Amidst the Waves [Wuthering Waves]

The heavens wept with thunderous fury as if snickering at the misery of a soul lost in the embrace of despair. Rain poured relentlessly, cascading over the figure of a young boy kneeling in the mud.

Kyorin's head was bowed low, his forehead pressed against the earth before a small, weathered stone plaque. The name "Dan Xia" was etched into its surface, a silent reminder of a life now gone.

The boy's heart twisted painfully as the question haunted him: 'Was this the price of attaining power?'

Kyorin's journey had begun with ambition, an unrelenting hunger to transcend the ordinary and become a Resonator, this world's counterpart to the cultivators he had once known.

Power had been his goal—his obsession. Yet now, drenched in rain and sorrow, he couldn't shake the hollow bitterness clawing at his thoughts.

"Still..." he began, his voice trembling with frustration. "It's useless!" He muttered as he came to realize how unfair this world's rules were to him and his previous powers.

Powers, vast and formidable in his previous lives, now lay dormant, locked away by the impenetrable laws of this strange world. It mocked him, tantalizingly close but utterly out of reach.

He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as he voiced his realization aloud. "They cannot manifest... much like cultivation techniques. Not here. Not without..."

His words trailed off, the solution dawning on him like a shard of light through the storm clouds. 'Them being completely overridden to work per this world's rules.'

Regardless, this would result in a major problem. Efficiency and potency will both diminish as they were meant to be used using Qi.

Overriding every property of them to match with Resonance Energy (RE) would inevitably make them less potent, and... who knows? Whether they would remain the same techniques or not.

The path forward seemed impossibly steep. Resonance Energy—an enigmatic force native to this realm—was abundant, humming through the air and soil, yet it was alien to his understanding.

He could sense it, like a faint whisper on the edge of hearing, but fully comprehending it? That was an entirely different matter.

Kyroin clenched his restless heart as he muttered in pain, "Damn these energies are rattling my core"—*Pwek*—He spat blood as his internal organs were on fire.

Within his core, two distinct energies stirred, vying for dominance: Water, cool and unyielding, and Destruction, a feral chaos threatening to consume all in its path. The two had intertwined, forming a volatile purple mass—a strange amalgamation dubbing it; "Murasaki".

"Fighting for supremacy, huh?" Kyorin mused, his brow furrowing as he focused inward. The energies clashed, their conflict rendering them inert, like two mighty beasts locked in an eternal stalemate.

"Tch" Clicking his tongue, he begrudgingly coped with the pain, understanding that for now, this compound power remained as distant and as a blade sealed within its scabbard.

Frustration boiled within him. He clenched his fists tighter, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. 'This is infuriating,' he thought, anger and helplessness intertwining.

What was the use of awakening if he lacked the means to use it? Powerless even after his awakening, Kyorin felt as though the universe itself was conspiring against him.

The storm raged on, its fury drowning out the world and silencing Kyorin's muttered curses. Yet within the chaos, a cold, murderous intent surged through him, like a dam breaking under the pressure of an untamed flood.

One half of his body began to tremble violently, the shudders not entirely his own. Deep within him, the dormant subconscious of the countless souls whose blood he had consumed stirred, roused by the storm of his wrath.

But it was brief—a flickering defiance snuffed out in an instant. Sensing the depth of Kyorin's rage, the remnants of those souls recoiled in terror. Some annihilated themselves outright, extinguishing their lingering echoes rather than facing the abyss of his fury.

It was almost ironic. For a man like Kyorin, the embodiment of carnage and wrath, his anger was both a weapon and a chain.

It had liberated him countless times, yet shackled him to a cycle of unrelenting violence, a cycle he could neither break nor escape.

The storm mirrored his turmoil, its winds howling as if recoiling from the boy at its centre. "Haah..." He exhaled sharply, the sound lost in the relentless downpour.

Rising to his feet, Kyorin cast a lingering gaze at the tombstone before turning his eyes toward Yang Niu Village.

In the distance, his cold voice cut through the rain like a blade. 

"I will kill them... I will kill them all." 

.

.

.

The gourd-like device in the Fractsidus Executioner's grasp buzzed faintly before crackling to life. A cold, detached voice emerged from its depths. "You've secured the girl?"

"We have her, Overseer," the Executioner confirmed, his tone laced with professional indifference.

"Good. Bring her back." The Oversser gave a stern command.

"Yes, boss." The Executioner clipped the response, his four arms moving with practised efficiency as he replaced the device in its holder. His gaze swept over his comrades, a once-full contingent now reduced.

Originally twenty-one, now eighteen. 'The lass was more capable than we had anticipated,' he mused as the girl had been fiercer than anticipated, taking out two of his own, which left him grudgingly impressed.

'Speaking of impression... that boy,' The Executioner remembered another kid with navy hair who took down his underling. Though it was not as impressive as the girl's feat, still...

It was the boy—that boy—who lingered in his thoughts. A waste, they'd called him. Talentless. Insignificant. Not even worth the effort of capture.

And yet, the Executioner found himself briefly amused, his fingers absently tracing the edges of the twin blades that had ended the boy's life. 'If only that body had shown even a hint of potential...' he mused, though the sentiment was fleeting. Pity had no place in their line of work.

Turning back to his crew, he commanded, "Alright, listen up!" His voice rang out, commanding the attention of his underlings. "Everyone, take the houses for the night. We leave at dawn."

One by one, the Fractsidus warriors dispersed into the shadowed remnants of the village, their figures vanishing into the night. Only the Executioner remained, his eyes drifting to the small, cramped cage at his side.

Inside, a little girl sat bound, her body bruised but her face strangely serene. Eyes closed, breathing steady—she could almost have been mistaken for sleeping. But the Executioner knew better. Her stillness was too deliberate, her calm too measured.

A grin twisted his lips as he knelt beside the cage, his gaze predatory. "Don't bother with the act, little one. I see through it." His voice dripped with dark amusement, and a low, almost magical chuckle escaped him. "But don't worry. You'll fit right in with our ranks soon enough."

The girl's fingers twitched ever so slightly, the only outward sign of the storm raging within her. She could hear every word, each one a knife carving despair into her heart.

Her lips moved silently, forming a prayer so desperate it burned. "Oh God... please help me."

The Executioner's laughter echoed through the empty village, a cruel melody to accompany the girl's whispered plea as the Fractisidus took whichever home they wanted.

The crimson-cloaked figures scattered into the remnants of the village, each claiming a dwelling for the night. One among them, a scrawny man with a wiry frame and a battered gun slung over his shoulder, halted before a modest hut.

Its walls were weathered, draped in creeping vines, and framed by a humble garden of pale flowers swaying in the night breeze.

"Hands off," he snarled, glaring at his comrades as they passed. "This one's mine."

He strode toward the house, his lip curling at the sight of the garden. A sneer twisted his features as he levelled the barrel of his weapon at the blossoms.

With a flick of his finger, a burst of heat reduced them to ash. Satisfied, he kicked the creaky door open and stepped inside.

The air hit him instantly—rich, savoury, and warm. His stomach growled as the tantalizing aroma of pork wafted through the small space. His eyes landed on a weathered steamer resting on a table, its lid slightly ajar.

"Food," he muttered, a hungry gleam lighting up his face. He crossed the room in hurried strides, throwing the lid off to reveal a modest collection of dumplings inside. They were no longer steaming, but their plump, doughy forms promised satisfaction.

Before he could take a bite, a sharp, blinding pain exploded at the back of his skull. He stumbled forward, crashing against the table as stars danced in his vision.

Behind him stood a boy—a teenager—with navy hair clinging to his rain-drenched face and pale yellow eyes that burned with fury.

"How dare you tarnish my mother's garden," the boy spat, his voice cold and sharp as a knife's edge, "and dare to lay your hands on my food?"

Without waiting for an answer, the boy delivered a vicious kick to the gunner's ribs, sending him sprawling to the ground. He grabbed a dumpling, raising it to his mouth with an almost reverent hunger.

But the respite was short-lived.

A hollow click filled the air, and the boy froze. He turned his head slightly, just in time to see the barrel of the gun pressed against him.

"Die, you piece of shit," the gunner snarled, blood trickling from his lip as he pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, deafening in the small room. The boy's head exploded in a spray of red, the steamer clattering to the floor. Only one dumpling remained, balanced precariously on its edge.

The gunner sneered, wiping blood from his face as he staggered to his feet. "What a waste," he muttered, turning his gaze toward the dumpling. But his victory was short-lived.

"What the—" He uttered in surprise.

The corpse on the ground began to shift and writhe, the torn flesh knitting itself back together, but not into the boy it had been moments ago. Instead, it was reshaped into a familiar figure—one of his comrades.

Just then, a cold voice whispered from the darkness, cutting through the gunner's panic like a blade. "It seems I can still use mind control... as long as it matches this world's governing frequencies."

The gunner froze, his breath hitching as he spun around, searching the shadows. The words were devoid of warmth, spoken with a clinical detachment that sent chills racing down his spine.

[Demonic Illusive Arts: Reverie of Sanguine (Overridden)]

Before the gunner could process what was happening—before fear could fully register—a blade flashed from the darkness. The movement was precise, almost elegant in its lethality.

The steel tore through his throat with horrifying ease.

His hands instinctively flew to the gaping wound as a wet, gurgling sound escaped him. Blood poured freely, thick and dark, pooling on the floorboards in sluggish rivers. His weapon slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the ground.

From the darkness emerged the boy—no longer a teenager but a child no older than six. His pale yellow eyes gleamed with an unnatural hunger, his small frame coated in shadows that seemed to pulse like a living thing.

The boy approached the steamer, plucking the last dumpling from the hand of the deceased Fractisdus with a strange, eerieness.

He held it in his hands, savouring the warmth for a moment before taking a bite. His voice was soft, almost tender, as he murmured, "Thank you for the food, Mother."

But one dumpling wasn't enough.

His gaze shifted, falling on the dying gunner writhing helplessly on the floor. The boy crouched beside him, his small hands latching onto the man's arm.

Without hesitation, he tore the limb free with a sickening crunch, bringing it to his mouth, beginning with the fingers as blood spattered his face. [A/N: You are my specialz.]

The gunner's body convulsed, his screams lost to the blood pooling in his throat. The boy chewed slowly, his teeth tearing through flesh and muscle with grotesque sounds.

"Before I begin to slaughter you all," the boy said, his voice calm and almost polite, "I'll feast first."

The dim light of the hut seemed to flicker, the air writhing with a haunting melody as the boy's shadow stretched unnaturally across the walls, forming a chilling image reminiscent of a hellspawn.

To be continued...

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A/N: Now that my schedules are cleared, you can expect double chapters almost every day for the next week.