26. The Devil

  No one knew exactly where Kain Vortalis had come from.

  Records in Dalina’s city hall show no birth, no citizenship, no trace of anyone named Kain Vortalis prior to his twelfth year.

  One day, he just simply appeared.

  Truth is, even Kain himself didn’t have an answer to this mystery. His earliest memory was of being twelve years old, stumbling through the crowded streets of Dalina, blood dripping from a wound on his head, desperately searching for help.

  He had no memories of family, friends, or any past relationships. Nothing at all. The only thing he knew for certain back then were his name – and the five Cognition Threads of Fire Magic he possessed.

  That was enough for Kain Vortalis to build an empire from nothing.

  Even as a teenager, he commanded respect. Through raw power and ruthless decisiveness, people found it impossible not to follow him – especially when the alternative meant perishing by his hand. It was during those early years he gained the nickname ‘Ifrit’, inspired by the legendary devil of fire himself, as he burned everyone who opposed him to cinders.

  With a deep, almost indescribable desire for control and power, he made the move on Dalina’s already established underworld, changing it forever – silencing the old families, and installing a new era under his command.

  The other criminal empires quickly crumbled beneath his relentless might. And instead of destroying their infrastructure completely, Kain cleverly absorbed their networks and influence, flipped their lieutenants, using them as fertile ground upon which his own empire could flourish.

  What he couldn’t win over with charisma, he intimidated. What he couldn’t intimidate, he corrupted. What he couldn’t corrupt, he incinerated.

  Slowly but surely, he rose to become the most feared man in the entire world.

  People whispered that Ifrit had the mind of a king – strategic and cunning, the heart of a beast – showing no mercy, and the eyes of a god – he always knew everything. But the truth was simpler: he was a man with no past and no ceiling.

  Over the years, fragments of his past tried to return. Dreams, images, visions of a different life – sometimes they were peaceful, but sometimes he wished he had never seen them. A woman’s face. A child’s voice calling his name. Buildings on fire – the scent of smoke still heavy in his nose after all these years.

  There was one dream he could never fully shake. It always began the same: a burning room with him in its center. All around, charred corpses provided him with company, speaking. Some cried, some screamed, some laughed, some sobbed. One of them called out to him every time: “You chose this.”

  Kain never trusted these glimpses. They were distractions. They were created by his mind which desperately tried to tie him down to something he had already outgrown. What was lost had no meaning to him now. He would rather just shape what came next.

  Despite the violence of his ascension, Ifrit was not a man lacking vision. He did not desire his status for the sake of it. No. He sought structure, order, control. He made sure his networks operated without failure. Loyalty was rewarded, betrayal was punished – quickly, publicly, and without ceremony.

  He could never sit still for long. Not in body, not in mind.

  When he wasn’t strategizing, he was training. When he wasn’t training, he was gathering information, reading reports, or watching over specific targets.

  Stillness bothered him and silence unsettled him.

  Many rumors had spread about him over the years.

  Some said he was a failed royal experiment – an artificial mage created by the crown. Others claimed he was the actual Ifrit - one of the Devils.

  There were even people who theorized about how he managed to gain his fifth Fire Magic Cognition Thread at the age of twelve. The most popular version was that he could listen to open flames – candles, hearths, campfires – and hear things no other man could. Secrets no one else could ever fathom. That way he learned what fire really was. That’s why he knew it better than anyone else.

  Kain didn’t entertain these theories. He neither confirmed nor denied them.

  “Let the people believe what they want.” He always said. “Let the myths grow.”

  Fear was a currency – and mystery only made it more valuable.

  Other than his name and fire, one additional remnant of his past lingered strongly within him: an overwhelming contempt for weakness. Kain despised weakness in all its forms. Whenever he sensed weakness in others, he exploited it without hesitation. He pushed, pulled, tested, manipulated. If it broke, he discarded it. If it endured, he studied it. And if it evolved, he respected it.

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  If he saw strength or power – real strength and power, not one given by gold or bloodline – he respected and carefully learned from it, believing everything could serve as a lesson.

  And whenever he discovered weakness in himself, he dug deep, seized it by its root, and ripped it out without mercy.

  So when his own son failed the simple test he had set for him, Kain – Ifrit – found himself unsure for the first time in years.

  On the one hand, what were children if not extensions of their parents’ will? Tristan’s failure felt like a reflection of his own, a flaw, a weakness that despite all the sacrifices and plans he had for demanded to be torn out and erased.

  On the other hand, the boy now stood before him, unwavering in his belief that he had done everything correctly. And that, in its own way, was a form of strength.

  He had waited a full month after the fake mission he gave him before confronting him. All loose ends had been tied up. Every actor had returned to their place. But the question of what to do with Tristan lingered.

  “Explain again,” Ifrit said, his voice steady. “Why did you choose not to take a Reaver Worm to improve your chances?”

  Tristan stood within the small circle safe from fire, fidgeting slightly under the heat, but when he spoke, his voice was firm. “I didn’t find it necessary to succeed.”

  “And yet, you did not succeed.” Ifrit replied. “If this scenario hadn’t been an act I orchestrated, you would’ve failed miserably because you hadn’t used it.”

  “But it was an act.” Tristan said, meeting his father’s eyes. “And I knew that.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then, Ifrit sighed – not out of disappointment, but in measured reflection. He could sense strength within his six-year-old son.

  “I see.” He said before switching the subject. “And the two Partans? What should we do with them? They failed in their task to fool you.”

  Tristan swallowed hard, the tension visible on his face as he answered. “The Partans are muscle, not brain. They were never going to convince me with their act – they’re not trained for subtlety or deception. They can’t be punished for lacking skills they were never expected to have.”

  Ifrit clicked his tongue. “Spoken like a Partan – not like my son.”

  Tristan’s eyes widened, but before he could say anything, Ifrit continued.

  “It’s true that the Partans are our muscle.” He began. “But it doesn’t mean we should lower our expectations and treat them like mindless husks. I expect each and every one of my men to go above and beyond their capabilities. Gods know, they all get paid more than enough.”

  “I understand.” Tristan admitted. “But at the same time, it doesn’t seem fair – “

  “Fairness doesn’t truly exist, my child.” Ifrit cut in. “It’s like utopia. An unachievable ideal. It exists only as a concept – something common people, unlike us, chase after to justify their lives. But it isn’t real. And you’d best remember that for the future.”

  “Yes, Father.” Tristan said, offering a small bow.

  “I’ll decide what to do with the Partans.” Ifrit said, dismissing the topic with finality in his voice. “Now, tell me about the couple. Why didn’t you order their execution?”

  Tristan shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the Holts. “They had no idea what they were signing up for. Brayden Holt was recruited by David – the Partan – to take part in this act. But it was just an act. A test for me. There was never any real danger to our Defeorica shipments. So, it felt unf – wrong to kill them for that.”

  “But did you know it was an act at the time?” Ifrit asked sharply. “And don’t lie.” He tapped his temple, a silent reminder that he could read Tristan’s thoughts if he wished.

  Tristan took a deep breath. “No. I had my doubts about the setup, but…no. I didn’t know it was fake at the time.”

  “Even if you did, does it change what the husband did?” Ifrit asked, his voice growing colder. “Do you know that beside him, David had offered the same job to five other dock workers? All of them had declined.”

  “I…I did not know that…”

  “In Dalina people know that crossing me – and now, you – is illegal.” Ifrit continued. “There will always be those who will try. But we cannot overlook it, Tristan. We cannot show weakness.”

  Tristan nodded hesitantly. “I understand, Father.”

  “Tell me then, why had you spared them despite what he did?” Ifrit asked, his tone probing. “Because they were a family? Because they had a child? I’ll say it again – since the day you had been born, you represent our family. That’s the only one you should be concerned about defending.”

  Tristan nodded more firmly this time. “You’re right. I misjudged the situation.”

  “No more weaknesses, Tristan.” Ifrit said, his tone firm. “Don’t make me clean after you again.”

  Tristan’s eyes widened in surprise right before Ifrit snapped his fingers.

  In the far corner of the room – the only one that had remained cloaked in darkness instead of fire during their entire conversation – flames burst to life. The fire illuminated a grisly sight: the decapitated heads of the Holt couple, their lifeless eyes still open in horror.

  Tristan stumbled back, collapsing onto the floor, his face twisting as he wanted to vomit.

  Without a word, Ifrit blinked behind him, catching Tristan’s small head in his hands. He gently, but firmly, turned it toward the heads, forcing him to look.

  “We can’t afford to show weakness, son.”

  ***

  After Tristan had left, Ifrit remained alone.

  He sat in a lotus position, the fiery floor beneath him flickering – but never burning his skin nor his robes.

  He was fire, and fire could not burn fire.

  Silence filled the chamber as he closed his eyes, slipping into a meditative state, his thoughts drifting toward the uncertain future ahead.

  He did not fear death.

  To him, dying meant nothing. The world wouldn’t stop, nor would it mourn.

  But dying without purpose – without leaving an impact – that is what truly disgusted him.

  That’s why he had Tristan.

  Not because he was yearning to have a child to spend time with – to see the world in new colors. Not because he wanted an immediate heir to inherit his empire.

  No. Tristan was insurance.

  The world as everyone knew it was going to change very soon.

  Ifrit planned on being there when it did – even being the one shaping it, molding it. But he was not a god. Even he knew that certainty was a lie.

  Tristan was magicless. But Ifrit still believed he would overcome it. There was too much riding on the boy – too much that couldn’t be left for chance. He could not, would not, just be a regular human.

  No…that was impossible.

  And yet, even in the heart of Ifrit’s iron will, a flicker of doubt remained.

  He had never been one to rely on words. He believed in results. And this boy, this…child with his blood and none of his power – it tested him in ways few things had. It challenged his beliefs and the very system of cause and consequence he’d built his entire life upon.

  His eyes opened, and he spoke – not to the room, but to something beyond it.

  “He is far from what you promised me, Gartan.”