Anger wasn’t the right word for it—but you’d be excused for calling it as such. To Gaspard, it was less a feeling and more a lack of it. He’d thought it once to be a blind rage—his mind going white when his emotions reached an overwhelming peak, but it was not like he was ever furious enough for that...

So, what is it?

Questioning this, his muscles began to move by themselves. In a flash, Gaspard grabbed the man’s chest place and ripped it off the leather straps. The buckles on either shoulder snapped, dropping with a high-pitched clang. Before the prickly-haired man realized his situation, his exposed chest was slammed with the full strength of Gaspard’s fist. A loud crack echoed from the man’s sternum—then he collapsed.

Not even a grunt leaked from his mouth.

His lungs lacked the air for that.

Trying to catch his breath, his chest twitched sporadically. Blood leaked through his green tunic. He desperately held his chest, drenching his hand with blood as he did.

Gaspard kneeled wordlessly and clutched the collar of the man’s tunic. Lifting him centimeters off the pavement, Gaspard rapidly slammed him back down, crushing his collarbone.

Blood splattered upwards, staining Gaspard’s blank expression.

The mere aura his actions emanated froze nearby onlookers in their tracks. All but a single girl who, although couldn’t see, knew the scene unfolding before her by sound alone. Gushing sounds of blood and cracking bones were distinguishable, but the blank ferocity was unlike anything any of the adventures had ever experienced.

Gaspard repeatedly slammed the back of the man’s head onto the pavement. Each impact bellowing another excruciating crack.

Finally, he let go with a heavy thump.

Instead of backing away, Gaspard reached for the dagger dangling from the man’s belt. Pulling it from its scabbard revealed a blade chipped throughout the edge. It was obviously never taken care of, but it still served its job as Gaspard jammed it into the man’s shoulder, ripping through skin, muscle, and bone with relative ease before hitting the concrete with a clink!

Only then did the man let out a whimper. A sound so fragile it was hard to believe it came from a man like him.

Beside him, expressionless as before, Gaspard held out his palm. Murmuring a spell, green strips of light swirled around his arm, leading to the center of his palm. The concentrated rays spun with concentric rings of light before solidifying into a bright green star.

Placing his hand against the man’s chest, his body glowed green. The wounds, which would’ve proved fatal, began to close, rebuilding his bone, muscle, and skin—solidifying the blade inside his body.

Now healed, Gaspard kicked him on his side, effectively flipping the man on his stomach.

Finally able to speak, the man pleaded, tears streaking down his cheeks, “S-stop…Please st—!”

Gaspard stomped on the man’s back, cutting off his plea and splitting his forehead as he hit the ground.

He lifted the prickly-haired man by the back of his collar and dragged him towards Za’Lia. Once at her feet, Gaspard said, in a soft voice, “Apologize.”

“…Wh-What?” The man asked, struggling to process the off-putting tone of Gaspard’s words.

He let go of the collar before stomping the man back to the ground. “I said—apologize.” His steady tone and faint smile continued.

The man, practically on his hands and knees before Za’Lia, quickly nodded before blaring, “I-I’m—I’m sorry!” He slammed his bloody forehead to the ground.

Gaspard, who still had his foot on the man’s back, pressed down. “And what are you apologizing for?” he asked.

“U-Uh,” The man’s lip quivered. Swallowing hard, he answered, “F-For shoving your sla—”

Slam!

Gaspard stomped once more. The handle of the dagger that was still stuck to the man’s shoulder snapped, leaving only the blade left inside. “Her name is Za’Lia.”

The man, whose sobs had become uncontrollable, hesitantly nodded. Tearing up more, he corrected himself, “For shoving Za’Lia.”

“Good. Now, what do you say to her?”

 After a quick sharp breath, he said, “I-I’m sorry Za’Lia for shoving you…”

“That’s more like it,” Gaspard nodded and stomped him to the ground one last time, knocking him out in the process.

…

Like a curse had been lifted, a long breath exited his lips. Gaspard blinked a few times as he snapped back to his senses.

He glanced at the man lying limp on the ground.

Although he could remember what he did, it felt like he’d witnessed it through someone else’s eyes. However, that couldn't be the case, and the blood on his hands was proof of that.

Terrifying as it was to experience, he could only imagine how everyone else must’ve felt seeing him do the things he did.

Looking around, the three other men that’d come into town with the prickly-haired one stood with their mouths agape. They hesitantly walked towards Gaspard, motioning that they were only going to help up their (supposed) leader.

Gaspard nodded, making the men’s fear leave their faces as they quickly picked up their leader and left.

Guess I can add those three to the list of people afraid of me, Gaspard thought.

With that in mind, he turned to the girl still laying on the ground—Za’Lia. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him blank out and go on a violet rampage, but he still worried she’d start fearing him.

He didn’t know what he’d do if that happened—

—Although, deep down, he had an idea what the answer to that was...

The face of a woman he hadn’t thought of in years flashed through his mind. His memory of that moment was blurry, but the emotion that grappled his chest nearly knocked him off his feet. The image, as painful as it was, faded as quickly as it came. Disappearing back into the deepest parts of his mind.

He took a deep breath.

Helping Za’Lia up, he whispered, “Sorry about that.”

Za’Lia quickly shook her head. She looked down for a moment before mumbling a single phrase, “Thank you.” A thin smile formed on her face.

As usual, she spoke in short sentences, but it wasn’t hard to gauge what she meant.

People like that guy who shoved her weren’t rare in the slightest. If anything, people like Gaspard were the exception. Za’Lia could protect herself, yes, but that didn’t change the fundamental issue of feeling like the whole world was against her.

Gaspard let out a smile of his own and a chuckle slipped out his mouth. With a sigh at his (What he hoped were) baseless worries, he ruffled the small girl’s hair.

While the commotion had gone down, the baker had seemingly used that opportunity to run back into his store. Gaspard still hadn’t paid him, but he didn’t think bursting in there right now, or at any point throughout the day, was the smartest idea. He’d just have to pay him at another time for the bread.

He clicked his tongue.

Even if most of the town saw him as a hero, he was conscious of the fact he was one incident away from being treated like the opposite. He already caught flack because he had taken in Za’Lia, so plenty of people were looking for a reason to paint him in a different light.

As long as they lived in the country of Siggdridd, there wouldn’t be a place where she would be accepted, but he hoped that this town would let it slide even if just for the fact she was helping protect it. Obviously, it wouldn’t be as easy as that, and Gaspard wasn’t helping by causing a scene like this one.

Thankfully most people were busy with repairs. He hoped that would distract enough people from his lash-out.

As he stared at the front door to the shop, a warm sensation on his hand snapped him back to reality.

Za’Lia lightly squeezed his hand.

Even without words, Gaspard could tell she was trying to cheer him up.

“Right, we should get going,” he eventually said.

She nodded once, and with that, they headed back to their cart.