The sunlight barely pierced the narrow alleys, squeezed tightly between weathered houses. The salty sea breeze whispered through cracks and crevices, carrying the faint murmur of footsteps from the nearby marketplace.
For those who knew Sevala's twisting streets well, this was no place for the faint-hearted. Every corner hid secrets, every shadow promised unseen danger. This morning, that fragile silence was about to shatter.
Suddenly, the very air quivered—an ominous tremor signaling the opening act of a deadly hunt.
Veron moved like a phantom through the chaos, a fleeting blur appearing before the first thief with inhuman speed. His fist crashed like a hammer into the man's jaw, snapping his head back and sending him unconscious onto the slick cobblestones.
Veron leaned closer and whispered coldly, calmly, with the hint of an emerging confidence.
"Who's next, gentlemen? I have a schedule to keep… and lunch waits for no one."
Five more criminals lunged forward in desperate unison, knives flashing faintly in the dim light. But Veron's movements were poetry—brutal, precise, and merciless.
A ruthless kick shattered the second man's jaw. A spinning roundhouse sent the third crashing into a wooden stall, splinters scattering like fireflies in the night. The gang's leader turned to flee, panic blazing in his eyes—but before he could escape the labyrinth of alleys, Veron appeared behind him and dropped him with a single effortless strike.
The remaining two thieves fled into the shadows, leaving behind only silence… and the faint metallic scent of fresh blood.
Veron stood still, chest rising and falling in measured breaths. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, yet his face remained unreadable—cold efficiency carved into stone. Gripping the unconscious leader by the arm, he dragged him through the winding alleys, every step deliberate, every sound muffled.
When he emerged into full sunlight, the soldiers' headquarters stood before him. Inside, the harsh scent of iron mixed with damp stone and stale sweat—a grim testament to the authority enforced within those walls.
He handed over the criminal. The guards accepted him with bored indifference.
Then Veron noticed something else.
A young man was training nearby, suspended upside down, arms shackled to iron bars. Despite the restraints, he pushed his battered body upward again and again, muscles trembling, sweat glistening on his skin.
He looked about Veron's age. His hands were wrapped in bloodstained bandages—clear proof that he was a fighter.
Their eyes met for a brief heartbeat. Silent. Sharp. Heavy with unspoken understanding.
A flicker of respect passed between them.
Veron's jaw tightened. A memory stirred—himself, younger, defiant, alone. He swallowed and buried the thought. Without a word, he turned away, pocketed his reward—one thousand Rizo—and vanished back into the city, curiosity lingering like smoke behind him.
By midday, Sevala awakened fully. The marketplace buzzed with life: merchants shouting, marinated meats glistening beside bundles of fragrant herbs. The scent of sizzling food blended with the sea breeze, wrapping the city in warmth.
Veron moved through the crowd like a shadow. His stomach growled—a reminder that even the strongest fighters must eat.
He slipped into a modest eatery. Worn wooden tables offered brief sanctuary from the city's harshness. Veron ordered without hesitation and ate ravenously.
A hesitant voice interrupted him.
"Are you the hunter… Veron?"
A boy no older than ten stood beside his table, eyes wide with fear and awe.
"Yes," Veron replied without looking up.
"I need your help. For a mission."
"I'm off duty."
"Four thousand Rizo," the boy blurted out.
Veron's fork paused mid-air. Slowly, his eyes lifted.
"Sit," he said, pushing a plate toward the boy. "Eat."
They ate in silence. Then the boy leaned closer, whispering urgently.
"A fighter protected my father from soldiers who were bullying him. He beat them… but they arrested him. Tomorrow, they'll execute him."
Veron's jaw tightened.
"Sorry, kid," he said quietly. "I don't fight soldiers."
"I'll pay you—"
Veron stood abruptly, tossing money beneath the plate, and walked out. The boy could do nothing but watch.
Night swallowed the city. Veron sat alone in a dim tavern, sipping water in silence.
Then a familiar voice drifted beside him.
"Not inviting me tonight?"
A beautiful girl slid into the seat beside him, smiling lightly.
"Not interested, Lara."
She chuckled, unoffended. "You always say that. And yet, you look heavier tonight."
He ignored her.
She glanced around the tavern, tapping her fingers lightly against the table.
"You know," she said with a faint smile, "this place hasn't changed at all. Same smells, same routine … different faces."
She took a slow sip from his glass without asking.
"Speaking of things that never change," she added casually hugging him from behind, her chest pressing against his back. "did you hear about the fighter who beat five soldiers? They're executing him tomorrow. I wonder why such a strong handsome young man should die"
She tilted her head, studying him. "And here I am, talking with a man who looks like he's already fighting something worse."
"You're annoying," Veron muttered, pulling her to his side.
She smirked. "And you love that, jealousy boy."
"In your dreams." He stood up and headed to his hotel room above the tavern.
The morning came.
The execution square filled with noise as soldiers dragged the fighter forward. The crowd jeered, but the man's eyes burned with calm defiance.
Veron watched from a distance. He spotted the boy again.
Their eyes met.
"Won't you do something?" the boy whispered.
Veron laughed darkly. "I don't know you, your father, or that dead man."
He turned away… then stopped.
After a long pause, he extended his hand.
"Give me the money."
The boy's face lit up.
Veron counted out one thousand Rizo, then tossed the rest back.
"This is enough."
Moments later, a soldier ran toward him in panic.
"Hunter! To the square—now!"
Several soldiers already lay unconscious when Veron arrived. The fighter stood alone, silent and unyielding.
"You know what you're doing," Veron said.
"Avoiding execution," the fighter replied calmly.
"Running from justice."
"Justice belongs to the corrupt."
Veron removed his sword—still wrapped in black bandages—and placed it on the ground.
"Are you afraid of death?"
"Not death," the fighter answered.
"But dying before I achieve my goal."
"What's your name?"
"Dren Ashfall."
"And your goal?"
Dren's fist shot forward like lightning. Veron blocked it with his elbow.
"I will become the strongest fighter in the worlds. Stay back."
The square froze.
A battle stood on the brink of eruption.