develop ideal genes

As soon as Darius Venholm heaved himself onto the platform, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a folded parchment. With a dramatic sigh, he unfolded it and began reading in a tone that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else.

"The first prisoner, accused of first-degree treason and incitement to violence, is hereby sentenced to exile."

The words rang out across the silent square.

A pair of guards stepped forward, seizing the first prisoner by the arms. Without hesitation, they dragged him toward the edge of the abyss. The crowd leaned forward, breathless, as the man was unceremoniously shoved into the glowing red chasm. There was no scream, no struggle—just the sound of chains rattling, then nothing.

Leon shuddered.

At that moment, something shifted in the air. A whisper—no, several whispers—slithered through the crowd, murmuring just beneath the surface of the silence.

He turned to the man beside him. "Remove your ability for a moment."

The man shot Leon a puzzled glance, hesitating. Then, with a slight nod, he lifted his hand from Leon's shoulder.

The world snapped back into place.

The noise of the crowd returned in full force, and suddenly, Leon could see something he hadn't before.

Three figures, cloaked and hooded, moving unnaturally still among the restless crowd. Their posture was too rigid, their focus too sharp. Even in a gathering of hundreds, they were watching, waiting.

Before he could dwell on them, Darius continued.

"The second prisoner, for his initiative in deception and involvement in the black market, is sentenced to exile."

The second prisoner was pulled from the line, just like the first. He struggled a little more, shaking his head, but his protests were useless. The guards forced him toward the pit, and with a single push, he too disappeared.

Leon glanced back at the suspicious figures. They hadn't moved—yet.

Darius droned on.

"The third prisoner, for his deliberate act of murder and the desecration of his body, is sentenced to exile."

Again, the process repeated. Another faceless figure, another step toward the abyss, another silent fall into the unknown.

Then, as soon as Darius opened his mouth to announce the fourth sentence, chaos erupted.

The three cloaked figures moved as one.

With fluid, precise motions, they drew daggers from their robes. The first slit a nearby merchant's throat in a single, clean swipe. The second drove his blade into the ribs of a man in a soldier's uniform. The third lunged at a woman, cutting her down before she had time to scream.

Blood sprayed into the air. The silence shattered.

Panic took hold instantly. The orderly crowd became a stampede. People shoved, screamed, ran in all directions, trampling over those who fell. The once-contained square turned into a chaotic, writhing mass of bodies.

Leon, however, was focused on one person.

Aldric.

While Darius shouted useless orders, Aldric didn't hesitate. He took a single deep breath. A strange shift in the air followed, as if he was pulling the very oxygen toward him.

Then, he vanished.

Leon's eyes barely kept up.

One moment, the vice-captain was at the platform. The next, he was in front of the first assassin.

Two rings of air flickered into existence around Aldric's hands. Then—BOOM.

His punch connected with the assassin's chest, and an explosion of force sent the man flying backward. He crashed through a vendor's stall, shattering wood and stone, and didn't move again.

Before the body even hit the ground, Aldric had already moved on.

He blinked forward in a blur of speed, appearing in front of the second assassin. Another ring of compressed air formed around his fist. Another explosion of force.

The assassin's body twisted unnaturally before he crumpled.

Then the third. Another strike, another deafening impact.

It all happened in seconds.

By the time Leon registered what had transpired, the entire crowd had vanished. The people around him had fled in terror, the once-packed square now reduced to an empty space littered with overturned stalls and abandoned belongings. Even the man who had been beside him had disappeared.

In the middle of it all, the fourth prisoner ran.

Leon caught only a glimpse of him—a flash of tattered clothing, chains dragging behind him, feet pounding against the stone street.

Darius, still atop the platform, did nothing.

"Someone catch him!" he barked, as if the words alone would stop the prisoner's escape.

But Aldric had been too focused on the assassins, and the guards were too slow.

Leon turned, ready to react—

Too late.

He felt the pull before he understood what was happening.

A thick chain snaked around his throat.

A sudden yank dragged him backward, and before he could resist, a cold, desperate hand clamped down on his shoulder.

The escaped prisoner had grabbed him.

Leon's body tensed instinctively, but his instincts—those razor-sharp warnings that had saved him countless times—remained silent.

Because this wasn't a monster. This wasn't a predator.

It was a man.

And the prisoner knew it too.

"If anyone comes near," he growled, pressing the metal chain tighter against Leon's throat, "the boy dies."