The Legacy Of The Virkir's

A man stood at what seemed to be a rundown apartment.

No one could have guessed it had ever been a home.

Right now, it was obviously ruins mixed with ashes.

The man, Alastor Vikir, just stared at the wreckage, as though hoping some sort of magic would bring back everything that was lost in the fire ten years ago.

Life hadn’t been perfect, but with his parents and sister, it had been enough. Until the day he left for his first training. 

He had returned to find his home burning, fire fighters dousing the house with water sprays, battling to put out the fire. 

Without thinking, Alastor did the only thing his heart screamed for—he ran into the burning house, calling for his parents and sister. 

But it was to no avail, every room he ran into, he couldn't find anything aside from burning accessories. 

He went straight to the kitchen but then a large hunk of burning wood fell on him. 

The next thing he saw was a fire fighter handing him a cup of hot chocolate. 

He’d lost consciousness the moment the beam struck him. According to the firefighters, if they hadn’t reached him in time, he would have died.

When he awoke, dazed and trembling, he asked the question that burned in his chest. “Were there any…?”

The answer chilled him more than the night air.,. no bodies, no survivors. Nothing.

His family had vanished without a trace. 

He stayed there for a while, eyes lingering on the blackened earth. The memories burned just as vividly as the fire had, years ago. But there was no use standing among ghosts.

After that day, Alastor disappeared from the world. His name, his past, everything… gone. He buried them all beneath the smoke and took on a new identity, Leo.

He had sought out the one man whispered about in every corner of the underground. The famed tactician, the undefeated master of survival, Mr. Orion Mcarley.

Orion didn’t take disciples. But Alastor had knelt at his doorstep for three days and three nights, until the man finally opened the door and said, “If you can endure the mountain, you can endure my teaching.”

And he did.

For ten long years, Alastor trained under him, learning to read the wind, to strike without hesitation, to see through lies and shadows. He had become a ghost himself, one that hunted through darkness.

And now his training was complete.

The world below called again.

He descended from the mountains that dawn, his master’s words echoing faintly in his mind. “The dead don’t speak, but vengeance does. Find your answers, boy.”

With nothing left but a cold heart and a vow, Alastor returned to the ruins where his life had ended once before searching for some sort of solitude and peace. 

He turned to leave, ready to disappear into the city until a movement caught his eye.

Down by the cracked road, a van had stopped near the ruins. Several rough-looking men dragged a struggling girl out of the vehicle and into the abandoned building beside the wreckage.

Alastor froze, eyes narrowing.

So much for solitude.

The girl’s legs scraped against the cold concrete as they dragged her through the broken doorway.

The girl, Seraphine, didn’t know why they’d taken her, only that one moment she’d been walking home from class, and the next, a hand had clamped over her mouth, the sickly-sweet sting of a cloth pressed to her nose.

Now her vision swam, her skin burning unnaturally hot. Every breath came too fast.

Something was wrong.

The men’s laughter echoed around her, bouncing off the cracked walls of the abandoned building. Their voices sounded far away, distorted, like she was underwater.

“Don’t fight it, sweetheart,” one of them sneered, gripping her chin to force her head up. “You’ll only make it worse.”

She tried to pull away, but her strength was fading fast. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her mind clouded in panic and yet she could feel heat between her legs .

They threw her to the ground. Dust filled her lungs, and she coughed, blinking through tears. The world tilted.

She could barely make out their shapes moving closer.

A slap landed on her cheeks. Pain flared and sharp enough to pierce through the haze.

Her body trembled, but her voice came out hoarse and defiant. “D-don’t touch me…”

The ringleader laughed, a low, ugly sound. “Still got fight in you? Don’t worry, we’ll fix that.”

The others jeered. One of them bent down, fingers reaching for her collar—and then a firm voice cut through the tension.

“Let her go.”

The laughter stopped.

The thugs turned around slowly, expecting some kind of trained officer or street fighter.

But instead, they saw a boy who looked no older than a college student.

For a second, they just stared. Then one of them snorted, and laughter broke out.

“Out here this late?” the leader said, grinning. “Does your mom know where you are?”

Another chimed in, “You little brat, barely even a man, trying to play hero? Go home before your mom calls the cops.”

Alastor didn’t respond. He wasn’t in the mood to waste words.

“Let her go,” he said quietly, his tone flat. “Or you’ll die here.”

The laughter stopped for a heartbeat, then returned, louder this time. The men were angry now, insulted that a kid dared to threaten them.

“Kill him,” the leader spat.

They charged.

What followed happened too fast for them to understand. Alastor moved like he’d done it a thousand times before. Within minutes, every one of them lay on the ground, unconscious.

Only the leader was left. He crawled back, bleeding from the mouth, fear filling his eyes.

“Please,” he stammered. “I didn’t want to do it. They forced me. I swear—just let me go, I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again.”

Alastor looked down at him without emotion. “I don’t care.”

He struck once, and the man fell silent.

Turning back to the girl, Alastor knelt and checked her pulse. Her skin was burning hot, her breath uneven. The moment he touched her wrist, he understood instantly. 

They had given her a strong aphrodisiac.

If it stayed in her system for too long, her body wouldn’t be able to handle it.

His jaw tightened. He looked at her flushed face and the sweat forming on her skin.

“Damn it,” he muttered.