The days after the bell tolled were different. The city of Everos buzzed with anticipation. Children sparred harder, men boasted of their sons and daughters, and merchants stocked supplies for the desperate souls who dreamed of stepping into the Swords Paradise.
But Crimson walked among them like a shadow.
The Weight of Sadness
He sat on the roof of their crumbling home, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the stars. The streets below echoed with laughter—other boys training, blades clashing, dreams spoken aloud.
He had none of that. No sword. No friends. Only whispers.
"Trash.""Cursed eyes.""Better off dead."
The words clung to him like chains. They replayed in his mind when the night was quiet, cutting deeper than any blade. He pressed his hands over his crimson eyes, wishing for once they weren't so bright—wishing he could be invisible, unseen by this cruel city.
And yet, when he looked down, Grandpa Arlen sat at the window with a lantern, waiting patiently, just like he always did. A silent reminder that someone, at least one person, believed he belonged.
Still, sadness never truly left him. It pooled deep in his chest, cold and heavy, a grief too large for a boy his age.
The Quiet Anger
The next morning, Crimson wandered near the training grounds again. He knew better, but something inside him—something restless—pulled him back.
The same boys stood there, flashing their blades like peacocks. When they spotted him, their grins sharpened.
"Well, well. Swordless shows his face again.""Looking for pity, Crimson?""Maybe he thinks the Paradise will actually accept trash like him."
One boy pushed him. Another spat at his feet. The laughter was sharp, cruel, endless.
For the first time, Crimson's eyes narrowed. A faint heat pulsed behind them.
He wanted to strike back. To silence them. To show them his blood could burn hotter than steel. His fists trembled at his sides, nails carving crescents into his palms.
But he didn't move.
He swallowed it down—the anger, the shame, the storm in his chest. He turned his back and walked away.
Their laughter followed him, but he told himself one day… one day, they would choke on it.
That night, he could still feel the rage in his veins, hot and unspent. He whispered to himself, voice low and harsh:"I'll make them regret it."
And for a heartbeat, his crimson eyes gleamed like fire.
The Fragile Happiness
Later that evening, Arlen pulled him into the kitchen. A stew boiled on the fire, filling the air with warmth and the scent of herbs.
"Come, lad. Eat before it burns."
Crimson sat down quietly, still carrying the weight of the day. But the moment Arlen placed the bowl in front of him, the warmth seeped through.
He watched his grandfather slurp the stew with exaggerated noise, then pretend to choke dramatically. Crimson blinked—then let out a soft, reluctant laugh.
It was rare, so rare that even Arlen froze, startled.
"There it is," the old man said with a grin. "I knew you still had a smile somewhere."
Crimson touched his lips unconsciously. It had been so long since laughter escaped him, he'd almost forgotten how it felt. The warmth spread in his chest, faint but real, soft enough to fight the cold for a little while.
That night, as the fire crackled, Arlen hummed his usual tune. Crimson leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed. For once, there was no sadness, no anger—only a fragile happiness, fragile because he knew it could break at any moment.
The Balance of Three Flames
As the days passed, Crimson carried all three within him:
Sadness, buried deep, reminding him of what was taken and what he never had.
Anger, smoldering quietly, waiting for the day it would burst into flame.
Happiness, fleeting but precious, found only in the quiet moments with his grandfather.
And beneath them all, his crimson eyes burned—not with despair, but with something the city of Everos had yet to see.
When the moon rose high, he whispered to himself, almost like a vow:"I'll carry it all. The sadness. The anger. Even the little happiness. I'll carry it until the day the world remembers my name."
The boy's voice was steady, too steady for his age. His crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dark, like embers waiting for a storm to breathe them into flame.
End of Chapter 3