CHAPTER 476: CHAPTER 476: I FOUGHT A FISH

Zyran’s smile widened, that slow, wicked curl that always made people wonder whether he was about to flirt, murder, or do both in poetic order. The air around him shimmered faintly with the echo of ancient magic, the kind of untamed energy that did NOT belong in a peaceful village square but somehow suited him disturbingly well.

He clapped his hands together—bright, cheerful, absolutely deranged.

"Nowww," he sang, turning to the frozen men, as though he were a village auntie about to tell bedtime stories to children.

"Where was I? Ah yes—my tragic, beautiful childhood."

The trapped men all collectively screamed with their eyes.

Zyran began pacing slowly, theatrically, one palm behind his back and the other swirling his wooden wine bottle as if conducting an invisible choir.

"You see, once upon a time, when I was but a young cub—"

A few of the frozen men blinked, confused.

A few others wanted to scream.

One just wet himself a little.

Zyran ignored all of them, planting a dramatic hand over his chest.

"I was born with the face of an angel," he continued. "As you all can see—"

The men stared blankly, unable to agree or disagree, because disagreeing might get them murdered and agreeing might also get them murdered.

A lose-lose situation.

Zyran leaned forward to one man—nose almost touching the man’s frozen, sweaty face.

"But my mother... ohhh, she always said I was too pretty for my own good. Too charming. Too dangerous. Too... irresistible." His eyes fluttered dramatically.

The man tried to move away.

He could not.

The horror on his face was art.

Zyran straightened and sighed wistfully, gazing off into the distance as though reminiscing on a life only he understood.

"One time," he said, slipping into a long, rambling tone, "when I was a boy—well, not really a boy, more like a small panther with opinions—I fought a fish."

Silence.

Every single frozen man mentally begged, Why are we listening to this? Why??

Zyran continued anyway.

"Yes," he nodded with grave sincerity. "A fish. It insulted me. Looked me right in the eye—well, in the ripple—and dared to splash me. So naturally, I declared a blood feud. It was a very emotional day for me."

Beside him, Cyrus closed his eyes like a man begging the universe for patience.

Villagers at the edges whispered:

"Why is he like this?"

"Is the fish story real?"

"That poor fish..."

But Zyran didn’t shut up.

Oh no, he was just getting started.

"And then one time," he went on, waving the bottle, "I stole my father’s ceremonial—oh, wait, I’m not supposed to mention that part. Anyway! Where was I? Ah yes. I was a boy, and—"

He paused to tap one of the frozen men on the cheek.

The man’s pupils shrank in terror.

Zyran grinned. "Blink twice if you’re scared."

The man blinked faster than a butterfly flapping its wings.

"Adorable," Zyran whispered.

The villagers watching at a distance collectively shuddered.

He began circling the group again, each step slow and deliberate, his boots crunching against the dirt floor. Every time his shadow passed over a frozen man, the man visibly trembled even though his limbs couldn’t move.

"You know," Zyran mused, raising a finger like a teacher who just remembered an important point, "I never got to properly tell you all about my heartbreak."

The men collectively cried internally.

"I met her," he said dramatically, "at the worst time of my life. I was handsome. She was... there."

Cyrus simply shot Zyran a flat, warning look, the kind that said loud and clear: If she were standing here, you wouldn’t dare say that.

Not unless you had a death wish.

Zyran ignored him.

"And every time she saw me, she looked like she wanted to commit murder. I found it endearing. Romantic, even."

He stopped beside a frozen invader with fear-sweat dripping off his chin like rain.

"Then one day," Zyran said, face blanking completely, "she ran away. And I learned what true heartbreak felt like. It was like—"

He placed a hand on the man’s cheek.

A soft, almost loving gesture.

The man whimpered.

"—like being stabbed through the chest."

And with that gentle tone, Zyran flicked his wrist.

SHRRK.

A limb—nobody was sure if it was an ear or a finger—fell off the man next to him.

Gasps echoed across the village.

A few mothers shrieked, grabbing their children’s faces and yanking them inside like, NOPE NOPE NOPE, WE ARE NOT WATCHING THIS.

Cyrus rubbed his temples like a man begging for divine intervention.

"Zyran..." he muttered.

Zyran didn’t hear him. He was on a roll.

He twirled around and pointed at another frozen man.

"You! You look like you have a bad attitude. Chop!"

He snapped his fingers.

A piece of the man’s arm fell to the ground.

The villagers gagged.

The frozen invaders tried to scream but couldn’t move.

Zyran nodded approvingly. "See? Actions have consequences."

The boss of the invading group—only his eyes able to move—glared murderously.

Zyran immediately noticed.

"Oh? You’re glaring?" he said, voice brightening like a child discovering a shiny rock. "How cute. You think I care?"

The boss tried to speak, barely able to force words through frozen lips.

"You... will... regret this..."

Zyran blinked, leaned in, and said sweetly:

"Oh? Threats? Now I’m irritated."

His hand flicked out—beautiful, effortless, elegant.

SHHK—

The leader’s head rolled clean off his shoulders.

A perfect circle.

Like Zyran had drawn an imaginary line in the air and the universe simply obeyed.

The head hit the dirt with a dull thud.

His body remained standing, still frozen.

A few women fainted.

Another mother dragged three kids at once, shouting, "DON’T LOOK! CLOSE YOUR EYES! THE WORLD IS DANGEROUS!"

The remaining frozen men turned pale.

Paler.

Pale enough to rival flour.

Zyran dusted his hands, looking satisfied.

"That’s better," he said, stepping over the head casually.

Then he smiled down at another invader.

"You know, every time you idiots talk, I remember her leaving me. And every time I remember her leaving me..."

He slashed his hand to the side.

Another limb fell.

Another scream stuck in frozen throats.

All across the village, even the men—the trained fighters, the hunters, the tough ones—shifted uncomfortably, hands twitching toward weapons they knew would do absolutely NOTHING.

Zyran continued his theatrical massacre like he was trimming bushes.

"You annoyed me. Chop."

"You blinked too fast. Slice."

"You breathed. Flick!"

Pieces hit the ground like raindrops.

Cyrus muttered, "I’m too tired for this."

Back in the corner, Kian leaned against a post like he’d seen worse, but his tail gave the tiniest irritated flick.

Zyran hummed, strolling through the carnage, wooden wine bottle in one hand like he was hosting a casual brunch.

He stopped in front of the last remaining invader.

Just one.

One trembling, shaking, about-to-pass-out man.

Zyran crouched in front of him with a warm, bright smile—like a friend coming to comfort him on a bad day.

The man’s voice cracked as he whispered:

"P-please... just end me quickly..."

His eyes glistened with hopeless tears.

He had accepted his fate.

He was ready to die.

Zyran’s smile widened, gentle and glowing.

"Me? End yours?" he asked sweetly.

The man swallowed, nodding, desperate.

Zyran chuckled softly—

A dangerous, spine-rattling sound.

"No," he said.

He leaned in, his breath brushing the man’s ear, voice dropping into a whisper that made the entire village freeze.

"I have use for you."

The man’s eyes widened like he’d seen salvation.

Hope flooded his face so fast it was almost painful to watch.

And for the first time since he appeared...

He actually looked alive.