Night. Eight years ago.
I can't breathe. Smoke fills my nose, my eyes burn, and my legs tremble. I'm standing in front of our house... or what's left of it. The fire engulfs it as if it has a life of its own, as if feeding on my memories.
My name is NILO DE SARA, and this is the night everything changed. I was 10 years old.
"Mom!" I screamed with all my might, but my voice was lost amidst the roar of the flames.
I clutched the only thing I managed to salvage from the house: a sword wrapped in old rags. I don't know why I took it. I just... felt it was important, or felt like it spoke to me.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. Not from the smoke. Not this time.
And then, amidst the fire... I saw him.
A dark silhouette. Tall. Imposing.
His eyes... red like blood. He walked towards me without burning, as if hell embraced him.
I wanted to run. I wanted to move. But my legs wouldn't respond.
"MOM!" I screamed one more time, desperate.
Darkness enveloped me abruptly.
And before I fainted, I heard something. A metallic, dry, repetitive sound. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Present – Inside a metal container
"Hah!" I woke up with a gasp, panting, as if emerging from underwater. My chest burned, but not from fire. It was the memory.
I was sweating. A lot. My shirt clung to my body, and the air inside the container was dense, metallic, old. It took me a few seconds to orient myself. There was no fire. No house. No mom.
Just me.
The echo of that dream had haunted me since childhood. It was becoming more frequent, and I was getting a closer look at that man. Not the one with the red eyes... there was someone else... a light... something had been different. He got closer, as if touching me. I could feel his arms on my skin.
I sat up slowly. On the ground, beside me, was my worn backpack and the old black helmet I always carried.
The sword wasn't there. I had hidden it. Good. I don't trust those I'm with.
I opened my backpack and checked: clothes, some food, tools, a lighter... and a notebook. I picked it up with trembling hands and opened it to the first page. There it was: a poorly drawn picture, made by me when I was 11. My mom, me... and Dad... and another boy... and a sweet little girl... I drew their faces blurry... I don't know why I forgot their faces.
"Good morning, Nilo," I murmured to myself, trying to stifle the tremor in my voice.
THUMP THUMP THUMP.
The knock on the metal door made me jump. Again.
"Nilo! We're here, sleepyhead!" The hoarse, mocking voice was unmistakable.
It was CHAKAL (24 years old), who belongs to the N-13 Baika, illegal transporters. He brought me here. I've been traveling with him and some of his friends for a while. We're not friends. We're... convenient... but they don't know about me, or the sword I'm hiding.
I stood up, dusted off my pants, and opened the rusty door. The sunlight blinded me for a second, and when my eyes adjusted, there they were.
Chakal, with his dark glasses and his eternal cigarette in his mouth, leaning against the back of the truck with a mocking smile. Beside him, like two more sinister than useful shadows, were CRUZ (22 years old), a 6-foot tall guy with a bat slung over his shoulder, and MANO DURA (25 years old), who had a mechanical arm that hummed every time he moved it.
"It's about time," Chakal said, throwing his cigarette to the ground. "Sleep well, princess?"
"I dreamed about you," I replied as I stretched my arms. "But I woke up before it got ugly."
Cruz let out a laugh, and Mano Dura snorted.
"Let's get to the point," Chakal said. "Our boss likes your bike, so we're taking it."
I looked at him. I didn't understand at first. But seeing his expression, I knew he was serious.
"What did you say?" I said softly, humorlessly.
"Guild rules," Cruz interjected, resting the bat on the ground with a dry thud. "A rookie can't ride an unregistered vehicle. You're not yet an N-13 Baika."
"What are you going to do against the three of us?" Mano Dura added mockingly, cracking the knuckles of his mechanical arm. The electric hum grated in my ears.
I scratched the back of my neck. I sighed. I looked towards the motorcycle covered with a tarp.
"You want to keep it?..." I smiled, slowly. "Come get it."
The atmosphere tensed like a cable about to snap. Chakal took a step forward. There was no turning back.
Chakal advanced without taking his eyes off me. His steps were firm, heavy, with the confidence of someone who had won more fights than they'd lost. The sun, high in the sky, cast long shadows on the dry, cracked ground. Behind him, Cruz twirled the bat in his hand, eager, while Mano Dura flexed the fingers of his mechanical arm, making the hum sharper, more menacing.
I stayed still. Not out of fear, but strategy. I had to choose the first move carefully.
"Come on, NILO DE SARA (18 years old)," Chakal said with a twisted smile. "I know you can fight. But I haven't seen you use your Seventh Sense. That gives me an idea... and curiosity at the same time."
I cracked my knuckles, one by one.
"If they're always as weak as you guys, I don't need to use my Seventh Sense."
He jumped first. I saw it coming. A quick right hook, aimed straight at my face. I ducked. I felt the air cut across my cheek. I slammed my shoulder into his abdomen and made him stumble back. But before I could capitalize, Cruz came from the right with the bat raised. I spun on my heels. The bat grazed my side. I felt the sting, but I didn't stop.
I kicked him in the chest. He stumbled, but stayed on his feet.
Mano Dura charged like a bull. His metallic arm rose like a hydraulic press. I threw myself to the ground in a somersault and rolled to the tarp covering the motorcycle. My fingers found the edge of the fabric.
I ripped it off.
There it was.
My motorcycle. But more importantly: under the seat, securely fastened with an old leather rope, was her.
My SWORD.
A blade black as coal, with a curved edge and a red core that pulsed with my every breath. As if it shared my blood.
"Are you serious?" Chakal yelled, panting. "You have that sword?"
I didn't understand the astonishment... or did I? I knew the sword was popular, though I didn't know much about it.
I slid out the sword. A faint click. The metal lit up. Red lines like veins began to glow on the blade. The warmth in my chest awakened.
A spark. An ember. FIRE.
I advanced. The sword hissed as it cut the air. Cruz tried to block me with the bat. Big mistake. I split it in two as if it were paper. The heat threw him backward, screaming.
Mano Dura jumped, his arm raised. I dodged him by inches. I spun around and plunged the burning blade into the ground beside him. A flare enveloped him. He tried to use his metal arm; quickly, it began to melt. He jumped back, shaking his smoking arm, not daring to return.
Chakal stood still.
"That sword isn't common... is it?"
"No," I replied, panting, sweat dripping down my forehead. "It's one of the Keys," he told me.
His eyes widened. For the first time, I didn't see mockery. I saw respect. And fear.
I sheathed the sword with a clean motion and secured it back under the seat. I got on the motorcycle. The engine roared on the first try. The smell of gasoline, hot metal, and burnt earth filled the air.
Before leaving, I looked at them one last time.
"Don't follow me."
And I sped off.
The road was dusty, uneven. The wheels raised a cloud that covered me like a cloak. The wind hit my face, but I couldn't think about that. Only about what had just happened.
They didn't know. No one knew.
I... didn't have a Seventh Sense of my own. Only by touching the sword could I use my flames. But using the sword was costing me too much. My body ached. My back burned. Every bump the motorcycle hit was like a stab wound.
But I couldn't stop.
I had to find that man. For two reasons: to fix my motorcycle and because the sword tells me he has answers.
The engine roars. It vibrates. It breathes as if it has a soul of its own.
And then, the street burns in my wake.
Fire erupts from the rear wheels, leaving a red and gold trail on the cracked asphalt. I don't stop. I don't look back. The wind hits my face, debris blurs in my periphery, and for a moment... I feel free.
Free, but not alone.
As I sped away, atop the remains of an old building, a dark silhouette watched silently from above. Still, unmoving. As if it had been there all along.
"It's true... you have the fire key," the silhouette whispered, before disappearing into the shadows with a mocking laugh.