Chương 3: 2.Move
He who is pure in heart may stand before the gates of Purly.
That's what they told him. That's what he'd been spoon-fed since he was old enough to understand words. It was carved into the walls of his childhood home, whispered in prayers at the dinner table, and etched into the fabric of his dreams. It was a mantra, a promise, a lifeline. And he believed it. Oh, how he believed it.
But here's the thing about beliefs: they're like bones. They can break. And when they do, the sound is deafening.
Thomas Andre had lived by the rules. Be kind. Be honest. Be fair. He wasn't perfect—no one is, and he'd be the first to admit it—but he'd tried. God knows he'd tried.
He'd helped strangers stranded on the side of the road, given his last dollar to a homeless man. He'd judged fairly, even when it hurt.
He'd loved deeply, even when it cost him. He'd walked the path, the *right* path, and he'd walked it with his head held high.
His parents' teachings were with him, wherever he is. Be a good man.
He'd carried those words with him, clutched them close, and vowed to pass them on to his children. He'd dreamed of them, his children, with a longing so fierce it bordered on obsession. He could see them in his mind's eye—laughing, running, growing. He could see himself, older, grayer, bouncing a grandchild on his knee. And so it could happen, he need money. And he did it with what he knows best.
By gathering attention to himself.
The lights, the applause, the smiles. That was his passion, his calling. He'd donned the mask of the jester, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Because he believed in the power of a smile, even on the worst of days. And he'd succeeded.
The public always liked eccentric and emotional people. And that's what he was, and under the camera it went up several levels. He talked a lot, reacted sharply and made jokes, although he was bad at picking his moments for jokes.
People loved watching a 6'6 ft blond dude with a low voice and a funny personality.
After all, he achieved first part of his dream.
His own show—was no longer a dream. It was real. The paperwork was signed, the budget approved, the venue booked. Everything was falling into place.
And now it was gone.
Because he is no more.
That feeling before... It is hard to describe.
It felt like your mind was... Fading away. Like it's going to the back of your head and somehow leaving your brain. It's strange, but that's the maximum that Thomas can describe right now.
For a seconds, Andre comes to his senses a little.
In the moment of his anger, he didn't even notice the release of the power he had.
He looked up
What he saw made his stomach twist.
The clearing was gone. The trees were gone. The earth itself seemed to have been turned inside out, raw and bleeding. The air smelled of ozone and decay, a metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat. And at the center of it all was him, standing amidst the wreckage like a god who had forgotten his own strength.
His hands trembled as he uncurled his fists, staring at his palms as if they belonged to someone else. They were streaked with dirt and dust. Thomas do not want believe he did it.
It was the power that scared him. The raw, unfathomable power that makes this destruction, and the thing is, he didn't feel anything. His hands didn't hurt. How is this even possible? It's not humanly.
"I did it?!" Thomas bellowed, his voice raw and guttural, tearing through the eerie silence like a gunshot. He rose from his knees, his body trembling with a mix of exhaustion and fury. His eyes swept over the devastation, a nightmare made real.
And it only made him angrier. Cause it's his doing.
His clenched fists tightened further, his knuckles white, his nails digging into his palms. His eyes-red from tears, now blazing with fire-snapped upward to the sky. "WHAT IS HAPPENING?!" he roared, his voice echoing like thunder. "Where am I?! Why did you give me this power, huh?! WHY?!
The questions hung in the air, unanswered, swallowed by the vast emptiness around him. He was tired. Already. So damn tired. His body ached, his mind was a whirlwind of chaos, and his soul felt like it had been ripped apart and stitched back together wrong.
And then, suddenly, it cut through the silence like a knife.
"Help!"
A child's voice. High-pitched, desperate, filled with fear. A cry for help.
The child's voice came from the north, somewhere deep in the forest. Thomas didn't hesitate. He didn't think. He was on his feet in an instant, leaving the devastation behind him like a forgotten nightmare. His body moved before his mind could catch up, his legs carrying him forward with the force of a locomotive. The mess he'd created? It could wait. The kid couldn't.
What Thomas hated most in this world—or whatever this place was—was the suffering of the innocent. Old men, women, and children. They were the ones who deserved peace, not pain. His father's words echoed in his mind, a mantra he'd carried his entire life: "The older must be respected, the younger must be protected!"And that's what Thomas would do, even if it would kill him a second time.
"Mama!" The voice came again, small and trembling. Thomas's heart clenched, his chest tightening with a mix of rage and sorrow.
The man who had dreamed of having children, couldn't bear the sound of a child in pain. It was his weakness, his kryptonite, and it drove him forward like a man possessed.
The forest blurred around him as he ran, his power surging with every step. Obstacles in his path—fallen branches, tangled roots, even entire trees—were obliterated, swept aside as if they were nothing more than paper. Thomas didn't have time to marvel at his strength. He didn't have time to think. All he could do was move, faster and faster, driven by the sound of that voice.
"Please!" The cry came again, weaker this time, and it nearly sent Thomas into a frenzy. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. He was close now. The voice was close. The forest was thinning, the trees growing smaller and sparser, and through the gaps, he could see a clearing up ahead.
Thomas didn't realize it, but the speed at which he was moving was inhuman. The distance he'd covered in mere seconds should have been impossible. Even the fact that he'd heard the voice from so far away was a miracle—or a curse. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was the child.
"I'm already here!" Thomas shouted, his voice booming through the trees as he burst into the clearing.
The closer Thomas got to the edge of the forest, the more the sounds intensified. Shouting. Clashing. The sickening crunch of something heavy smashing against something else. The sharp, grating scrape of metal on metal. It was chaos, and it was close.
Thomas burst out of the tree line like a cannon shot, his boots slamming into the open ground as he skidded to a halt. The scene before him was a snapshot of fear and desperation.
A village. Small, quaint, and untouched by fire or destruction—but far from peaceful. Villagers were running in every direction, their faces pale with terror. Men—armed bandits—were everywhere, their swords glinting in the sunlight as they chased down the fleeing villagers. Going into every house with horrible laughter which he hear, and scream over village right after.
In the distance, moored at the edge of a sea, was a ship—a bizarre, hulking monstrosity that looked like it had been ripped straight out of some mid-century fever dream. Its design was alien, almost grotesque, with jagged edges and a hull that seemed to glint unnaturally in the sunlight.
But it wasn't the ship that held Thomas's attention. It was the sound. Crying. The child's voice he'd been chasing was now a full-blown sob, desperate and heart-wrenching.
Thomas's head snapped down so sharply he heard the bones in his neck crack. There, at the base of the hill, was the child—a small figure in tattered robes, reaching out with trembling hands toward a woman. The woman was struggling, fighting against the grip of a man who held her tightly. The man was grinning, his tongue lolling out of his mouth like some kind of grotesque animal. He was enjoying this.
Thomas's vision went red, drumbeat of pure, unbridled rage. That man. That son of a bitch. He was going to die.
" Disgusting. "
Andre grinned—a feral, beastly expression that didn't belong on a human face. His body coiled like a spring, every muscle tensed, every nerve on fire. And then he lunged.
He moved like a predator, his speed inhuman, his power unstoppable. The ground beneath him cracked as he launched himself forward, his eyes locked on the man below.
"What?! "
The bandit saw Thomas. How could he not? A two-meter-tall figure charging at him like a freight train wasn't exactly easy to miss. The man's eyes widened, his grotesque grin vanishing in an instant. He let go of the woman, shoving her away as if doing her a favor—or maybe he just wanted both hands free to deal with the monster coming at him.
"Huh?!" the bandit gibbered, his voice high-pitched and panicked. That disgusting tongue of his, which had been lolling out so arrogantly moments ago, now seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth in fear. He stumbled back, his sword trembling in his hand, his bravado crumbling like a sandcastle in a storm.
The woman, freed from his grasp, didn't hesitate. She scooped up her child in one swift motion, shielding the boy with her body as she stepped aside. But her eyes—wide with a mix of fear and awe—remained locked on Thomas. She didn't know who he was or why he was here, but in that moment, he was her only hope.
Thomas didn't disappoint.
He was already by the bandit's side, moving so fast it was almost unnatural. His voice was low, rough, and filled with a quiet, terrifying fury. "Come here."
The bandit didn't have time to react. Thomas's hand shot out, massive and unyielding, and closed around the man's throat like a vice. There was no struggle, no resistance. The bandit might as well have been a ragdoll. With a single, effortless motion, Thomas slammed him into the ground. The impact was brutal, the sound of it echoing through the village like a thunderclap.
*CRASH*
The bandit gasped, his sword falling from his hand as he clawed at Thomas's grip. But it was useless. Thomas could feel the man's fragility, the way his bones seemed to creak under the pressure. He could have snapped him in half like a dry stick—part of him wanted to—but he held back. Not out of mercy. Out of restraint. There was a child watching, and Thomas wasn't about to turn this into a bloodbath.
The bandit's body went limp, his eyes rolling back as he passed out. Thomas quickly removed his hand from the man's neck, as if touching him any longer would taint him. He stood up, his massive frame towering over the scene, and turned to face the woman and her daughter.
The girl was cradled in her mother's arms, her tear-streaked face now lit with a small, tentative smile. Thomas's heart, which had been a storm of rage and chaos just moments ago, softened. The sight of a child's joy—pure, untainted, and full of hope—always had that effect on him. It was like a balm, soothing the raw edges of his anger.
He looked at the woman. Her eyes were brimming with tears, but they weren't tears of fear anymore. They were tears of gratitude. Her hands clutched her daughter tightly, as if she could shield her from the world, but her gaze was locked on Thomas.
"Th-thank you…" she stammered, her voice trembling but sincere. "Thank you…"
The anger that had been pouring out of him like a volcano began to subside, replaced by something quieter, something warmer. Thomas nodded, a simple, wordless acknowledgment. He didn't need praise or thanks. Seeing the child safe was enough.
His gaze shifted to the girl. She was staring at him with wide eyes, full of wonder and something else—admiration. There were stars in her eyes, as if Thomas had just stepped out of one of the heroic tales parents tell their children at bedtime. A small, kind grin broke through his frown for a minute.
"Please… save our village."
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