The flames hissed and danced across the broken street.
Smoke twisted upward into the red sky as three silhouettes stood locked in a deadly triangle.
Yoki moved first.
His single axe gleamed — a crescent of death cutting through the air.
Uzair met him head-on, blade flashing, while Rolsten roared from the side, his sword and axe crossing in perfect rhythm.
Steel clashed, sparks burst — the ground itself seemed to shudder from their power.
But Yoki didn't falter.
Each of his swings carried monstrous weight, every strike forcing them back inch by inch.
Then, his voice came — calm, low, and heavy with disinterest.
"Now I'm getting bored."
Before either of them could react, Yoki stepped in — faster than a blink — and his axe came down with brutal precision.
A flash of silver.
A burst of blood.
Rolsten froze mid-step.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then his axe slipped from his grasp — his right arm severed cleanly at the shoulder.
He dropped to his knees, gasping, blood splattering against the scorched ground.
Uzair's eyes widened in horror.
"Rolsten!"
Yoki rested his axe on his shoulder again, his voice deep, almost disappointed.
"Pathetic. You got down so easily."
Rolsten's breath was ragged, his vision swimming — but even as the pain tore through him, he managed a crooked grin.
Rolsten's vision blurred — smoke and flame melting into a single red haze.
He could barely hear the clash of Uzair's blade anymore, only the faint echo of steel against steel and the heavy thud of Yoki's footsteps.
His gaze shifted weakly — past the fight, past the blood — to the trembling figures behind him.
Roxy's parents.
They stood frozen, terrified, their eyes wide with helpless fear.
Can I not save them somehow?
The thought tore through him like a blade. His body screamed in pain, his right arm gone, his breath shallow.
I can't even fight this monster… he thought bitterly, eyes flicking to Yoki's towering figure.
The same beast who took the legs of my master… who nearly killed my best companion—no… my best friend.
His knees shook, the world spinning.
The firelight dimmed around him as his strength bled away.
What will that idiot do… if I fall here? Rolsten thought, a faint, pained smile curling on his lips.
He doesn't have many people left to rely on… he needs me. I can't lose. I can't…
He tried to rise — but his body wouldn't move.
His fingers twitched uselessly in the dirt, blood dripping down from his shoulder.
Why… why isn't my body moving?
Across the shattered street, Uzair still stood — barely.
His stance wavered, his armor cracked, his breath ragged.
Yet he refused to back down, meeting Yoki's monstrous power with sheer will alone.
Yoki tilted his head slightly, almost amused, his single eye glinting through the smoke.
"So you're still awake… interesting," he said, taking a slow, heavy step forward — the kind that made the ground tremble.
Rolsten watched through fading sight, his heart pounding.
No… not yet. I can't fall. Not while he's still fighting.
As this was happening, Rolsten's mind drifted — the chaos, the fire, and the pain all fading into a distant hum.
His thoughts slipped backward, far into the past.
Fifteen years ago.
The scent of burning streets was replaced by the quiet hum of a wooden hall — old, yet strong.
Sunlight filtered through the slats of the walls, falling across worn floors marked by countless years of training.
Wooden swords hung neatly on the racks, and the faint echo of the wind outside gave the place a solemn peace.
At the center sat the Master, calm and composed, his long gray beard resting against his chest.
Both of his legs were gone below the knees, but the strength in his presence made the room feel small.
His sharp eyes were fixed on the man standing before him — a young Rolsten, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair tied back, sweat still glistening from a long day's training.
"You've completed all the training I can give you," the Master said quietly, his tone proud yet weary.
"From now on, you'll walk your own path. With those hands, you can protect whoever you choose to protect."
Rolsten bowed deeply, his expression serious but his voice steady.
"It's all possible because of you, Master. I owe you everything."
The old man smiled faintly.
"You owe me nothing, boy. What matters is what you do next."
Before Rolsten could answer, the door slid open with a dull creak.
A young man — one of the disciples — rushed in, breathing heavily.
"Master!" he said, lowering his head.
"We found someone… a boy. He was lying outside the mountain path, covered in blood. Says he doesn't remember anything — not his home, not what happened. The blood isn't his."
The Master's brows furrowed slightly.
"Bring him in."
Moments later, the disciple returned — dragging in a small, mud-caked boy.
His clothes were torn, stained with dried blood. scars covered his arms.
He looked lost, standing there silently before the Master.
The Master leaned forward slightly.
"How old are you, boy?"
The child hesitated, eyes empty and distant.
"I… don't know."
Rolsten stepped forward, studying him.
"He looks twelve… maybe thirteen."
The Master nodded slowly, his gaze softening but thoughtful.
"Hmm. Then perhaps fate has brought him here."
Rolsten's younger self frowned slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes as he watched the quiet boy — unaware that this strange meeting, in that wooden hall filled with silence and sunlight, would one day shape both his and the Captain's destinies.
The Master's gaze lingered on the boy, calm but piercing — the kind of stare that seemed to weigh one's very soul.
"Do you remember your name?" he asked softly.
The boy shook his head.
"No."
"Your home? Anyone you recognize? Family?"
Again, the same quiet, lifeless reply.
"No."
The Master leaned back slightly in his wooden chair, his hands clasped together.
The silence in the hall grew heavy, broken only by the soft creak of the floorboards under the boy's bare feet.
"Then tell me," the Master said after a pause, his tone gentle but firm.
"How did you end up covered in blood like this?"
The boy looked down at his stained hands, his small frame trembling slightly.
His voice came out hollow, distant — as if he truly didn't know.
"I… don't know."
The Master studied him for a moment longer, then exhaled quietly.
"…Very well."
He turned to Rolsten, his tone steady but kind.
"Rolsten, take care of the boy for now. Feed him, let him rest. We'll see what to do after."
Rolsten nodded without hesitation.
"Understood, Master."
As he guided the boy out of the hall, Rolsten glanced down at him — at those emotionless eyes, the face of someone who had seen too much for his age.
He didn't know then who this child truly was or what fate had carved into his life…
But he felt, somehow, that this meeting was the beginning of something that would change everything.