The capital of the Solthar continent, Eizo, was a city of heat and motion. Its sun burned brighter than most lands, and the stone streets radiated warmth beneath the constant tread of merchants, travelers, and knights. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meats, spiced breads, and the acrid tang of forge smoke that drifted from the industrial quarters.
As Sinbad and Yamori walked side by side through the bustling avenues, sellers called out with cheerful voices. Some raised their hands in greeting, while others bowed their heads in respect. Sinbad returned their gestures with his usual easy smile, his presence radiating an effortless authority that seemed to calm even the rowdiest corners of the market.
Yamori, however, kept his silence. His sharp grey eyes scanned the shops and stalls with curiosity, his young features betraying little.
Sinbad eventually stopped in front of a familiar storefront: an old weapon-smithy marked by a wooden sign carved with axes and hammers. Inside, the air smelled of metal and soot. Behind the counter stood a dwarf with a beard white as bone and a chef's cap that looked permanently stained with age and smoke.
"Sinbad!" the dwarf barked, his gravelly voice carrying a surprising warmth. "Back so soon? I thought you'd be spending time with your family instead of—"
His gaze shifted, landing on Yamori. The boy had already wandered closer to the wall where a line of blades gleamed under torchlight, his expression unreadable.
"Ah," the dwarf muttered, lowering his voice.
Sinbad chuckled as he reached into his coat and pulled out a thick notebook, handing it over. "That's Yamori, my firstborn. Strange lad, but that's his charm. Now… I've a request for you, Kael."
Kael flipped the book open, and his eyes widened as they scanned the sketches and formulas within. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow. "These… these weapons—Sinbad, how in the name of the forge did you even conceive of these? If these designs are real, they could change—no, revolutionize—everything." He slammed the book shut, almost as if the very diagrams might burn him.
Sinbad only laughed, broad and unbothered. "I'll trust you to make them, old friend. As for Yamori—" He glanced at the space where his son had been standing only moments before. Empty. "…well. Seems the boy has slipped away. Hah! He takes after his mother more than me."
Kael grumbled, still shaken by the notebook, but set a heavy axe onto the counter. "Your order's finished. Just… don't vanish before you come to collect it this time."
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Meanwhile, Yamori had already drifted deep into the heart of Eizo. The lively atmosphere of the market gave way to the rougher quarters—the Kaido District, where the scent of sweat, smoke, and cheap alcohol clung to the air. His eyes lingered on a dingy tavern whose windows rattled with laughter and shouts.
The door creaked as he pushed it open. At that exact moment, a man was hurled through one of the front windows in a shower of glass. Yamori sighed softly at the tired cliché and stepped inside.
The tavern stilled. Conversation cut short, mugs halted mid-air. Dozens of eyes turned to the boy standing in their midst, a faint glow of curiosity—and unease—passing over the rowdy patrons.
"Oi, kid!" a booming voice thundered from behind him. "What're you doing in here? This ain't no playground."
A massive man grabbed Yamori's shoulder, his grip rough. Yamori's grey eyes flicked up at him, expression still calm. Then, with a simple twist, he caught the man's finger and bent it sideways. The bone gave a sickening crack. The man screamed, collapsing onto the floor.
The room erupted. Chairs scraped back, fists tightened, and more men surged forward. But Yamori wasn't listening to them. His ears caught something faint—muffled cries for help, seeping through the walls like whispers.
As the broken-fingered thug tried to tackle him again, Yamori vaulted upward, planting a foot on the man's face and springing forward. He soared past the startled bartender, through the fragile wooden wall, splinters scattering around him.
On the other side, he landed in a cramped backroom. Four men spun around, daggers drawn, their prize revealed: a small girl with long red hair and striking blue eyes. Her wrists were bound, her cheeks streaked with tears.
"What the hell—?" one of the kidnappers cursed. "Why's there a brat in here? Damn it, kill him before anyone notices!"
They rushed him.
The first swung, but Yamori sidestepped, driving a wooden spoon—snatched from the floor—straight into the man's eye. The man collapsed screaming as Yamori struck his throat with the heel of his hand, silencing him into unconsciousness.
Another came from behind, blade flashing. Yamori caught the fallen sword, spun, and blocked the strike. His foot slammed into the man's stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. Before the thug could recover, Yamori's blade carved across his wrist, severing the hand that held the weapon. The man's scream turned ragged as he collapsed, clutching the bleeding stump.
Two remained. Both froze, staring at the boy with horror.
"This… this ain't worth it," one stammered, tugging his companion toward the door. "We didn't sign up to fight some demon spawn. Lenny, let's get the hell out!"
They bolted, leaving behind the wreckage of their comrades.
The room grew quiet again. Yamori stood amidst the mess, his shoes lightly splattered with blood, his breathing steady as if none of it had been more than an inconvenience.
His gaze shifted to the girl. Her wide blue eyes trembled, still wet with tears. Yamori walked closer, lowering the blade.
"I heard your pleas," he said evenly. "And now I'm here. So…" He extended a hand, expression unreadable. "Need a hand, miss?"