Void Reaper: The Essence Apocalypse

Six people stood in front of the ruined entrance to what used to be a dormitory. Their boots scraped against the sand, clothes soaked in blood and dust. Brann still carried the unconscious Kael on his back. Adam, standing at the rear, felt the weight of the makeshift guards' stares at the gate.

They said nothing. Just nodded, and in their eyes shimmered something more than relief—hope. As if the sight of returning comrades gave them a fleeting sense that perhaps not all was lost.

They entered slowly, exhausted, wounded. The main hall was large, once probably a cafeteria or auditorium. Now, a makeshift shelter. Mattresses, blankets, and backpacks lay scattered on the floor. People stood along the walls—mostly students, young, pale, tired, but alive. A murmur rippled through them as they saw the returning group.

Whispers and sighs of relief followed. Dozens of eyes turned to them. For the first time, Adam saw how many of them there truly were. Students. Staff. Kids. A handful of elderly people. Some injured, others pale from hunger. The dim oil lamp cast jagged shadows across the walls.

On many faces appeared a spark of hope—but it only lasted a moment. When they noticed the group brought back no backpacks full of food or bags of medicine, the relief began to fade. Some looked away. Others stared with bitterness. As if the whole worth of the mission depended only on what they carried back, not that everyone had returned alive.

But not everyone reacted the same. From the crowd, a boy in a dark sweater stepped forward.

"Is he... the one on the back... is he alive?" he asked softly, pointing at Kael.

Beside him, a girl with short red hair clasped her hands to her chest.

"They look awful... someone should help them."

But their voices were drowned out by less kind murmurs, full of complaint.

Whispers began: — "They came back empty-handed again..." — "Why even send them if they never bring supplies?" — "What's the point if there's no food or meds?"

Each sentence jabbed at Adam's back like needles. There was no gratitude in those words—only expectation. Entitlement. As if no one noticed the people standing before them were on the brink of collapse, bleeding, and silent.

From the crowd stepped a man in a worn-out suit, thin graying hair slicked back. Glasses perched at the tip of his nose, eyes cold and judging.

"Did you bring anything back?" asked Professor Ternwald in an arrogant tone. The words sounded like a command, not a question.

Layra barely lifted her head.

"No... we didn't make it. Professor Ternwald We were attacked by—"

"Of course not," Ternwald sneered. "Always useless. You risk your lives and return with nothing."

Adam frowned. He knew that name. Ternwald. He'd heard of him back in university. A lecturer who broke students psychologically, falsified grades, demanded obedience. Rumor had it he once expelled an entire class just for someone looking out the window.

A strange dissonance welled up inside Adam. This was supposed to be a shelter. A place where people stuck together, helped each other, shared fear or laughter. And yet? Instead of gratitude or understanding, he found only blame and disdain. He had imagined something very different.

He looked at Layra and the others. At their tired faces. At bloodstains not yet dried. And somewhere deep in his chest, anger began to boil.

Layra clenched her teeth.

"We were heading for the supermarket... this time we hoped to gather enough to last a few days—"

"Silence." The professor raised a hand. "No excuses. You just prove how unprepared you are. And you, Layra, were supposed to be a leader. Instead..."

"Enough," Brann muttered, stepping beside Layra. His face was tense, but his voice steady. "Now's not the time for... pointless speeches."

The professor ignored him and carried on, as if nothing had been said. His tone oozed condescension, as if addressing foolish children.

"Back in the old days, before this... system destroyed our foundations, there was order. Hierarchy. Respect for knowledge and authority. And now? Now anyone who grabs a stick and runs into the city thinks they deserve applause. Risking your lives? Reckless. Leadership? A shallow display."

He scanned the room again, his gaze falling once more on Layra.

"You, girl, were supposed to lead, not play the hero. You were supposed to bring back supplies, not tales of failure. If this is the future of our base, we may as well accept starvation and chaos now."

His eyes gleamed with a smug belief in his own righteousness. The room was silent. One girl by the wall gripped a friend's sleeve but said nothing. Someone in the back lowered their head, staring at the dirty floor. Another bit their lip as if wanting to speak, but only swallowed hard. 

Adam did nothing. He didn't move or speak. He simply watched, noting every detail. Faces, glances, silence. What he felt wasn't anger—but something worse. Disappointment. Then, he spoke. Quietly, but clearly:

"Pathetic," he said aloud.

Silence froze like a blade. Some looked at Adam in shock, others with a hint of relief—as if someone had finally voiced what they didn't dare say.

Ternwald flinched. He turned toward Adam slowly, as if to show he still controlled the moment.

"And who are you?" he asked, smirking.

Adam glanced at the room. At the people. Their faces, just moments ago lit by the returning group, were now tense, closed off, some twisted in discomfort. Someone near the entrance whispered to a friend, who nodded bitterly.

Layra stood frozen, as if only now realizing how many eyes were on her. Brann panted, still holding Kael. Sareth and Nira stared at the ground, as if trying to draw meaning from the floor.

And Kael... didn't move. His head hung limp on Brann's shoulder like a rag doll. Even his shadow seemed lighter than his body.

Adam saw it all, every reaction, every whisper, every averted gaze, and felt a hollowness growing inside him. Then he spoke again:

"This is your thanks?" he asked slowly. "They fought. Bled. Risked their lives. For you. For everyone here. And all you offer are accusations and complaints."

He looked around. Many eyes turned away. A few narrowed in hostility. But most... shame. Silent, deep shame.

"You look at them like they failed you. Like your only concern is they didn't bring dinner. Can't you see they're bleeding? That kid on Brann's back is barely alive."

His words struck like stones cast into still water.

He turned to the professor.

"And you? You're the worst of them all. Others at least have the decency to remain silent. You, though, raise your voice and throw accusations like you're still someone of importance. But here, in this new reality, your titles, your tone, your old-world pride... they mean nothing."

Adam stepped forward, eyes locked on Ternwald.

"Maybe once your words carried weight. Maybe people feared you behind closed lecture hall doors. But now? You're just a dog. A dog with no leash, who's forgotten there's no one left to obey him. If you stepped beyond these walls, you'd die at the first turn. And no one would mourn you."

His gaze turned cold.

"And you know it."

The professor paled so quickly it was as if blood drained from his face. His eyes widened in disbelief—but there was no shame in them. Only rage. Irrational, almost feral fury. His lips trembled, caught between a snarl and a scream.

He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. His body tensed like he might throw himself at Adam not with words, but with claws. His face twisted in a grimace of hatred and desperation.

"You... insolent fool!" he spat, voice rising. "You think you can lecture me? Me?! I gave lectures when you were still eating your lunch off school floors!"

He stepped forward, swinging a fist—one last attempt to reclaim something: respect, control, anything.

The punch never landed.

A dull thud echoed—like a fist striking a cushion of air. An invisible force deflected his hand as if he'd struck an immovable wall. His arm stopped mid-motion, then bounced back, disobeying him.

Ternwald stumbled back, looking at his hand, then at Adam. His face no longer held fury—only something between fear and humiliation. Like he realized he hadn't just lost control of the room... but of himself.

Adam stood still. No anger in his eyes. Only calm, icy resolve.

"That was your first and last warning. Try it again, and I won't be so forgiving."

The silence that followed wasn't ordinary. It was tense, stretched like a wire over a canyon. Someone coughed, then fell silent. A boy by the wall turned away, unwilling to look at the professor. The girl who had whispered earlier now clenched her blanket as if to stop her hands from trembling.

Layra stared at Adam, eyes wide.

And the professor? He stepped back once more. His pride still flickered in his gaze, but without fire. Only ash. He glanced around—seeking support. But none came. Every face looked away. Every stare was blank.

Without a word, he turned and walked away into the crowd, vanishing like a shadow that no longer scared anyone.

And no one stopped him.