The protest was supposed to be peaceful.

  That was what the permits said.

  That was what the organizers promised.

  That was what the news anchors repeated every ten minutes.

  “Public demonstration,” they called it.

  “Civic expression.”

  “Democratic frustration.”

  Elira stood on the balcony of the municipal hall and watched it gather.

  Thousands of people.

  Signs. Banners. Holographic screens.

  NO MORE AWAKENED TYRANTS

  STOP PLAYING GOD

  WE DID NOT ELECT YOU

  Her name flashed across several placards.

  Not as praise.

  As accusation.

  She wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

  William stood beside her.

  Security teams shifted nervously below.

  “This is a bad idea,” he murmured.

  “It’s already happening,” she replied.

  “You don’t have to go out there.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  They both knew it was true.

  Down in the crowd, something changed.

  Not suddenly.

  Not loudly.

  Like pressure building before a storm.

  A group pushed forward.

  Masks.

  Hooded jackets.

  No signs.

  No cameras.

  Only intent.

  A veteran officer noticed.

  Too late.

  The first bottle flew.

  It shattered against the railing.

  Glass sprayed.

  People screamed.

  Then another.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Then a rock.

  The crowd surged.

  “ELIRA! ELIRA! ELIRA!”

  Not in praise.

  In demand.

  “Pull her back,” William ordered.

  Security moved.

  Slow.

  Careful.

  Professional.

  And completely inadequate.

  A flare burst near her head.

  Heat washed across her face.

  She flinched.

  The crowd roared.

  Across the city, Tancred felt it.

  He did not see it.

  He did not hear it.

  He felt the shift.

  Like a knot tightening in his chest.

  He stopped walking.

  “Not again,” he muttered.

  Then he moved.

  Across rooftops.

  Concrete cracked beneath his feet.

  Windows shattered in his wake.

  Traffic cameras died as he passed.

  No one followed.

  No one could.

  At the hall, security lines broke.

  One man vaulted the barrier.

  Then another.

  Then five.

  Then dozens.

  “GET HER!”

  Someone screamed it.

  No one disagreed.

  Elira raised her hands.

  A barrier formed.

  Thin.

  Unsteady.

  She was exhausted.

  She had not slept.

  She had not recovered.

  A brick struck the shield.

  It cracked.

  William stepped in front of her.

  “Get down!”

  Another impact.

  The barrier flickered.

  Then the ground shook.

  Not from the crowd.

  From impact.

  Tancred landed in the square.

  Concrete exploded outward.

  A shockwave threw people off their feet.

  Dust rolled like fog.

  Screams cut off mid-breath.

  Silence followed.

  Tancred straightened.

  Blood ran down one arm.

  He did not notice.

  He looked at the crowd.

  And the crowd looked at him.

  Every instinct screamed danger.

  “Back,” he said.

  Not loud.

  Not amplified.

  The word carried anyway.

  People froze.

  Some stumbled backward.

  Others hesitated.

  A masked man rushed him.

  Knife raised.

  Tancred did not turn.

  He flicked his wrist.

  The man flew twenty meters and did not rise.

  No spectacle.

  No hesitation.

  Just broken physics.

  “Back,” Tancred said again.

  Louder.

  The air vibrated.

  Windows shattered.

  Several people collapsed, clutching their ears.

  Panic erupted.

  William stared.

  “Tancred,” he whispered.

  “How—”

  He stopped.

  A shot rang out.

  A crude mana rifle.

  The beam struck Tancred’s chest.

  It dispersed.

  Useless.

  Tancred walked forward.

  Each step fractured stone.

  “You don’t get her,” he said quietly.

  He raised one hand.

  The street folded.

  Barricades crumpled.

  Vehicles flipped.

  Not randomly.

  Precisely.

  A corridor cleared in seconds.

  People fled.

  Some fell.

  Some were trampled.

  Some fainted.

  News drones dropped from the sky.

  Elira watched in horror.

  “Stop!” she shouted.

  He did not hear.

  Or chose not to.

  A final group charged.

  Tancred moved.

  Too fast.

  Bodies slammed into walls.

  Armor collapsed.

  Weapons shattered.

  It ended in six seconds.

  Silence returned.

  Only crying remained.

  Tancred turned.

  He looked up at the balcony.

  At Elira.

  His expression softened.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head numbly.

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  He turned to William.

  “You,” he said.

  William stiffened.

  “Never put her there again.”

  “I was trying to—”

  “I don’t care,” Tancred cut in.

  Security arrived.

  Late.

  As always.

  They stared.

  No one approached.

  No one dared.

  Footage spread instantly.

  Headlines exploded.

  “S+ RANKER TERRORIZES PROTESTERS”

  “WILMOT ATTACKS CIVILIANS”

  “IS ABYSS WAGING WAR”

  Governments demanded answers.

  Abyss said nothing.

  That night, Xior watched the recordings.

  Altes stood beside him.

  “He escalated,” Altes said.

  “Yes,” Xior replied.

  “And it worked.”

  Elira sat alone in her apartment.

  Hands shaking.

  Phone buzzing endlessly.

  She turned it off.

  Stared at the wall.

  “I never wanted this,” she whispered.

  Across the city, Tancred scrubbed blood from his hands.

  He did not regret it.

  Not for a second.

  William sat in his office, staring at reports.

  Casualties: Minimal.

  Injuries: Moderate.

  Political fallout: Severe.

  He buried his face in his hands.

  “I broke it,” he murmured.

  And the world learned something that day.

  Heroes could be hated.

  Systems could fail.

  But monsters

  Monsters could still choose.

  And Tancred had chosen her.