Jasper slowly stirred, the world around him rocking with every bump of the road. The smell of sweat, metal, and burnt rubber filled the air. His cheek pressed against cold steel—he was lying on his side in the back of a moving military truck.
His arms ached. His head throbbed. And slowly, like a puzzle fitting itself together in reverse, he remembered.
The explosion.
The men.
The guns.
The car.
He'd been taken.
He blinked hard, trying to adjust to the dim light seeping through the truck's slats. The hum of the engine was constant, almost soothing if it didn't mean he was being dragged somewhere to die.
James is probably tearing them apart right now, he thought, a flicker of hope and fear mixing in his stomach. But even he can't be everywhere. They'll run. And I'll still be here.
He closed his eyes, forcing a breath through his teeth.
"Alright, think," he muttered under his breath, barely audible. "What would James say... No. What would Evodil say?"
He cleared his throat, deepened his voice, and whispered with a smirk, "Just kill them before they kill you. Bonus points if it's funny."
Not helpful.
He switched tones, lower and calmer. "Fear is the blade that cuts deepest—tame it, and you win."
Noah. Cold logic. Too calm to be real.
Then James' voice, blunt and absolute. "Stop shaking. You're still breathing. Use that."
That one hit harder.
Jasper opened his eyes again. Okay.
He needed a plan. Or at the very least, he needed to stop being the dead weight in the room.
He scanned the trunk again—bare bones. Just crumpled papers, a couple crushed plastic bottles, and—
An empty beer bottle.
"God bless the functional alcoholics," he muttered.
He shuffled toward it and gripped the neck of the bottle tight, pausing only a moment before smashing it against the metal wall. It shattered with a sharp crack, echoing inside the cramped trunk. Shards scattered across the floor, one bouncing against his leg and slicing a shallow line across his ankle. He winced, but didn't stop.
Carefully, he picked out the largest, cleanest edges—triangular slivers with enough bite to count. He clutched one in each hand like makeshift daggers, the edges trembling with every breath he took.
He turned to the back seat.
Most of the separating wall was thin aluminum—cheap, rushed, not military standard. There was a slot just under the reinforced window. Probably for passing things. Definitely not for crawling through. But maybe—
He jammed the glass piece into the edge of the paneling, scraping, slicing, cutting through the weak seams to try and open enough of a gap. Every movement was slow, awkward. The truck jostled every few seconds, making him grit his teeth as he worked.
Bit by bit, plastic and metal gave way. He was getting closer.
Closer to the front.
Closer to whoever the hell was driving.
Inch after inch, breath after breath, he carved through the material like a rodent chewing through drywall. The sounds from the cabin became clearer now—cheap music on a half-broken radio, laughter, the clang of a gun butt hitting the dashboard.
More than two… maybe three? Four? He couldn't tell for sure, but he knew one thing: they were too loud to be smart.
Finally, the backseat gave. The paneling popped inward just enough for his fingers to slide through. He peeled it wider, careful not to make the metal shriek.
The opening wasn't big—but big enough. He pressed his eye to it.
Three men. One at the wheel, chewing on a toothpick like it was keeping him alive. Another in the passenger seat, tapping the dash in rhythm with the tinny beat. A third lounging behind them with his feet on the armrest, holding a rifle like it was a toy.
Jasper blinked. Evodil would have a field day here.
He smirked, whispering to himself just quiet enough that it wouldn't carry past the wall.
"...Three armed idiots, a broken stereo, and a hostage in the back. If I die here, I'm haunting every last one of these brainless fu—" he cut himself off with a snort.
Alright, he thought. Time to cause a little chaos.
Jasper narrowed his eyes, scanning every detail he could from his cramped angle. Glocks on their hips, shotguns leaning between seats, rifles strapped to their backs like fashion statements. Overkill.
He glanced down at the jagged glass shards in his palm—his only weapons. Dull, irregular, maybe good for a surprise hit... but if he lunged out now, he'd be full of holes before he could say "please."
His heartbeat pounded louder, but his face stayed still. What would Noah do? he thought.
Probably start listing off every chemical that could cause a heart attack while brewing poison in a water bottle. Talk the enemy into a coma using mineral classifications. Hell, maybe Noah would've figured out how to reroute the entire car engine using a shoelace.
But Jasper wasn't Noah.
What about James?
No—James would already have the steering wheel embedded in someone's skull by now.
And Evodil? Jasper snorted quietly. He'd probably make a pun, set the car on fire, and still blame someone else for the mess.
Jasper shook his head. No. No, that's not me either… but I need to think like them.
He wracked his brain, thinking back. His sword—the katana. The one James helped him forge. His oath. That weapon was more than just steel. It was purpose.
If I can get to it… this changes everything.
Unconscious. That was the goal. Not dead. James told him he wasn't ready to kill, and—maybe—James was right.
Jasper swallowed hard, fists tightening around the glass.
But gods, I hope he was wrong.
Jasper's fingers dug into the foam and fabric like a rat clawing through a wall, widening the gap with patient, silent fury. Every inch of soundless progress was another inch closer to not dying today.
The thin layer of seat fabric was all that remained between him and the cabin. It stretched taut like skin over bone, hiding the truth—hiding him. Behind it, muffled voices barked at each other, laughing, arguing. Music thudded faintly from the front, low and aggressive.
He pressed one eye to the original tear he'd made.
There.
Shiny steel. His katana. Resting across a soldier's lap like a toy, the man grinning while plucking its sheath like a guitar string.
Jasper clenched his jaw.
Jackpot…
But also, screw that guy.
He reined in his breathing, eyes locked on the blade. That sword was his. Forged with his hands, with his sweat, pain, promise. Seeing it like that—some moron strumming it like it was part of a garage band—lit a fire behind his ribs.
He slowly pulled back. No plan yet. Just rage, glass shards, and a gaping hole in the seat.
But it was enough.
Did he really need a plan?
No. He needed them—James, Noah… even Evodil with his annoying jokes and smug smirks. And right now? They needed him to not die in the back of some truck like a stray dog.
He was already bleeding, already bruised. What was a bullet or two more? If he lived long enough, James would burn the holes shut, Noah would say something cold and act like he wasn't worried, and Evodil would laugh until he handed him a coffee. That was the deal. That was the rhythm.
So he didn't think.
Not really.
He ripped through the fabric like it insulted his mother, the sound sharp and violent in the cramped metal space.
"SURPRISE, DICKHEAD!" he screamed, hurling himself into the front seat like a wild animal.
The guy with the katana barely had time to drop it before Jasper's shoulder slammed into him, glass in hand.
The driver and the other soldier panicked instantly—hands scrambling for triggers, mouths shouting over each other.
Too late.
He was already in.
And he wasn't leaving without that sword.
The guy in the passenger seat screamed, half in rage and half in pure panic. "LET GO, YOU LITTLE FREAK!" His rifle swung wide, smashing against the dashboard, the window, Jasper's shoulder.
Didn't matter. Jasper didn't let go.
He snarled—literally snarled—and lunged forward, biting the fingers wrapped around the katana hilt. Teeth met glove, then skin, then blood. The soldier howled, trying to pull back, but Jasper clamped down harder, his eyes wild and locked.
The man in the driver's seat shouted, trying to keep the truck straight as it veered across the cracked road, swerving between rubble and broken streetlights. "GET HIM OFF! SHOOT HIM, STAB HIM, I DON'T CARE—JUST—!"
A sharp crack rang out. The rifle butt hit Jasper square in the ribs. He gasped, pain blooming across his side—but still, he wouldn't let go.
The soldier shrieked and finally released the katana, clutching his bleeding hand. Jasper, not missing a beat, snatched the blade and kicked backward, hitting the passenger square in the face.
"YES!" Jasper roared, raising the katana above his head like it was Excalibur and he was every chosen one in history. "Suck it, you glorified mall cops!"
"DUCK!" the driver screamed.
Jasper barely had time to blink.
The windshield exploded as the front of the truck collided with a massive tree growing sideways through the road, twisted from the damage of war and time.
CRASH.
The world turned sideways. Jasper flew into the dashboard, then the ceiling, then into the shattered passenger seat. The katana clanged beside him, ringing like a bell. Glass rained. Someone yelled. Someone else didn't.
The truck groaned and crunched as it tilted, half-on-its-side now. Smoke hissed from the ruined hood. Jasper groaned, his chest heaving, ribs probably bruised—or worse.
But the blade?
Still in his hand.
And now?
He had options.
Jasper staggered to his feet, brushing off bits of shattered glass and blood—some his, some not. His katana glinted faintly in his hand, miraculously unbroken despite the chaos. He took a deep breath, wobbling slightly, then stood tall.
He was alive.
He was standing.
"Ha!" he shouted into the empty street. "Another dub for J.D.—Jasper Dawn, baby!"
He pumped his fist in the air and did a little victory shuffle, half-dance, half-cringe. A few sways of the hips, a twirl of the katana. It looked ridiculous. But it felt right.
He was winning.
"Survived a kidnapping, bit a guy, got my sword back, and didn't die in a crash. Jasper Dawn: one. Entire world? Zero."
And then—click.
That unmistakable sound.
His blood turned to ice.
Slowly—very slowly—he turned his head, shoulders stiffening.
There he was.
The driver. Bruised, bloodied, and absolutely furious, a nasty gash across his temple and a glock held steady in both shaking hands. Right at Jasper's head.
"Drop the sword, kid," he growled.
Jasper didn't move. The katana trembled slightly in his grip, fingers tightening. He met the man's eyes.
And for once, there were no gods.
No backup.
Just him.
And a decision.
Jasper raised his hands slowly, katana still gripped in one, but the blade angled low—non-threatening, or at least he hoped it looked that way.
"Okay, alright," he said, voice calm despite the tightness in his chest. "We don't have to do this. I get it, you're pissed, bleeding, and I may have tried to cannibalize your buddy's fingers, but… hey, we can forget that, right?"
The soldier didn't move. Glock still aimed dead-center between Jasper's eyes.
"I'm not important," Jasper continued, stepping ever so slightly to the side. "I'm not some god, I'm not some immortal lunatic. I'm just the intern, alright? The apprentice. My job is to clean up after the chaos, not be the chaos."
The man flinched—maybe from the blood dripping down into his eye, maybe from the audacity of the speech.
Jasper took that as a maybe.
"I don't want to kill you," he added, voice firmer. "I really don't. I don't even know if I can. But this? This isn't worth it, man. You're hurt. I'm hurt. We can just walk away."
The soldier's hands shook.
Then he screamed—raw, guttural, rage-filled—and stepped forward, Glock pressing tighter against his grip.
Jasper's breath caught in his throat.
So much for talking.
Jasper's arms dropped—not in surrender, but with purpose. His fingers curled around the hilt, smooth from his grip, and with a practiced flick he barely believed he could perform, the katana slid free. The metal caught the last light of the setting sun, glowing like a promise.
The soldier clenched his jaw. His patience, shredded by adrenaline and panic, snapped entirely.
He pulled the trigger.
Jasper blinked.
And then everything changed.
The sound didn't come. The recoil didn't register. Instead, Jasper watched the bullet emerge, trembling slightly as if it didn't know which direction it wanted to go.
The world wasn't slowing down.
He was speeding up.
His breath caught for a different reason now—his heartbeat felt distant, like it was keeping time in another room. The air seemed thinner, cleaner, sharper. His mind cleared, instinct overtaking panic.
He saw the bullet.
He saw the man's eyes.
And for a moment… Jasper had a choice.
He could run. He could dodge. He could live.
Or.
He could teach the bastard not to underestimate a kid with nothing left to lose.
The blade twitched in his hand.
And he moved.
Jasper stepped forward like the air belonged to him now. His movements weren't clean—he wasn't some martial artist or blade saint. But he remembered. Every lesson James ever beat into him, every correction yelled from across a training hall.
The wrist—he struck it first with the hilt of his katana, slamming it sideways just hard enough to make the gun drop.
Then the elbow—he carved a shallow line across it, making the man howl as he lost all strength in the limb.
Next, a quick sidestep, and Jasper drove his knee into the man's thigh, aiming for the nerve James once called "the instant crumple button."
It worked.
The soldier buckled.
For good measure, Jasper spun behind him and gave a sharp kick to the lower back. Not elegant, not lethal—but satisfying as hell. The guy hit the ground with a grunt, gasping for air and trying to figure out what just happened.
Jasper stood above him, breathing a little too fast.
Then he realized… he was still in it.
That accelerated state. That flicker between moments. The world still shimmered like a mirage. Everything moved just a little too slow, and he could feel his muscles starting to cramp from holding too much power.
He gritted his teeth.
"Okay… cool. Super speed. Awesome. Now how the hell do I turn it off?" he muttered, voice cracking slightly.
No one answered.
Of course.
Jasper turned slowly, facing the soldier still frozen in that strange half-speed world. For a second, he stared—breathing hard, chest heaving. He didn't want to fight. He never wanted this.
But this wasn't something he could punch or talk his way out of anymore.
He remembered something from one of the video games James let him borrow. Sometimes, when power-up modes got too intense, you just had to holster your weapon. Exit the stance. Sheathe the sword.
"Let's hope reality works like a damn JRPG," he muttered.
And he did it.
He slid the katana back into its sheath, slow and clean like James taught him.
Snap.
Time punched back into motion.
The soldier, now fully aware and in full pain, was launched at him like a freight train. Jasper's eyes widened just in time to realize what was about to happen before—
WHAM!
Both of them collided hard into the side of the wrecked truck. Jasper was crushed beneath the man's weight, knocked half-senseless as metal bent and groaned beneath them.
And then the screaming started.
Jasper opened his eyes just as the soldier's voice tore through the air, high and ragged and in pain. Blood poured from the man's arm, his side—every single cut Jasper had made now glowed hot like it was fresh from a forge.
The man thrashed, trying to grab Jasper, clinging to him, shaking him as if he could somehow undo what was happening.
"Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!" he howled, red spattering across Jasper's face.
Jasper froze. His hands shook. The soldier coughed—wet, rattling, choking.
And just like that… Jasper realized this wasn't training anymore. It wasn't a spar. Wasn't a game.
The boy screamed—not out loud, but in his bones. His body acted before his mind could stop it. He thrashed, elbowed, punched—his fist slamming into the man's face with a sickening crack. It felt like hitting wet cement. The soldier's blood smeared across his knuckles, sticky, metallic. It painted across Jasper's hand like some sick brand.
But the man wouldn't let go.
He kept grabbing at him. His burned hands clawing for help, clinging like a drowning man to a raft made of guilt.
Jasper panted. Panicked. He looked around, mind racing, and his eyes locked onto the Glock—the same one that had been pointed at his face just moments ago.
Still loaded. Still intact. Just lying there. Waiting.
He hesitated. Just for a second. Then reached out and took it.
His hands shook. His breath hitched. He didn't want this. This wasn't how heroes won. This wasn't supposed to be how it went.
But it was either the man or him.
And maybe… maybe it was mercy. Maybe it was fear. He didn't know. Didn't care. He just wanted it to stop.
He aimed.
The soldier's eyes locked with his. No pleading. No words. Just pain.
Jasper pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out like thunder.
The man's skull cracked open like a dropped egg. Gore sprayed in a sharp arc—bits of brain, blood, and shattered bone splattering across Jasper's face and chest. Something wet bounced off his thigh. An eyeball, rolling gently across the metal floor like a marble.
Silence.
Then Jasper dropped the gun.
And stared.
Jasper pulled away like the body had burned him.
He stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and stared at his hands—shaking, red, slick.
Then at the corpse.
Then back at himself.
The gun hit the pavement with a clatter, discarded like it could erase what he'd done.
He dropped to his knees. Crawled to the curb and sat on the sidewalk like the world hadn't just cracked open beneath him.
His hands clutched his head, trembling fingers tangling in his curls as he muttered to himself, voice broken and raw.
"I didn't mean to."
He rocked slightly.
"I didn't wanna kill him... James said…"
He tried to smile. Tried to cheer himself up like they would.
James would've called him soft, punched him in the gut and told him to walk it off.
Noah would've given him a lecture on efficiency. Probably used a graph.
Evodil… would've laughed. Called it his 'welcome to the world' moment.
But none of them were here.
And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the sick, heavy thing coiling in his chest.
He wasn't like them.
He wasn't a killer.
Just a boy, lost in a world painted in blood and bound by cursed magic.