gasped. “Let me... let me say something before you kill me.”


    Sabir hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he considered the man at his feet. He could have killed Frederick in an instant, but something in the way Frederick spoke caught his attention. He stepped back, still holding the knife, but giving Frederick a chance to speak.


    Frederick drew a shaky breath, his mind racing. If this was his last chance, he needed to make it count. “It was me,” he said, hoarsely. “I killed Cynthia Quinn. No one else. Me. But if you promise not to harm the rest of the Voltaire family, I’ll tell you everything. Spare them, Sabir. They don’t need to suffer for what I did.”


    Sabir’s grip on the knife tightened, his knuckles turning white. He stared at Frederick, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of something—anger, disbelief, maybe both—flashed in his eyes. “You think you can barter for your life?” Sabir asked, his voice low and dangerous. He shook his head slowly, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “You think I’ll stop here? No, Frederick. I’ll make all of you suffer. Every. Last. One.”


    Frederick’s heart raced, but he forced himself to remain calm, even though the weight of Sabir’s words pressed down on him. He needed to shift the conversation. Something. Anything.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    “What about Warren?” Frederick said suddenly, a desperate edge creeping into his voice. “He’s a Voltaire too. Your friends with him, aren’t you?”


    Sabir hesitated, the knife lowering slightly as Frederick’s words hit home. “Warren...” Sabir murmured, his voice uncertain for a moment. “He’s... an exception.”


    Frederick pounced on the hesitation, pushing forward with every ounce of will he had left. “An exception?” he repeated, his voice rising slightly as he clung to the last thread of hope. “Do you think Warren will stand by and watch you destroy his family? No, Sabir. He’s not that kind of man. You were a powerless child once, crying out for justice, for revenge. And everyone laughed. But look at you now—all powerful, strong. Do you think Warren will look at you and see a friend? No. He’ll see the filthy little rat, the monster you’ve become.”


    Sabir’s eyes darkened, the grip on the knife tightening once more. He stepped closer to Frederick, his face inches away from the man’s. “I don’t care,” Sabir growled, his voice cold and emotionless.


    Frederick’s pulse quickened, it had been years since he felt truly cornered. His body trembled with the realization that reason would not sway Sabir, by logic, by appeals to mercy. He’s going to kill me.


    Sabir lifted the knife. His expression hardened with resolve. But Frederick wasn’t done yet. If he could save at least one life, just one, then he could die with some semblance of peace.


    “Vincent,” Frederick gasped, his voice weak but urgent. “Vincent loved Cynthia. He didn’t want her to die. There was no say in the matter. He’s innocent. Spare him. Please.”


    Sabir’s hand wavered, the knife suspended in the air. For a fleeting moment, he seemed to hesitate, his mind flashing back to that dream world, to Cynthia’s voice telling him not to seek revenge. He could see her face, her eyes pleading with him to let go of the hatred that had consumed him for so long. Sabir clenched his jaw, the memory of her soft voice echoing in his ears.


    He sighed.


    The knife fell from his grip, landing in the dirt with a soft thud. Frederick’s eyes widened in disbelief, his chest heaving with relief as he saw the weapon fall from Sabir’s hand.


    “He spared me.”


    Sensing Sabir’s weakness and lack of killer instinct, Frederick knew he had a chance. Mercy—it was Sabir’s fatal flaw, and Frederick would use it to his advantage. In that split second, he lunged for the knife, victory just within reach. His fingers brushed the hilt. Just one more second, and he would have it. You’ll regret showing such restraint, Frederick thought. Once in possession of his knife, his mission would be complete—Sabir’s life would end, and the Voltaires would be safe.


    But then, just as his fingertips grazed the cold metal, everything shifted. A shadow fell over him like a death sentence. Panic surged through his body before he could even react, and the crushing weight of Sabir’s grip clamped down on his skull. One hand locked tightly around his chin, the other pressing brutally into the crown of his head. The pressure was overwhelming, like being ensnared by the fangs of a wolf. His triumph vanished in an instant.


    His mind screamed at him to move, to thrash, to do anything, but his body was unresponsive, frozen in a state of shock and disbelief. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the howling wind and his own desperate thoughts. The icy grip on his chin tightened, forcing his head back, and the world tilted nauseatingly as he stared up into Sabir’s cold, unrelenting eyes.


    Frederick’s heart pounded wildly, each beat like a drum signaling his impending doom. He tried to breathe, but his chest tightened; each breath felt shallow and frantic. His muscles tensed instinctively, but there was no escaping Sabir’s iron hold. The terror coursing through him was paralyzing, his body trembling uncontrollably as the reality of what was happening set in.


    Sabir didn’t need to speak. His silence was far more menacing than any threat he could have uttered. The sheer strength in his hands, the controlled violence in his movements—it was enough to make Frederick feel utterly powerless, like a mouse caught in the jaws of a predator. Every second dragged on like an eternity as Frederick’s mind raced, desperately searching for a way out, but finding none.


    His mouth opened to protest, but Sabir’s hand muffled his cries, silencing him.


    Sabir leaned in close, his breath hot against Frederick’s ear. “You misunderstood something,” Sabir whispered coldly, his voice like ice. “This isn’t about Cynthia anymore. No. I just really want to kill you.”


    Frederick’s eyes bulged in terror, his muffled screams barely audible as Sabir tightened his grip. And with a sudden, brutal motion, Sabir twisted.


    The sickening crack of bone echoed through the wasteland as Frederick’s body went limp, the life snuffed out of him in an instant. His head lolled to the side, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, and the last vestiges of fear drained from his wide, lifeless eyes.


    Sabir stood over the corpse for a long moment, panting, his hands shaking from the exertion. The adrenaline coursing through his veins faded, leaving behind a deep exhaustion that weighed heavily on him. But it was done. Frederick was dead.


    The wind howled once more, scattering the dust and dirt over the bloodstained ground, carrying away the last remnants of the battle. Sabir stood there, staring down at Frederick’s lifeless form, his mind completely numb…