Chapter 8: Alexander past
Ty's eyes, now clear and free of the vampiric taint, met Alexander's with a mix of urgency and confusion. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before speaking.
"Alexander," she began, her voice still trembling from the recent events, "do you still have the Nether Core?"
Alexander nodded, his expression serious. "Yes, I have it with me," he said, reaching into his pack to retrieve the small, glowing artifact.
Ty's relief was palpable. "We need to deliver it to Pingyao," she urged. "It's crucial for the Frontier's next move. Without it, everything we've fought for could be lost."
Alexander's grip tightened around the Nether Core, understanding the weight of their mission. "I know," he replied, his voice resolute. "We'll get it there, no matter what."
Kane and Vincent approached, having overheard the exchange. "Pingyao is a long way off," Kane said, his tone more measured now. "But if the Nether Core is as important as you say, we can't afford any delays."
Vincent nodded in agreement, though his eyes still held a hint of wariness. "We'll have to move fast and stay alert. The Shadow Army won't let us pass easily."
Ty, now fully recovered from her ordeal, stood up with renewed determination. "Then let's not waste any more time," she said, her voice strong. "We need to get moving."
As the group trudged through the dense forest, the tension from the recent events lingered in the air. The silence between them was heavy, punctuated only by the distant sounds of nature. Kane, walking beside Alexander, glanced over at him, curiosity and something deeper flickering in his eyes.
"Alexander," Kane began, his voice breaking the silence, "why did you choose to be a soldier? With your skills, you could easily become a warrior."
Alexander's mood shifted abruptly, his previously resolute demeanor darkening. He took a deep breath, the memories clearly weighing on him. "Seven years ago," he started, his voice low and haunted, "the city I lived in was destroyed."
The others listened in silence, sensing the gravity of his words.
"It was a place called Riverton," Alexander continued, his eyes distant as if seeing the past unfold before him. "My parents and my little brother... they all died that day."
Kane's expression softened, a mix of sympathy and shock. "What happened?" he asked, his voice gentler now.
Alexander clenched his fists, the pain of the memory evident in his eyes. "A fight between two warriors. They were powerful, beyond anything I had ever seen. Their battle turned our city into a war zone. Buildings crumbled, fires raged, and the ground shook with their every blow. In the end, there was nothing left but debris and corpses."
The forest seemed to hold its breath, the weight of Alexander's words settling over them.
"I chose to be a soldier," Alexander said, his voice filled with a quiet intensity, "because I wanted to live. To not die in a blaze of glory like a warriors.
Kane looked away, the depth of Alexander's pain striking a chord within him. "I see," he said softly. "I'm sorry, Alexander. I didn't know."
Alexander nodded, the haunted look in his eyes slowly giving way to determination. "It's not something I talk about much," he admitted. "But it's why I'm here. Why I fight."
**Flashback: Fifteen-Year-Old Alexander's Descent into Survival**
The sun was setting over the ruins of Riverton, casting long shadows across the debris-strewn landscape. Amidst the chaos, a fifteen-year-old Alexander stood, bloodied and battered, surrounded by the bodies of the fallen. He could barely stand, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he faced his would-be killers.
"How could I have forgotten?" Alexander muttered to himself, his voice raw with pain and realization. "It's survival of the fittest in this world... This world filled with violence, deception, and betrayal."
His eyes burned with a new, fierce determination. "I think I get it now... Kill or be killed. Now I want to know if the killers are prepared to be preyed upon."
A tall, imposing figure approached him. Yang Xinhai, one of the survivors turned predator, looked down at Alexander with a sneer. He placed a heavy hand on Alexander's head, his grip iron-like, forcing Alexander to meet his gaze.
"You say killers are prepared to be preyed upon?" Yang Xinhai mocked, his voice dripping with contempt. "What a joke. What can a weakling like you do? You're the most pathetic child I've ever seen... huh."
In that moment, before Yang could realize that Alexander hand tightened around the knife he held, hidden by his side. In a swift, desperate move, he thrust the blade upwards, slashing Yang's throat. Blood sprayed, and Yang's eyes widened in shock and disbelief as he staggered back, clutching his throat.
Alexander's voice was cold, devoid of any innocence he once had. "That's one down," he said, watching Yang collapse to the ground, lifeless. "Three more to go."
The other two adults, momentarily stunned by the sudden violence, quickly recovered and charged at Alexander. But something had awakened within him—a primal survival instinct, a ruthless monster.
He fought with a ferocity born of sheer desperation, every strike of his knife fueled by the memories of his lost family, his destroyed home.
With brutal efficiency, Alexander dispatched the remaining attackers, each kill more savage than the last. Bloodied and exhausted, he stood over their bodies, his mind a whirlwind of dark thoughts.
"It's only the strong that survive," he whispered to himself, his voice hollow. The world around him was silent, save for the distant echoes of the ongoing conflict. Alexander knew then that he could never return to the life he once knew..
Alexander stood among the corpses, his breath ragged and his eyes hollow. The boy he had been was gone, replaced by someone forged in the crucible of brutality and survival. He stared at the blood on his hands, recognizing with a sickening clarity that he was now a murderer, even if it was in self-defense.
The bodies of the adults lay crumpled at his feet, their blood pooling and mixing with the dirt. Alexander's chest heaved, a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline coursing through him. He had one more to face—Karl Denke, the leader of the savage group that had sought to kill him for his meager scraps.
Karl, a hulking figure with a cruel glint in his eye, lunged at Alexander, wielding a crude, bloodstained club. But Alexander was no longer the frightened boy he had been moments ago. He sidestepped Karl's attack with ease, his movements precise and calculated. In a swift, fluid motion, he grabbed Karl's wrist and twisted, forcing the man to drop his weapon.
Karl fell to his knees, his eyes wide with desperation. "Please," he begged, his voice trembling. "Show mercy. I was just trying to survive."
Alexander looked down at him, his expression cold and unfeeling. The memories of his family, his destroyed home, and the sheer terror he had experienced surged through his mind. "You tried to kill me," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "There is no mercy for those who prey upon me."
Without another word, Alexander tightened his grip on Karl's head and, with a swift, brutal motion, he twisted and pulled. The sound of cracking bones and tearing flesh filled the air as Karl's head separated from his body. Blood spurted violently from the severed neck, splattering across Alexander's face and clothes. He didn't flinch, his gaze remaining fixed on the lifeless eyes of the man who had begged for mercy.
The ground was soaked with blood, the metallic scent mingling with the earthy smell of dirt and decay. Alexander stood amidst the carnage, his heart pounding and his mind racing. He knew then that he could never turn back. He had become a killer in a world where only the strong survived.
As the scene faded, the older Alexander walked through the forest, his comrades by his side. The memory of that day, of the blood and the violence, was etched into his soul. He fought not for glory, but for survival and the hope that one day, the world might be different.
As the flashback faded, the older Alexander walked silently through the forest with his comrades, the memory of that day a constant reminder of why he fought, and why he would never stop fighting.
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