Leaving the crowd, Akio stepped into the side streets, his eyes widening in astonishment. The ground was cracked and filled with potholes, the walls dirty and smeared with random graffiti, foul smells leaking from every corner. Beggars in tattered clothes sat on the ground, reaching out for coins, while thin children darted like ghosts, stealing whatever they could before vanishing into the alleys.
Akio stopped, mouth half-open, and murmured:
"Hah… this is nothing like… my home."
Yet instead of disgust, wonder flashed in his golden eyes. He walked deeper into the chaos as if discovering an exciting new world. He leaned toward a beggar wrapped in a torn blanket and said with childlike excitement:
"Hey, old man! Your life is really hard, huh?! But you're strong because you're still here!"
The beggar only stared blankly before turning away. Akio grinned wide and hurried on, his eyes roaming the alleys as if hunting for adventure in the ruins.
Further down the broken street, his gaze stopped on a group of men gathered in the road, their voices loud, their words sharp with tension. Among them stood a man with a charred red scar across his cheek—the same thief who had fled in terror earlier. His body was rigid, eyes bulging with fear, hands trembling as he shouted wildly:
"I swear! That place isn't a normal house… it's hell itself! I saw sparks coming from his hand… even from his eyes! If any of you go near there, you'll never come out alive!"
Some thieves laughed in scorn, but others exchanged uneasy glances, seeds of fear reflected in their eyes. The scarred man screamed hoarsely, as if the burn seared him more with every memory.
From afar, while chewing the last bite of his dango, Akio muttered curiously:
"Who are these guys? A gang of thieves?"
Suddenly, the neat house's door swung open wide. Out stepped the same teenage boy, but now in darker, more imposing clothes: a tight black short-sleeved shirt stretched over broad shoulders, dark trousers, and a side pouch strapped to his left thigh marked with a red X.
His hands wore short black gloves with open fingers. A sword hung from his belt across his back, and in his hand he held a burning cigarette, a thin line of smoke drifting upward.
He walked forward with steady steps, passing the gang as if they were nothing but shadows on the road, ignoring their unease as though he lived in a world untouched by their existence.
The gang froze. Their eyes darted between one another, some swallowing hard. The scarred man stumbled back, cold sweat dripping down his face, his hand rising unconsciously to touch the branded mark on his cheek.
One gang member suddenly burst into rough laughter, his voice full of mockery and challenge:
"Ha! You're all afraid of a teenage boy? Is that scar the only reason you're shaking like that?"
Others chuckled nervously, encouraged by his bravado. He stepped forward, muscles taut, fists clenched tight, his glare narrowing with defiance.
"Let me teach this punk a lesson… I'll make him kneel before us!"
His fists tightened until veins bulged, his body lowering, ready to strike. The tension in the street grew thick. Some bystanders stopped to watch, knowing a storm was about to break.
The gang member charged, the ground shaking beneath his heavy steps. His right arm swung up like a boulder, fist aimed to crush the boy's head. Even the air seemed to split before his rush.
But… before the strike could land, the boy moved. He didn't turn his body. He didn't shift his stance. He simply extended his right hand back with deadly precision, his bare fingers clamping onto the man's wrist like claws.
His gray eyes shifted slowly toward his opponent. That cold, piercing gaze froze the moment itself. The man's steps faltered, the crushing fist halting midair, trapped by a strength he hadn't expected. His muscles strained, but the boy's grip held unyielding, like an iron chain that could never break.
The boy raised his head, exhaling smoke in a deep, slow breath. Then his left hand suddenly flared alive, faint fire bursting between his fingers, heat rippling in the air. The nearest men instinctively stepped back.
Breaths quickened among the gang, panic flickering in their eyes. One whispered, voice trembling:
"F… fire? Could he be… related to King Cirrus?"
The whisper rumbled through them like distant thunder. The more the flames grew, the wider their fear spread. The trapped man's eyes widened, feeling the searing heat closing in before it even touched him.
The boy's voice was cold and sharp:
"I'm really busy. I don't have time to hear that name again. Leave before I turn you and this street into ash."
The man's body shook, his voice stammering as he nearly bit his own tongue:
"Wh… who the hell are you?!"
The boy was silent for a moment, his eyes gleaming in the shadows, the faint fire dancing across his fist. He took a short drag from his cigarette, exhaled, smoke veiling half his face.
Then he looked up, eyes sharp as blades, and said in a tone that cut to the bone:
"I am… Yukaji Ken."
The street froze in suffocating silence. The name echoed against the slum's walls like a looming warning. Every gang member's eyes widened with fear they had never known. And from afar, Akio couldn't look away. His heart pounded, a strange admiration stirring inside him.
A single name… and it was enough to shake the entire place. Who was he really?