The young monk knelt in front of his attackers, not because he had surrendered, but because he was too injured to fully stand.

The mage was crumpled next to him, her robes gradually turning crimson from the inside out. The mighty barbarian was inching towards her, knees dragging, breath failing due to all the broken ribs. The paladin was out cold. If he ever came to again, his career was likely over, even if he was lucky enough to even able to speak words ever again.

The monk was only glad his mother wasn't alive to see him in this sorry state. She never wanted him to be a hero. Heroes die early. At the end of the day, her own sacrifice had proven her right. And yet, instead of heeding common sense, instead of listening to her and learning from her mistakes, he had followed in her footsteps, with gusto. Humans were stupid like that.

That's probably why they were a dying race.

The Dark Khan's Force Commander stood before them, sneering just enough to expose his left fang. He was not impressed.

"I was hoping for more." The Commander kicked the monk in the side of the head, knocking him into the mud. It wasn't even that painful. The Commander hadn't wasted his breath.

As he tried to stand back up, he got one last look at his down party. Right now he didn't have the mana to heal a paper cut, let alone raise them back up.

I didn't think it was going to end this way.

...

His mother hadn't actually taught him the secret, but he was such a bookworm in his youth that he had managed to piece it together anyways. It wasn't hard really. Adrenaline, relaxation, and a severe disregard for one's life were all it took. A very small spark of mana had to be applied to a specific portion of the brain. The runes needed to be tattooed into the flesh in advance, but they were surprisingly simple and easy to hide. That's what it came down really: subtlety. The slightest changes in the right spots could turn the human body into an engine of destruction, but only for a little while. Then, once the spell wore off, the debt would be paid.

That is why, when the Dark Khan came for their family, he was the only survivor, not her.

...

"Sorry, mom." He whispered to himself.

The Commander chuckled. "Interesting last words. Don't fret child." He drew his sword. "You'll be reunited with her soon."

The monk didn't acknowledge him. He just kept staring at his friends, the closest thing to family he had left.

Maybe it wasn't quite how she felt that day. But, hopefully it was close enough.

Hot steam began to rise from his back, arms, and hair. The commander raised an eyebrow and took a step back as the mud around the young monk began to boil.

"What magic is this?"

The boy took solace. He always imagined that his mother's final moments were excruciatingly painful but... this actually felt kind of good.

Realizing that any further hesitation would endanger his party, the Force Commander lunged forward with his sword, aiming for a quick decapitation.

CRACK!!

But he was too late. In just one second, the brazen boy was standing erect, posed several steps behind the Force Commander, his arm outstretched and fingers straight.

The Force Commander hadn't even finished kneeling, nor had his head hit the ground yet, before the doomed monk fell upon the Khans. He'd be the last thing most of them saw, though many of them would just see afterimages.

As for the monk's adopted family, they would live.

And to him, that was all that mattered.