The polished marble hallways of Blackthorn International Academy gleamed under the sunlight spilling through towering windows, but no light touched the dark corners — the places where status, money, and cruelty reigned above rules.
In one such corner stood Cian Archdemon.
Nine years old. Pale as porcelain. His flawlessly sharp face and glassy grey eyes earned him attention wherever he went — admiration from afar, but hatred up close. The rich, arrogant students saw him not as a classmate — but as a stray, a weak target without family, without protection.
And today… the hyenas circled.
Markus, son of a tech magnate. Aaron, heir to a political dynasty. Reed, spawn of old money. All three towered over Cian, their eyes alight with cruel satisfaction.
"Lost your mummy and daddy again, stray?" Markus sneered, shoving Cian's small frame against the cold wall.
Cian's shoulder struck the hard surface. His lip split faintly.
He didn't react.
His eyes remained dull. His expression unreadable.
Aaron chuckled. "Bet their car crashed just to escape you."
The words barely registered. His mind was elsewhere — formulas rotating, theories building behind his calm mask.
Then came Reed, grinning, animalistic.
Before Cian could move, Reed lunged — biting into his shoulder with brutal force. Skin dented, flesh bruised, blood bloomed across his white shirt.
Cian… stayed still.
No scream. No flinch. His grey eyes stared into the distance, lost in spiraling calculations.
Pain receptors…C-fibers…A-delta fibers…Nociceptive signals…Curious…Is suppression purely cognitive, or partially endocrine…?
The bullies pulled back, expecting him to collapse.
Instead… a faint, crooked smile appeared.
"You'll regret biting me," Cian whispered, voice flat, detached — terrifying in its sincerity.
Markus hesitated. Aaron snorted. Reed wiped his mouth, unnerved by the lack of reaction.
Then… a small voice broke the tension.
A little girl's cry.
Down the hall, Emilia, a tiny first-grader, cowered as two older boys cornered her, yanking her braids, stealing her stuffed rabbit.
"Where's your lunch money, runt?" one sneered.
Cian's eyes snapped back to sharp focus. His scientific fog vanished.
He moved.
Past his own bullies. Toward the girl.
"Let her go," he ordered softly.
The older boys laughed.
Moments later, they were on the floor — wrists twisted, pressure points pressed, humiliated by the small, bloodstained boy with surgeon-like precision. Cian didn't fight with rage. He fought with calculated, anatomical knowledge. Clinical. Efficient.
Emilia clutched her rabbit, wide-eyed. He crouched to her level, voice colder than his bruises suggested.
"Don't be afraid," he whispered. "Weak people like them… fade."
She nodded, wiping her tears, then ran — gone in seconds.
And the true danger returned.
Markus, Aaron, Reed — faces twisted with boiling frustration, their broken pride festering.
"All our humiliation," Markus growled, fists clenching, "is your fault."
Before Cian could brace himself, they descended.
Bites. Punches. Kicks. Slaps.
Fists slammed into his ribs. His arm twisted. His lip split wider. Reed's teeth sank into his hand like a wild animal.
Blood ran freely now — down his jaw, staining his shirt, dripping onto the polished floor.
But Cian's mind… left reality.
Pain? Irrelevant.
Thought? Overwhelming.
"Pain pathways… Cortical suppression… Neural override… I wonder how much trauma the body accepts before fainting…?"
He became untouchable — not physically, but mentally — drowning in obsessive scientific thought, his brain spiraling faster than fists could land.
His body shook — not with fear — but from the sheer intensity of containing his deranged, spiraling genius.
And the most terrifying sight?
His smile.
Faint. Crooked. Empty. Bloodied.
"You can bite me, break me…" his voice, hoarse yet eerily calm, broke through their rage. "But the human body adapts… and so do I."
Markus froze mid-punch.
Aaron faltered.
Reed stepped back.
"You're insane…" one of them muttered.
Cian's eyes sharpened — sharp, glassy, unnerving. His small form straightened, bloody and battered, yet eerily untouched.
"Insanity…" his voice was quiet, chilling, "…is just misunderstood genius."
He tilted his head, smile widening faintly.
"You should be afraid… not of my fists…"
His stare pierced them, devoid of fear, filled only with quiet, calculated certainty.
"…but of what I'll do when I stop thinking… and start calculating."
The bullies, suddenly small, backed away — their bravado shattered by the bloody, unflinching boy with a genius mind and terrifying control over pain.
Cian stood alone now, blood trailing down his jaw, his uniform ruined, but his eyes clear.
And deep in his spiraling mind, one thought consumed him:
"One day… they'll kneel."