The Devil king Solomon

"Quick! In here!" The urgent cry of the female teacher pierced through the air, commanding the attention of her colleagues.

With a sense of urgency and trepidation, the three male teachers swiftly followed her into the classroom, their hearts racing and their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

As they crossed the threshold, their eyes widened in shock, unable to comprehend the horrifying scene that unfolded before them.

Little Ethan, usually known for his innocence and gentle demeanor, sat calmly atop a desk, seemingly untouched by the macabre spectacle surrounding him.

The once vibrant and lively classroom now lay in disarray, with the lifeless bodies of his classmates strewn across the blood-soaked floor and furniture, like grim remnants of a nightmare.

"W-What the hell happened here?" stammered one of the male teachers, his voice trembling with both fear and incredulity. He found it difficult to tear his gaze away from Ethan, whose unsettling calmness amidst the chaos sent shivers down his spine.

Ethan remained unperturbed, his composure unshaken, as if oblivious to the carnage that engulfed the classroom. In stark contrast to the gruesome scene, his immediate vicinity remained untouched by the crimson tide, a small pocket of tranquility amidst the storm of horror that gripped the room. The walls, once adorned with colorful educational materials, now bore a sinister sheen, coated in a thick layer of red.

The teachers exchanged bewildered glances, their minds racing to make sense of the incomprehensible nightmare unfolding before them.

Their duty as educators compelled them to protect the children, but in this moment, they found themselves grappling with the unimaginable, unsure of how to confront the enigma that was Ethan and the terrifying scene that surrounded him.

Shortly thereafter, Ethan's parents arrived at the school, accompanied by a contingent of police officers who were determined to uncover the truth behind the gruesome incident. They were directed to a designated area, where anxious parents sat in clusters, seeking solace and answers in the face of this unfathomable tragedy.

Sitting side by side, Didi, Ethan's mother, could not conceal her deep concern, her face etched with worry lines that spoke volumes of her unease. Turning to her husband, Solomon, she sought understanding in his calm demeanor amidst the chaos unfolding before them.

"Solomon, what is happening here?" Didi's voice quivered with a mix of fear and confusion. "Why are the police interrogating our son? What could possibly explain the horror we witnessed in that classroom?"

Solomon's expression remained steadfast, a serene mask concealing the turmoil within. He exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the closed door leading to the room where Ethan was being questioned.

"Do not fret, Didi," he reassured her, his voice measured and composed. "We must trust in our son and in the authorities to ascertain the truth. Whatever happened in that classroom, I believe Ethan is not responsible for it. There must be something else at play here."

His words were meant to comfort, to instill hope in his wife's heart, but deep down, Solomon himself grappled with doubts and uncertainty. He understood the weight of the situation, the implications of such a nightmarish occurrence. Yet, he held steadfast in his conviction that their son, Ethan, was innocent, despite the horrifying evidence that lay before them.

As they awaited news, a heavy silence settled upon the room, broken only by hushed conversations and the occasional stifled sob. Each passing second felt like an eternity, and the weight of the unknown pressed down upon them all.

The truth, they hoped, would soon come to light, revealing the enigma that had unfolded within the blood-stained walls of the classroom.

With a sudden burst of anticipation, the door to the interrogation room swung open, revealing the figures of four stern-faced policemen emerging from within.

Solomon, ever watchful, wasted no time in rising from his seat, determined to confront the officers and seek answers.

Closing the distance between them, he stood before the officers, his gaze steady and resolute. It was the voice of one of the officers that broke the silence, directing his attention towards Solomon.

"Are you the father of the boy?" The officer's tone held a mixture of authority and curiosity.

"Yes, I am," Solomon replied, his voice firm and unwavering.

The officer's gaze hardened, a glimmer of frustration seeping through. "Your son," he began, his words laced with both bewilderment and exasperation, "is refusing to utter a single word. We attempted various methods, even resorting to threats, yet he remains eerily composed."

A female officer interjected, her voice tinged with concern. "He doesn't exhibit normal behavior. If he continues to withhold information, we will have no choice but to place him under surveillance. Additionally, the parents of the injured children are demanding compensation for the harm inflicted upon their little ones."

Solomon's sigh carried a tinge of disappointment as he absorbed the gravity of the situation. The weight of his son's silence and the implications it held bore down upon him. Yet, he refused to let despair consume him completely.

"I understand," he murmured, a note of resignation coloring his words. "If that is the course of action deemed necessary, then it cannot be helped." Solomon's voice masked his disappointment, his unwavering resolve propelling him forward.

In a dramatic and unexpected turn of events, Solomon's fingers snapped together, and the fabric of time itself halted, freezing the world in a suspended state. Color drained from the surroundings, leaving behind a desaturated tableau of stillness.

With every step forward, Solomon traversed the motionless classroom, his eyes scanning the blood-stained scene that surrounded him. His heart ached at the sight of his son, Ethan, seated amidst the unsettling tableau, his innocence juxtaposed against the horrors that had transpired.

Solomon's voice, filled with regret and remorse, resonated through the frozen air. "I'm sorry, son," he whispered, his words carrying the weight of a heavy burden. "I never wished for any of this to befall you."

With a wave of his hand, an ethereal energy surged forth, coalescing the scattered droplets of blood into a colossal, pulsating bubble. Its grotesque beauty was both mesmerizing and repulsive as it quivered with the essence of the gruesome scene. And then, in a breathtaking display of power, Solomon slowly uncurled his hand, drawing the entire macabre entity towards himself.

The bubble, now drawn into his open palm, seemed to resist, as if reluctant to be consumed. Yet, with a resolute determination, Solomon closed his hand, sealing away the horror within. A profound silence hung in the air, interrupted only by the faint echoes of distant memories and the soft tremor of his steady breath.

Solomon's action held a solemn purpose, a desperate attempt to shield his son from the repercussions of the unfathomable events that had transpired.