The city of Everos never changed.
Nineteen years had passed since that night of fire, but the same blood-soaked law ruled its streets: only the strongest survive. Children carried swords before they could write their own names, and bloodshed was as common as bread.
But not for Crimson.
A Boy With Red Eyes
He was different from the start.
As a child, Crimson sat on the porch of their small, crumbling home, sharpening sticks with a kitchen knife while other boys paraded steel blades. His crimson-red eyes glowed faintly in the daylight, catching the stares of passersby.
"Those cursed eyes," one woman muttered as she passed."Doesn't even have a sword," another man spat. "What's the point of keeping such trash alive?"
The whispers never stopped. And Crimson never answered. His face, even as a boy, was still. Too still. Like he had forgotten how to smile.
Inside, Grandpa Arlen polished a battered short sword, humming an old tune. When he looked up and saw the boy staring off into the distance, he sighed."You're frowning again, lad. If you keep that face, you'll scare even your own shadow."
Crimson tilted his head, but didn't reply. He had grown used to his grandfather's light jokes, the only warmth he knew in Everos.
The Mockery of the Streets
At age ten, he dared step into the training yard, where children sparred under the eyes of their families. Every one of them carried a sword—rare, inherited, or stolen. Their blades glowed faintly, as if proud to have chosen their wielders.
Crimson carried nothing.
The moment he entered, the other boys laughed."Look who came—the swordless!""Hey, Crimson, maybe a stick will choose you!"
They jeered, waving their blades in mockery. A taller boy shoved him to the dirt. "Outsider. Trash. Even the weakest sword refuses you."
Crimson stood silently, brushing dust from his clothes. He didn't fight back. He didn't even glare. His eyes only burned with something deeper—an old, heavy grief none of them could understand.
Arlen, watching from the corner, clenched his fists. But he said nothing. He knew the boy had to endure. In Everos, pity was more dangerous than hatred.
The Nights With Grandpa
Their home was small, built on the edge of the Seventh Division. The roof leaked when it rained, and the walls groaned when the winds howled. But to Crimson, it was a fortress. Because it was the only place he was not despised.
At night, he would sit with Arlen by the fire. The old man told stories of the ancient swords—four mythical blades said to hold power beyond imagination. He spoke of lords, duels, and the strange paradise that appeared once every twenty years.
"They say it's called the Swords Paradise," Arlen said, eyes reflecting the flames. "A realm where the sword chooses the man, not the other way around. Those without swords may enter, and if fate smiles, they return with a blade for life."
Crimson listened, his crimson eyes fixed on the fire. For the first time, his lips moved, forming words like a vow."…Then I'll enter it."
Arlen blinked. "Hah. And if no sword chooses you?"
Crimson's gaze did not waver. "…Then I'll keep walking until one does."
The old man laughed, though his throat was tight. "A stubborn lad. Just like your father."
The Weight of Blood
Years passed. Crimson grew taller, his shoulders broad, his steps quiet but steady. Still, no sword hung at his side. In a city where children younger than him swung enchanted blades, he remained empty-handed.
Every time his reflection stared back at him—those blood-red eyes, the curse whispered about by all—he remembered. His parents' deaths. The mercenary's sneer. His grandfather's trembling arms carrying him out of fire.
At night, the dream returned: his mother reaching for him, then vanishing in smoke. He always woke with his fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.
Arlen would be waiting with tea, pretending not to notice the tears on the boy's face. "Sleep poorly again?"Crimson only nodded.
Yet he never spoke of his pain. He carried it silently, like a blade unsheathed but unseen.
The Bell of Fate
One evening, as crimson light bled across the horizon, the great bell of Everos tolled. Its deep voice rolled through every division, silencing the streets. People paused, eyes lifting toward the black tower in the city's heart.
A voice echoed, sharp and commanding:
"People of Everos. The gates are stirring. In one month's time, the Swords Paradise shall open."
Excitement roared through the city. The swordless cheered, the armed smirked with envy, and whispers spread like wildfire.
Arlen lowered his head. He knew what this meant.
Crimson stood in the doorway, eyes gleaming faintly under the red sun. His expression did not change, but his voice, low and steady, carried weight far beyond his years.
"This is my chance."
For the first time, his grandfather saw not a boy mocked as trash, but the shadow of a man—one whose eyes held the grief of nineteen years and the fire of a destiny that had only just begun.
End of Chapter 2