Even though there was a law—"Whisp Masters cannot attack civilians"—that night, it was broken… completely.
Mr. Vanomart, the feared mayor of the conurbation, stood silently as the battle ended. They had won. The resistance was over. But suddenly, without warning, an summoning seal split open the earth beside him.
From it rose a whisp—tiger-shaped, its massive form cloaked in black-red fur that flickered like fire. Standing three meters tall, it radiated terror. A sharp crystal—small and glowing orange—sat between its eyes. Its breath burned, its claws twitched like blades, and one deafening roar shattered what little courage remained. Even nearby Whisps flinched. People screamed. Some fainted.
But most terrifying wasn't the beast itself—it was the way other Whisps began to heal it, feeding him their power, ensuring his pain never slowed it down.
At that moment, the orphanage arrived—nuns and a few volunteers with their intermediate-level Whisps. They didn't hesitate. They fought to protect the boy. But the moment their Whisps clashed with the tiger-like one, they realized—
Here's a polished and more emotionally charged version of your paragraph, while keeping the original meaning and imagery intact:
This wasn't a battle—it was survival. One wrong step, and it meant death.
One by one, their Whisps collapsed—defeated, broken, or simply too terrified to continue. Others withdrew instinctively, stumbling toward the river, trembling. The nun and the others had no choice but to retreat, its cold current the only thing between them and annihilation.
But even as they (whisps) fled, their eyes remained fixed behind them—on him.
On the boy lying motionless in the dirt, barely breathing, his body limp, his Whisp shattered.
Their hearts were screaming, but their feet couldn't carry them back. Not against that kind of power.
The mayor approached. Calm. Smiling. He patted the beast like a loyal dog.
"He was the first to join the orphanage," he said, "a mute boy with no spark of taming. He failed to awaken his Whisp... so now, his place is revoked. He has no home. No protection. No rights. He's on his own.
You may all go. He broke the law. If you stay, you break it too.
Go now—or die with him."
Panic spread. Some ran. But nun didn't move. She stepped forward, trembling... not with fear, but resolve. A few others followed her, standing beside her like a shield. And seeing their bravery, even some who had turned away... turned back.
Mr. Vanomart noticed. His smile widened.
"Beat her to death."
The ruffians moved.
The nun didn't flinch. But as the heavy boots neared, she collapsed to her knees—not in fear, but pleading. Seeing this they laughed and about to beat him but stopped by his order "let me enjoy the scene". He started to came towards them.
"Please," she begged, tears breaking her voice, "he's just a child. He's done nothing wrong. We'll leave. Just spare him."
Vanomart stepped forward and kicked her aside, sending her to the ground.
He looked at the broken boy with clicking his tongue, still breathing—barely—and turned to the others.
"You all care too much for trash," he said coldly.
The city guards, who had arrived late, stood with clenched fists. One of them took a step forward after hearing his last words... but froze in that place. As his eyes met the glowing gaze of the general-level Whisp (tiger whisp).
No one dared move.
One of them whispered to the nun as they helped her up:
"We don't believe he did this. But we can't stop him. Wait. Please... wait for him to leave." (slow voice)
The Whisps kept healing the boy over and over. He would come to... and then be beaten again. Every time he screamed, it was softer than the last.
Then, Vanomart came beside him. He lifted the boy by his head and turned to the crying nun.
"I'll let him live," he said, voice like poison, "but I want something in return.
Not your prayers. Not your loyalty. Just... his eyes.
My Whisp has taken a liking to them."
The nun's face went pale. Her lips trembled. She shook her head, silently screaming.
"No… not his eyes… he's already lost his voice. Must you take more?"
But the others held her back. One whispered:
"He'll die if you resist. He'll die now. Let him live… somehow."
She looked up, eyes swollen, heart shattered.
Vanomart turned to his men.
"Heal him."
A ruffian obeyed. The Whisp cast a healing glow. The boy gasped sharply—alive again, awake for a moment.
He saw her.
Tears in her eyes. Her arms outstretched. Her voice cracked—
"NOOOO—!"
The boy screamed—not in pain, but in confusion, fear, and soul-deep terror. Then again a heart-breaking scream.
"Aaahh! Aaahhh! AAHHH—!"
She tried to run to him, but was held back again. Her screams joined his.
"Please! Please stop this! He's just a child! He's just a boy!"
Vanomart smiled—one final, satisfied glance.
"Now the city knows... obedience is survival."
And he walked away, leaving behind a broken child, a shattered nun, and a silence that bled louder than any scream.