Monk

Brandon sat with his legs crossed and back straight in the middle of the floor, his eyes closed and his mind blank as he meditated. He had a large journey ahead of him, and he knew that he would need his mind clean and calm if he wanted to have any chance of surviving. As soon as he stepped out the gate of his temple, he would be faced with a world that wanted him dead, and an unrelenting number of people who would actively try to make him so. Any moment of hesitation would be his last.

Yet he was not afraid of stepping out of the gate. He had confidence in his abilities, and the knowledge that would be necessary to carve his path forward. He would already have left, but he valued his meditation. It gave him the peace and clarity of mind to sharpen his skills.

It had been an hour since Brandon had sat down when he finally stood back up and shouldered the small pack containing his modest supplies and money. He carried no weapons on his person, knowing that anyone who came at him would underestimate him because of it, making his true power only that much more powerful. They would come at him too quickly and too loosely, and he would use that to break him.

Stepping outside of the gate felt as though he were casting aside a curse that had been placed upon him at birth. This was the first time in his life that he was to step outside of the confines of his temple and experience the real world. Gifted at birth with the white eyes, he had had to be protected. But his protectors were gone, and he had spent a long time focusing his talents. It was his only choice if he didn't want to rot alone.

It was a matter of minutes before the first one came after him. As if called by his presence, a wild-eyes man approached, knife clutched tightly in hand, eyeing the small pouch on Brandon's back. He let out a soul-wrenching scream as he leaped forward, knife flashing through the air, but Brandon was ready. He watched in slow motion as the man drew close, flying through the air, and when there were only a few inches left between them he began to move. One foot stepping into the attack, his shoulder bumping the bottom of the knife-wielding hand up and uselessly over him, his hand striking the man's throat brutally, all at one time.

The man gasped and dropped to the ground, clutching his broken windpipe, trying desperately to breath but failing. Brandon didn't stop to watch. He had places to be, things to do, and plenty other people to fight off.