No, no—I didn't do anything. Please, spare me!
My voice cracked, raw with fear. I stumbled back, hands raised.
"I just… I accidentally bumped into you. Please!"
My words dissolved under the sound of their laughter—harsh, grating, the sound of predators before the kill.
I tried again, my cry piercing the cold air of the market street.
"Help! Someone, help me! Anyone in the town…"
I knew.
Even as the plea tore from my throat, I knew.
No one was coming.
Still, I screamed until my voice broke—someone, please.
The first kick drove the air from my lungs. Then another. And another.
Kicks and punches rained down, a storm of leather and malice. My mind began to drift, retreating into a haze of pain. I was hanging on by a thread, consciousness fraying at the edges.
"Hey! What are you doing here?"
A new voice sliced through the fog.
I forced my eyes open—a blur of movement rushing toward me.
Another one?
Here to join in?
Well… nothing new there.
But the blur stopped. Not over me—between me and them.
It was a boy.
Maybe my age. My height.
He stood with his back to me, facing the pack.
He was speaking—calm, steady words I couldn't make out over the ringing in my ears.
Was he… trying to save me?
He didn't understand. These people didn't listen. They didn't understand words.
"Run!" I tried to scream, but it came out a ragged gasp.
"Run away! They're monsters—don't save me! Just… go!"
I wanted to warn him. To help him.
But my body was failing. My vision narrowed, dark at the edges.
Just before the dark swallowed me whole, I saw it:
That boy, with nothing but a stick in his hands… was beating them back.
One swing—a man stumbled.
Another—a second fell.
The image of him—standing between me and the pain—burned itself behind my eyes.
Then everything went black.
And my world… changed.
----
Sunlight.
It poured through a window, warm and insistent, forcing my eyes open.
I blinked, disoriented. The last thing I remembered was the cold street, the taste of blood, the weight of boots.
Now I was… somewhere else.
That boy saved me, I think.
But where am I?
Pain pulsed through my body in deep, persistent waves—sharp in my ribs, throbbing in my skull. I'd been beaten before, but never like this. Never so completely.
I pushed myself up slowly, wincing. The room was small, clean, spare. A narrow bed, a wooden chair, a washbasin. No decorations. No memories.
"Are you awake?"
The voice was young, light, almost amused.
I turned.
There, sitting in the chair by the window, was the boy from the alley.
He was dressed in a simple white robe, the morning sun glowing behind him like a halo. A faint smile rested on his lips.
"You really are good at getting beat up," he said, chuckling softly. "I enjoyed the show. But I thought I should step in—or else you'd have died like a pig out there."
Any gratitude I'd felt for him began fading, fast and hot, replaced by a slow-burning anger.
All I could give him was a glare—the memory of him swinging that stick flashing behind my eyes.
"Whoa, look at that. He's angry!" The boy leaned forward, grin widening. "My goodness—where was this anger when you were getting beaten like a dog?"
His words hit me like a slap.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Only a tightness in my throat, a stinging in my eyes.
Tears welled, hot and shameful.
"What do you know?" My voice was barely a whisper. "What do you know? I don't have energy to walk. I don't have money for food. I'm barely hanging onto life. Do you think I like being beaten? You wouldn't understand."
"Clap, clap." He mimed applause, his expression unreadable. "Maybe you should cry daily. That'll solve all your problems automatically."
I wiped my tears roughly with the back of my hand, skin raw from the street.
The question left me before I could stop it—desperate, naked.
"Then what should I do?"
Silence stretched between us. For a second, I let myself hope—maybe he had an answer. Maybe he knew a way out.
"Why should I answer you?" he said, tilting his head. "Who are you? I don't even know your name."
I stared. Why change the subject now?
"I'm… nameless," I said finally. "You can call me whatever you want."
I swallowed, my curiosity cutting through the pain. "But I have a question: How did you beat those people? And… what was that stick?"
"Hm." He reached beside the chair and lifted it—the same length of wood I'd seen in the alley. But now, in the light, I could see it clearly. One end had been sharpened into a crude, deadly blade.
"This isn't a stick," he said, turning it slowly in his hands. "Most people don't know yet, but this is called a sword. It's a new weapon, brought here from the northern battlefields. Those who master it… are called Sword Masters."
My eyes widened. I couldn't look away.
It was simple. Brutal. Beautiful.
I looked at it like a child seeing a toy for the first time—with wonder, with want.
"Can…" The words tumbled out, reckless and hopeful. "Can I become a Sword Master too?"
He studied me, his smile fading into something more serious.
"You can," he said. "But it takes dedication. And determination. It's a new art—there's no set path. You have to find your own way."
My heart leapt. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I saw a future—not just survival, but something. A path.
Then he asked, his voice casual but his eyes sharp:
"Will you take revenge on the people who beat you today?"
"No." I didn't hesitate.
"Are you a saint?"
"No."
"Then why not? Explain."
I took a breath, looking past him out the window. The sky was clear, endless.
"After being beaten again and again… I realized something. The people who hurt me are losers in life. I'm starving now, but the future me…" I met his gaze. "He isn't worth their time. I don't know. Maybe I'm delusional. Maybe my luck is terrible. But I remember something someone told me when I was little—I don't even remember who. They said, 'Time will never stay the same. So get up.'"
The room fell quiet.
The boy watched me, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he smiled—a real smile, not a smirk.
"I like you."
A chill ran down my spine.
"Are you that kind of man?" I asked, already scooting back on the bed.
He laughed—bright, unguarded, filling the small room.
"You really are stupid." He shook his head, still grinning. "Join my side."
"Join… your side?"
"Ah." He stood, smoothing his robe. "I guess I forgot to introduce myself. I am Aleric Vermillion. The youngest of my house. I'm looking for… talented people." He paused, eyes locking onto mine. "And I know you're not talented. But I'm giving you a chance anyway."
My breath caught. My heart hammered against my ribs, loud enough I wondered if he could hear it.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
Then I found my voice, steady and clear:
"Yes. I'm ready to join."
Aleric's smile returned, edged with something like satisfaction.
"Good."
And just like that… I became part of the Vermillion family.