"Scalpel. Pressure's dropping. Move faster!"
Inside the operation theater, chaos blurred into routine. Gloves snapped. Monitors screamed. The sterile air thickened with urgency.
"Multiple fractures to both femurs, cracked ribs, internal hemorrhaging. Heart arrhythmia already setting in—he's not gonna make it like this."
Dr. Shimizu gritted his teeth. "Patient has a history of cardiac surgeries. How many?"
"Three, according to the report. Heart valve replacements. He's been living on borrowed time."
"Then let's try as hard as we can."
The team moved in synchrony—cutting, clamping, pumping adrenaline and hope into a body that had already chosen to leave.
But Haruki Arai was fading.
"His pulse is crashing!"
"Push another dose!"
"Charging to 200—clear!"
The jolt hit his chest. Once. Twice. A third time.
The line on the monitor stayed flat.
Beep… beep… beeeeeeeeeep.
Silence.
A few long seconds passed. Dr. Shimizu lowered his head, taking a slow breath behind his mask.
"Time of death: 3:12 AM."
The younger doctor looked down at the blood-smeared sheets. "He was so young…"
"Yeah. But sometimes... the world just doesn't give certain people a chance."
The overhead light dimmed as the team quietly began packing up. What was left of Haruki's body would soon be tagged and wheeled away. Another nameless, lonely case in a city full of them.
But somewhere else—
Far from machines and scalpels, far from stories and suicide—
There was crying.
A child's crying.
Small arms flailed in the air. His tiny fists clenched. The world was unfamiliar, strange—filled with warm skin, gentle murmurs, and blurry light.
A young woman—no older than her mid-twenties—held the baby close to her chest, rocking him slowly. Her voice was soft, but her hold was firm. Protective. Loving.
"Shhh, it's okay… you're safe, Ashen. Mama's here."
The baby's cries softened, his breathing slowing as his red—no, crimson—hair curled slightly against her neck.
He didn't know his name.
He didn't know where he was.
He didn't know what came before.
But in this moment, Ashen Brevis only knew one thing:
Warmth.
3 years later,
The sun spilled golden light over the cobbled streets of Brevia, where paper lanterns swayed above laughing crowds. Children ran between stalls, chasing scents of grilled meats and candied fruits. Bards strummed lutes under streamers of red and blue.
Amidst it all, a small boy with tousled crimson hair tugged at his father's sleeve, eyes wide and sparkling.
"Buy me an apple, Dad!"
His voice was high and impatient—tinged with the carefree energy of a child who had known nothing but love.
Gavric Brevis ruffled the boy's hair, smiling. "Only if you promise not to cry when it's gone."
"I won't!" Ashen huffed, crossing his arms dramatically.
Beside them, Lira Brevis chuckled softly, holding Ashen's tiny hand as they walked. "You say that every time. Last week, you mourned a grape like it was a fallen soldier."
Ashen gave her a betrayed look. "That was a really good grape!"
They all laughed.
Gavric glanced toward Lira, his voice lowering slightly. "He's growing fast."
She nodded. "But still his mood swings."
"You think something's wrong?"
"No," she said, brushing a hair behind her ear. "Just... different."
Gavric looked back at Ashen, who was now pointing excitedly at a vendor juggling fire. "He's ours. That's enough."
But before she could respond—
BOOM.
A sharp, deafening blast ripped through the sky, turning laughter into screams.
Soot and flame burst from the northern entrance of the festival street. Shards of wood and metal rained from the sky. A second explosion shattered a tower bell. The chimes fell silent.
"GET DOWN!" someone screamed.
Gavric immediately pulled Ashen close, shielding him with his body.
Lira's voice trembled. "What—what's happening?!"
Across the marketplace, dozens—no, hundreds—of dark-clad figures emerged. Faces covered. Blades drawn. Rifles aimed.
Not simple bandits.
Not a rogue gang.
Organized. Armed. Relentless.
Terrorists.
One of them shouted, "No one leaves! Kneel if you want to live!"
Gavric grabbed Lira's hand. "We can't run away—they'll shoot anyone who moves."
He pulled his family into the shadows behind a broken stall as more screams filled the air. The crowd panicked—but every exit was already choked by masked men.
Ashen, still too young to understand, clung to his father's coat, whispering:
"Dad... I don't want the apple anymore."
Ashen buried his face in his father's chest, trembling. The thunder of gunfire and panicked cries echoed through the festival square.
Gavric knelt beside him, steady hands on the boy's shoulders. "Ashen, listen to me." His voice was calm, firm—like a rock refusing to crack. "Everything will be fine. The city's guild will come. They always come when bad people try something like this."
Ashen looked up, eyes glistening. "Promise?"
Gavric nodded. "Promise."
Lira leaned in, brushing soot from Ashen's cheek. Her smile was small, but full of steel. "You think those masked cowards stand a chance against our guild? They'll be gone in no time"
Ashen almost smiled.
In the distance, a distant roar shook the air—whether beast or man, it wasn't clear.
Gavric tightened his grip. "Stay close. And no matter what, do what I say. Understood?"
Ashen nodded, heart still pounding, but trust in his eyes.