Rage Unleashed

I stood frozen in the middle of the street, my chest rising and falling in ragged bursts.

The building in front of me blurred through the sting of tears.

That voice. That cursed voice.

It lied to me.

It promised me a chance to avenge my wife's death.

A chance to save my daughters.

But all I found was loss. The world had moved on without me, my daughters turned to legends, and I… I was nothing but a ghost time had forgotten.

A shout broke through my thoughts.

"Hey! You there!"

The same foreman from the wine house stomped toward me, rag in hand, barking orders like an angry hound. "If you're done daydreaming, there's work to be done! Barrels don't roll themselves!"

Before I could speak, a sudden commotion erupted at the far end of the street — the clatter of hooves, boots, and metal against stone.

Soldiers.

They stormed the yard without warning, banners flapping with the crest of some unseen king.

The workers froze — then chaos.

Barrels overturned, spilling wine like blood across the cobbles. A woman screamed as a soldier kicked a crate, shattering the glass inside.

The foreman cursed. "Not again. Didn't we pay them already?"

I turned to him. "Who are they?"

"The King's men," he muttered bitterly. "Here for their tax — third time this month. Bastards."

My jaw tightened. I watched as a man rushed out of the house, hands raised, pleading. An older woman followed him, her voice trembling with desperation. I couldn't hear the words, but I knew that sound — the plea before the whip falls.

"Who are they?" I asked again.

"The owners, dumbbell!" the foreman snapped. "You really don't know that? How do you work here and not..."

He stopped when he saw me walking away.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

I didn't answer. My blood burned with something ancient — a fury long buried. Those soldiers were no different from Darius. The same arrogance. The same cruelty parading as law.

I couldn't save my daughters back then.

But maybe I could protect the ones who carried their blood now.

The soldiers surrounded the yard. Their captain — a thick-necked brute with a rusted breastplate — yanked his arm free from her desperate grip. "Enough of this! Take what's owed!" He swung his hand and struck her across the face.

Before I realized I'd moved, I was there — catching her before she hit the ground.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

Her eyes lifted to mine — weary but bright. "Thank you," she whispered, voice frail yet warm.

Something stirred deep in me. I didn't know her, yet I did. A spark, a thread, something that reached beyond centuries.

I helped her stand, then turned to face the soldiers.

"That's not how you treat an elder, boy."

The captain scoffed. "Boy? You've got some nerve, peasant. Who are you calling boy?"

He looked quite older in years, perhaps, but to me — to what I was now — he was just a child.

"I said," I stepped closer, my voice a growl, "leave her alone. Leave this place alone while you still can."

Gasps rippled through the workers. The old woman tugged weakly at my sleeve. "Please, don't…"

But it was too late. The fury hit me like a hammer — hot and blinding, as if Darius himself stood before me again. I remembered the helplessness, the disbelief, the sound of my wife's final breath. I saw my daughters taken from me, their screams echoing through the forge. That pain hadn't faded — it was still burning in my chest, still raw.

And these men… these arrogant fools… they were no different.

He barked a laugh. "And if I don't?"

"Then I'll make you."

His grin faltered. "Get him."

They came at me with cudgels and short blades.

I met the first with my fist. The crack echoed like thunder. The man flew backward, rolled twice, and slammed into a wall.

For a heartbeat, I just stared — my knuckles stung, but the man lay motionless. I barely touched him. The strength in my arm didn't feel real, as if my own body no longer belonged to me.

Another swung a club — I caught it mid-air, tore it from his hands, and sent him sprawling.

A third lunged with a dagger — the blade snapped against my ribs. I looked down, more surprised than afraid. There was blood… then none. The wound knit itself closed before my eyes, flesh sealing like nothing had happened.

The pain vanished in an instant, leaving a cold, hollow clarity behind it.

I didn't feel relieved. I felt burdened.

More soldiers poured into the street. Swords gleamed in the light — crude iron, chipped, but deadly enough. One slashed across my shoulder; the steel tore into me and hot pain flared, sharp and immediate. It only sharpened something inside me. I slammed my palm into his chest — he flew backward, crashing into a cart that splintered beneath him.

Gasps rippled through the villagers.

"What is he?"

"Did you see that?"

"God save us…"

A musket fired. Smoke burst through the air. The shot tore through my side, throwing me to the ground. The old woman screamed. But before anyone could reach me, I pushed myself up.

The hole was gone. Flesh whole again.

I looked at my bloodstained hand, then at the soldier who'd fired. His face had gone pale.

I rose slowly. "Your turn."

He turned to run — I grabbed his collar and hurled him into his captain. Both went down in a heap. The captain scrambled up, fear twisting his face.

"What are you—some kind of demon?"

"I'm the man you'll never cross again."

I seized his arm and twisted. Bones cracked like dry wood.

He screamed.

"Tell your king," I said, my voice low and trembling with fury, "if his men ever set foot here again, I'll tear the crown from his skull myself."

I shoved him aside. The soldiers didn't wait — they fled, dragging their wounded leader, tripping over each other as they ran.

Silence.

Then, a single clap. Another.

Soon the entire street erupted in cheers.

The old woman stepped forward, awe in her eyes. "Who are you?"

The foreman beside her stammered. "What are you?"

A voice from the crowd shouted, "A god! He's a god among men!"

I shook my head. "No," I said quietly. "I'm no god. I'm a man, like you all."

They stared, waiting for an introduction.

"My name is Ala—" I stopped.

No.

Not Alaric Thorn. That name belonged to a ghost buried four hundred years ago.

"…Alen," I finished softly.

That was the first name I ever took after my true one — the first of many that would come to hide the curse I carried.

The old woman smiled faintly. "Then, Alen… please, come inside. Let us thank you."

I wanted to — gods, I did.

Because when I looked at her, I didn't just see a stranger. I saw them — the same kindness in her eyes, the same quiet strength my wife once carried, the same spark my daughters had before the world took them.

They were my blood. My family. Even if they'd never know it.

But I couldn't stay. Not like this. Not when I didn't even understand what I'd become.

"I can't stay," I said gently.

Her smile faltered.

I glanced toward the ruined yard, the broken barrels, the faces watching me with awe and fear.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "For the wreck… for all of it. But you won't see those men again."

Then I turned and walked away.

The cheers faded behind me as I left the square, my heart heavy. The voice had deceived me — but its deceit had bound me to something worse than death.

As I looked down at my hands — still whole, still strong — a single truth echoed in my mind.

This wasn't a gift.

It was the beginning of another curse.