The shopping district of Everos was always alive with noise.
Merchants shouted from their stalls, swordsmiths displayed their shining blades, and children darted through the crowd, pretending to duel with wooden swords. The air smelled of metal, spice, and ambition.
For Crimson, it was just another afternoon of pretending to belong.
He walked beside his grandfather, carrying a small basket filled with bread and herbs. People stared as they passed—not at Arlen, but at him. His red eyes were impossible to hide. Some whispered, others just turned away. Crimson had learned to ignore it.
Until he heard that sound.
A dull thud. A cry. Laughter.
He turned.
The Scene
Near the fountain, three boys stood around another—kicking him, shoving him, snatching something from his hands. The weak boy's white clothes were torn, his cheeks red from the blows. But what drew Crimson's attention was the glint of the bully's sword—a silver-ranked blade.
"Come on," the bully sneered. "If you're really from the Eryndal family, fight back. Or are you just using their name?"
The weak boy shook his head desperately. "I—I told you, I don't have a sword yet—!"
Another kick sent him sprawling. The crowd looked, but no one moved.
Crimson felt something twist in his chest. That same helplessness from years ago. That same cold memory—his parents' blood, his powerlessness.
And suddenly, he wasn't thinking anymore.
The Strike
The bully laughed, turning toward his friends——and then a shadow fell over him.
Crimson stood there, silent. His basket lay forgotten on the ground.
The bully frowned. "What? You want a turn, red-eye?"
Crimson didn't answer. He simply grabbed the boy's wrist mid-swing. The crowd gasped.
"Let go," the bully hissed, struggling—but Crimson's grip didn't move. His arm trembled as he tried to pull back, veins straining, but Crimson's fingers were like steel.
In one motion, Crimson twisted.
Crack.
The boy screamed, falling to his knees. Crimson's other hand moved—a quick, clean punch to the stomach. The air left the bully's lungs in an instant. Another hit followed, faster than most could see. The bully's body lifted slightly from the ground before crashing onto the cobblestones, unconscious.
The entire district froze.
The crowd, the merchants, even the wind seemed to stop.
Crimson stood over the fallen boy, his crimson eyes blazing like fire.
No one spoke. No one dared.
The Whisper of Fear
The silence shattered with a single voice."Th—that's Lior of the Dalthen family!"
The name spread like lightning through the crowd. The Dalthen family—one of the prestigious Twenty-Eight Sword Houses. Their bloodline was said to be blessed by a legendary blade itself. To harm one of them was unthinkable.
And yet, the boy with no sword had just done it.
People began murmuring, eyes filled with both fear and awe."He knocked him out with his bare hands…""Did you see his eyes?""What is he…?"
Crimson didn't move. His breathing was steady, his face unreadable. The weak boy looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips trembling as if to speak—but no words came.
"Get out of here," Crimson said quietly, not looking at him.
The weak boy scrambled to his feet and ran, clutching his bruised arm, disappearing into the crowd.
The Escape
A firm hand landed on Crimson's shoulder.
"Enough."
Grandpa Arlen stood behind him, face pale but eyes sharp. "We're leaving. Now."
Crimson blinked. "But—"
"No time." Arlen's voice was low, urgent. Around them, the crowd had begun to shift—guards of the market district approaching, whispers rising faster.
They slipped through the alleys, Arlen moving with surprising speed for his age. Crimson followed silently, his mind still burning from what he'd done.
When they finally reached the quiet of their home, Arlen shut the door, locking it. He leaned against the wall, sighing.
"Crimson…"
"I couldn't just watch," Crimson muttered, still trembling slightly. "He was hurting him."
"I know," Arlen said softly. "You did what was right—but Everos doesn't care about right or wrong. That boy you hit… his family won't forgive this."
Crimson's jaw tightened. "Then let them come."
The fire in his eyes made Arlen fall silent for a moment. He saw it again—the same spark he'd seen when he found the boy all those years ago. That dangerous, beautiful crimson light.
After a long pause, Arlen said quietly, "You're growing stronger. Too strong, maybe."
Crimson looked down at his hands, still shaking from the fight. "It didn't feel like strength. It felt… like anger."
Arlen smiled sadly. "Sometimes they're the same thing."
The Silent Gratitude
Later that night, as the city lights faded, someone stood outside their gate.
The weak boy from earlier. His hands were still trembling. He looked at the door, then back at the night sky. His lips parted—"Thank you…"
But he didn't knock. He couldn't. The weight of his family's pride, the fear of the Dalthens' wrath—it kept him frozen.
After a moment, he bowed his head and left.
Inside, Crimson sat by the window, staring at the same sky. Somewhere deep down, he felt something shift—something inevitable.
Everos had seen him now.And once this city saw you, it never forgot.
End of Chapter 4