Revenge of the Broken Soul: Vows of Blood and Fire

In the middle of a bright, sunny day, Laxiel was playing with his mother. His cousins and younger brother ran wild across the wide, grassy lawn, their laughter echoing over the estate. The air was thick with the warmth of childhood joy, the kind that briefly made them forget the heavy shadows always lingering over their family. The sun’s golden rays bathed everything in a soft, safe light, making the world seem untouchable—almost as if nothing bad could ever happen beneath such a perfect sky.

Then, without warning, a loud bang shattered the peace. The sharp, jarring sound tore through the air like a hammer through glass, sending invisible shards of fear slicing into the moment.

Laxiel’s mother—who had been the only adult left to care for the children since his father, uncle, and aunt had tragically died in the last devastating incident—immediately shot to her feet. Her face drained of color, dread tightening her features. There was no confusion, only a grim, terrifying certainty. Their family had already lost so much, and now, with only three boys and one girl left in their bloodline, the danger felt more urgent, more suffocating than ever. She had taken on the crushing responsibility of protecting them all, carrying a burden no one else could shoulder.

“You know what to do,” she said firmly, her voice trembling but fierce enough to cut through the rising panic. “Now, on the count of three, all of you must hide. Do you understand? HIDE, okay?” Her eyes scanned each of the children, fierce and shining with a terror she refused to let overpower her courage.

Laxiel, his younger brother, and his cousins scattered in different directions, their small feet pounding against the wooden floors and tiled halls as their mother began counting down. Her voice was low, almost shaking, but the urgency in it sharpened every word—“One… Two…”

By the time she reached three, a thick, unnatural silence blanketed everything. Laxiel crouched behind a thick curtain near the window, holding his breath, every muscle tensed and ready to bolt. He waited. And waited. The stillness pressed down on him, heavier with every second.

A part of him began to wonder if this was just another one of his mother’s intense drills. She had done it before—to teach them how to survive when fear clawed at their senses. Maybe this was just another test.

Curiosity tugged at him. Against his better instincts, he crept out from behind the curtain, inching carefully toward the door. His heart hammered against his ribs, each step a battle between fear and recklessness. But just as he edged forward, a barrage of loud gunshots ripped through the silence.

His heart leapt into his throat. Panic exploded inside him, electric and paralyzing.

Then—through the chaos—he heard one of his cousins scream. A sound so raw, so primal, that it twisted something deep in his chest.

Laxiel froze, straining to hear more. A minute passed—or maybe it was an hour; time bent and stretched beneath the weight of terror.

Then came the sound: footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

Someone was inside.

And he knew, without even seeing, that it wasn’t his mother.

Laxiel clutched the edge of the doorway with trembling fingers, his wide eyes darting down the dim hallway. The warmth of the sunny day seemed to vanish all at once, replaced by a creeping, icy dread. Pressing his back flat against the wall, he tried to steady his breath, tried to make himself small and invisible.

The heavy boots creaked across the wooden floors. Whoever they belonged to wasn’t in any rush. They were confident—predatory. That terrified him even more than the gunshots. Each step was slow, mocking, a cruel reminder that the danger was hunting them one by one.

He dared not move. He dared not even breathe too loudly.

His mind raced in frantic circles: Where was his mother? Were his cousins okay? Was his little brother still hiding—or had he been found already?

A muffled sob floated from deeper in the house. It was faint, but loud enough to stop the intruder in their tracks.

The footsteps paused.

Silence pressed down once more, heavier and more suffocating than before.

Laxiel prayed—prayed with every scrap of himself—that the intruder would turn back, that they would leave. That somehow, this nightmare would pass.

But then came the crash of a door being kicked open.

The walls trembled with the force of it. Another gunshot rang out. And another.

Instinct took over. Laxiel dropped to the ground, curling in on himself as he clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the terrifying sounds. Tears burned hot behind his eyelids. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to find his mother—but fear locked his body in place.

And then he heard it—her voice.

“RUN!”

His mother’s voice, raw and desperate, called out from somewhere unseen. “RUN NOW!”

That was all it took.

Before his mind could even catch up, his legs propelled him forward.

He sprinted down the corridor, his bare feet slipping on the polished floor, lungs burning as he raced toward the basement stairs—one of the hidden places his mother had shown them long ago, just in case. Behind him, the house exploded into chaos—yelling, crashing, the unmistakable pounding of boots against wood.

He didn’t dare look back.

He couldn’t.

All that mattered now was reaching safety. For himself. For his brother.

For the last, fragile pieces of a family that fate seemed determined to destroy, no matter how fiercely they fought to survive.

Out on the street, he wandered aimlessly, not knowing where to go. The world around him was loud and indifferent, filled with people who passed by without a second glance. Every day blurred into the next—sleepless nights under cold skies, hungry days that gnawed at his belly, and long hours spent trying not to fall apart. Sometimes, the loneliness felt unbearable. Other times, it was the silence that broke him.

There were moments when hope flickered, but more often, despair took over. He was just a child in a world that offered no kindness. No hand reached out. No voice called his name.

Desperate and starving, with no money and nothing left to lose, he turned to the only option he had left. His last resort.

One night, stomach growling and head spinning from exhaustion, he walked into a small convenience store. His eyes scanned the shelves—not with curiosity, but with hunger. His hands trembled as he reached for a loaf of bread and a pack of instant noodles. He knew it was wrong, but survival had blurred the line between right and necessary.

Just as he was about to slip out the door, a strong hand grabbed his arm. Panic surged through him. He expected yelling, maybe the police, maybe worse.

But instead, a calm voice spoke.

“Hey. Are you hungry?”

He looked up, startled.

It was a priest—an older man with kind eyes and a weathered face, dressed in modest clothes. He didn’t scold or threaten. He simply looked at the boy with quiet understanding, as if he’d seen this before—seen him before.

And just like that, in a moment that felt too gentle to be real, he was saved.