Street life was starting to feel like a familiar rhythm. Malvin, the young vagabond who had now adapted to the narrow alleys of Solmaris, walked slowly in the shadows of the marketplace buildings, his steps cautious yet calm.
The bustle of the market no longer frightened him. The cries of vendors, the laughter of visitors, and the clatter of horses' hooves were now the background music of his daily routine. His hands were as quick as his eyes, always scanning for opportunity—because life on the streets demanded both courage and cunning. Today, he had managed to trade a stolen stale loaf of bread for an ash-blue shirt with a small tear at the shoulder. Black capri pants and worn-out boots completed his look. Not perfect, but enough to feel "human" again.
Yet behind that sly smile and nimble skill, memories still wrapped around his soul like cold iron chains.
"Don't let anger control your movements, Malvin. Focus, and read your opponent," his father once said—Jack Blank, the highest-ranking general of Aurelius—during one of their training sessions long ago.
Malvin clenched his fists. That final moment with his father haunted him still. He remembered how Jack's face had become unrecognizable—red eyes full of vengeance, body in chains, accused of treason and executed before nobles who only clapped in approval. After that, the bloody night began.
Screams. Fire. Blood. He and Edmund ran. Edmund, his loyal personal aide, protected him until they reached the riverbank. With one final embrace, Edmund pushed Malvin into the river, an arrow piercing through his own back.
Malvin wiped his slightly teary eyes.
"I'm still alive, and I'll keep living."
A jolt.
The sounds of commotion and children's screams snapped him back to reality. He quickly walked toward the source of the noise and stopped at a small open alley—surrounded by people. In the center, a boy about his age was being bullied by three older kids.
The boy was fighting back—in a strange, theatrical style, as if trying to put on a performance. His blocks were exaggerated, trying to inject humor, but they weren't strong enough. Malvin watched from the shadows, lips curling slightly in sarcasm.
"Looks like a failed circus act," he muttered.
The boy—Waltz—was nearly down. One of the bullies kicked him from behind, sending him sprawling. Cruel laughter echoed.
Malvin stepped in, hands behind his head, walking lazily. "Wow... three on one? Out of friends so you gotta gang up on a clown?"
The bullies turned.
"Who are you?"
"Me? Just a bored audience member. If you're gonna punch, at least do it with rhythm."
A punch flew at Malvin. He dodged easily, then kicked the attacker in the gut. The others tried to strike together, but Malvin moved like he was dancing—each motion full of mockery and flair.
"Oi, is that a face or a melon?"
"Oof, don't use your nose like a weapon!"
Soft laughter rippled through the crowd. Waltz, still on the ground, was stunned. Eyes wide, watching this boy fight like the world was his stage.
Eventually, two bullies ran off in a panic, the last one left dazed on the ground.
Malvin stood, brushing dust off his clothes. A small laugh. A crooked smile.
Waltz got up and approached him. "That was amazing… what's your name?"
Malvin hesitated. "Doesn't matter. You?"
"Waltz. I'm from the O'Dazzly family. We perform shows around the city. Our tent's not far from here."
Performances? A circus? Malvin was intrigued.
Waltz smiled. "You're really good at fighting. Can you teach me? I wanna protect myself, not just do funny tricks."
Malvin snorted. "Dunno… I don't like kids who talk too much."
But he still walked beside Waltz.
---
The performance tent loomed ahead—colorful, hung with oil lamps, laughter echoing from within.
Malvin's eyes widened. Enchanted.
For the first time… I feel happy.
Waltz turned. "So? Will you teach me?"
Malvin gave a small, lazy smile. "You ready to get bruised?"
"The streets are my stage. But this time… I'm not alone."