Haru didn't wait for anyone. With Kara strapped to his waist and a small pack over his shoulder, he practically bolted out of the house, leaving the warmth and safety behind. The sun hung low in the morning sky, casting long streaks of light across the fields as he raced toward the edge of town, his dark hair whipping in the wind.
He barely noticed the familiar houses and dusty streets slipping past him, his mind consumed with the thought of the gladiator exams. Every step made his heart pound faster, a mix of excitement and fear thrumming through his chest.
From the doorway, Genjiro's deep voice carried after him. "Haru! Make sure you go through Gilue Town, not Cyrus! It's the faster route—don't get distracted!"
Haru slowed for just a moment, eyebrows furrowed, before nodding vigorously. "Got it, Grampa! Gilue Town first!"
With renewed determination, he surged forward again, leaving the small village behind as the fields stretched out before him, the first leg of his journey toward the gladiator exams officially underway.
Eventually, Haru reached a fork in the path, where a weathered wooden sign jutted from the ground. One arrow pointed left, the other right. He squinted at the carved letters, trying to make sense of them, but the words twisted and swirled before his eyes—he still couldn't read.
He scratched his head, frowning at the sign for a moment. "Hmm… I know! Eenie meenie miny moe!"
He pointed his finger from left to right, muttering the rhyme under his breath. When it ended, his finger landed on the path to the right. Haru nodded decisively. "This way!"
With that, he bounded down the path, oblivious to Genjiro's warning echoing faintly in his mind and completely unaware that he had just chosen the longer, slower route.
Haru didn't have to travel long before the town of Cyrus began to take shape in the distance. The jagged outlines of timbered rooftops peeked over the rolling fields, and the faint clang of metal on metal, the creak of wagon wheels, and the murmur of voices drifted to him on the warm morning breeze. Birds wheeled overhead, cawing and swooping, as the dusty path beneath his feet narrowed into cobblestone streets.
As he drew closer, the gates of Cyrus came into view, a simple wooden arch straddling the entrance. The hinges creaked as Haru pushed through, the smell of dust, smoke, and baking bread enveloping him like a living thing. Children darted between the legs of adults, laughing and shouting as they chased one another in chaotic games, kicking up little clouds of dirt in their wake. Merchants called from their stalls, their voices blending into a chaotic chorus of bargaining, selling, and gossip, each one trying to outshout the other to catch the attention of passersby.
The streets twisted and turned unpredictably, winding between low timber houses with sloping roofs, some with shutters hanging unevenly or small gardens tucked into the corners of their yards. Laundry flapped lazily between buildings, caught in the gentle morning wind, and the aroma of roasting meat mixed with the tang of fresh bread, filling Haru's nose and making his stomach growl despite his excitement.
Haru's dark eyes darted from one detail to the next—the glint of sunlight on a copper pot in a stall, the shimmer of a river that ran lazily beside the town, the wooden sign of a small inn swinging gently with the breeze. Every sound, every color, every smell seemed magnified, as if the town itself was alive and brimming with secrets waiting to be discovered.
For Haru, stepping into Cyrus wasn't just a stop along the way—it was the first real taste of the world beyond his home, a chaotic, vibrant, and endlessly fascinating world that stretched far beyond the fields he had always known. Each step he took along the cobblestones felt like the start of something much bigger than himself, and the adventure that lay ahead for the gladiator exams suddenly felt closer, more tangible, and more thrilling than ever.
Haru's stomach gave a loud, insistent growl as he wandered through the bustling streets of Cyrus, the scents of roasting meat, baked bread, and sweet pastries filling the air. His dark eyes scanned the chaotic market, darting from stall to stall, until one in particular caught his attention.
A small wooden cart, smoke curling lazily from a steaming pot, displayed a neat pile of fluffy buns. The golden-brown tops glistened with oil, and the aroma of rich, savory pork wafted toward him. Haru's face lit up instantly—he knew exactly what they were. Not because he could read the signs, of course; far from it. The only words Genjiro had ever managed to make him sit still long enough to learn were the names of food, and "pork buns" had stuck firmly in his memory.
"That'll be five hundred ryu," the plump man said, raising an eyebrow.
Haru reached into his bag and pulled out a decent sized rock and handed it to the vendor
The vendor groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Kid… rocks aren't money."
Haru turns his head slightly confused at the thought that the man didn't want his rock, so he held it out to him again, the vendor rolled his and muttered something about the homeless population rising before handing haru the pork bun anyway. Haru grinned up at the vendor. "Thanks!" he chirped, clutching the steaming bun like it was the most precious treasure in the world.
Without waiting for a response, he unwrapped it carefully and took a big, enthusiastic bite, the soft bread and savory filling making his eyes sparkle. Chewing happily, he wandered down the cobblestone streets of Cyrus, moving between market stalls and dodging children darting past him.
The scents of the town—the smoke from ovens, the tang of roasting meat, the faint sweetness of baked goods—mingled in the air as he nibbled on the bun, completely absorbed in his own little world. Every step he took, every sight and sound, seemed amplified by the simple joy of his food, and he barely noticed the curious glances of townsfolk as he meandered through the lively streets, blissfully unaware of anything else.
Haru walked briskly through the streets of Cyrus, finishing the last bites of his pork bun as he made his way toward the road that would get him back on the trail. The sun cast long shadows between the timbered houses, and the clatter of carts and chatter of townspeople filled the narrow streets. His dark hair whipped around his face in the breeze, and his mind drifted lazily over the path ahead, the gladiator exams looming in the distance.
Suddenly, a loud, angry shout rang out from a nearby alley. "This is unfair! I didn't do anything wrong!"
Haru froze, his dark eyes narrowing. He watched as a burly man was yanked roughly to his feet, his protests cut off as two uniformed town guards grabbed him by the arms. The man struggled, kicking at the cobblestones, but the guards were unyielding, dragging him down the street as the crowd parted around them.
Something about the scene gnawed at Haru's curiosity. He wiped his hands on his pants, stuffed the last crumbs of his bun in his mouth, and set off after the guards and the struggling man, weaving through the crowd. He had no idea what had happened or why the man was being taken, but he couldn't just let it go—he had to see where they were taking him.
As he followed, the din of the market faded behind him, replaced by the clanging of the guards' boots on the cobblestones and the man's strained shouts. Haru's pulse quickened; he had no plan, no clue what to do, but every instinct in him screamed that this was something he couldn't ignore. The path ahead twisted through the town, but he pressed on, determined to keep up.
They eventually reached a run-down garden at the far edge of Cyrus, tucked behind crumbling fences and overgrown with weeds that clawed their way through cracked cobblestones. Broken wooden beams lay scattered across the dirt, half-swallowed by the thick tangle of ivy, and the air smelled of damp earth and rot. Sunlight filtered weakly through ragged branches, casting fractured shadows across the abandoned space.
The guards shoved the man roughly forward, his knees scraping against stones as he stumbled toward the center of the garden. One of them roughly yanked him upright, forcing him against a gnarled, twisted tree that seemed older than the town itself. Thick ropes bit into his wrists as he struggled against them, dirt flecking his clothes, and his ragged breathing filled the tense silence.
"Well, looks like we finally got you," the taller guard sneered, stepping back to admire his handiwork, boots crunching over gravel and debris. "The Lord ordered this week's tax, and you didn't pay. Any reason why?"
"I… I don't have any money left," the man stammered, his face pale, eyes wide with fear. "All the other weekly taxes—they've drained me dry!" His voice cracked as he struggled against the ropes, the words tumbling out in desperation.
"SHUT UP!" the guard barked, his voice sharp as a whip. Without warning, he swung his fist, connecting squarely with the man's face. A loud crack echoed in the garden, and blood ran from the man's nose, dripping onto his tattered shirt. He swayed against the tree, gasping for breath, barely able to keep himself upright.
"The boss says that anyone who doesn't pay their taxes is fair game," the guard continued, his tone cruel and deliberate. "Meaning I can do whatever I want to you!" He pulled back his arm, flexing his fist, ready to strike again.
Before he could, a sharp, indignant voice cut through the tension.
"HEY! AREN'T YOU A SOLDIERLITE? WHY ARE YOU ATTACKING HIM? YOUR JOB IS TO PROTECT HIM!"
Haru leapt from the shadows, landing squarely in the dirt path between the bound man and the guards. His dark eyes blazed with fury, and his fists clenched tightly at his sides. The wind tugged at his hair, making it whip around his face, and he planted himself firmly, knees bent in a stance that screamed both defiance and recklessness.
The guards froze, taken aback by the sudden intrusion of the teenage boy. His voice rang out again, louder this time, each word sharp with disbelief and righteous anger. The man against the tree glanced up at Haru with a flicker of hope, his bruised face twisting into a weak, grateful smile.
Haru's chest heaved as he glared at the taller guard, unafraid despite the obvious difference in size and strength. "You're supposed to protect him! Not beat him! That's literally your job! What kind of soldierlites are you if this is what you do?!"
The air in the garden seemed to thrum with tension, the weeds and broken wood around them swaying slightly as if holding their breath. The bound man's eyes stayed locked on Haru, silently begging for someone—anyone—to stand up for him. And now, finally, someone had.
The men laughed, low and ugly, the sound bouncing off the broken fence and the dying vines. "What are you gonna do, kid—attack me with that weak little twig? I'd like to see you try." The taller guard's smirk spread like a crack in a weathered shield; his companion cracked his knuckles, enjoying the show.
Haru didn't waste another second on words. He didn't draw Kara. He didn't try to look clever or brave. He simply ran.
His feet slammed the dry earth; the scrap of his pack thudded at his hip. Up close, the guard's face snapped from amusement to annoyance, and he threw an arm up to shove Haru aside. Haru barreled forward anyway, all the clumsy speed of years of flailing practice packed into one single, terrible hope.
As he ran his right hand—fist clenched, thumb tucked—began to glow. Not a fire, not a light that flared and demanded attention, but a translucent red like heat seen through thin glass: coral embers trapped beneath skin. The glow danced along the tendons, wrapped the knuckles in red, and crawled down the forearm in a faint, humming pulse. It smelled faintly of iron and ozone, like rain on hot metal. Haru felt it more than saw it—a warm, buzzing pressure under his bones, a steady insistence that keyed his muscles into something harder, cleaner.
The taller guard's boot planted to pivot. He swung, slow and confident, but Haru met him mid-turn. His fist connected with the guard's jaw with a sound that made everyone in the garden flinch: not metal on flesh so much as a solid, echoing thump that rolled through the empty air. The impact was sharper than anything Haru had felt before—like a door slamming from the inside of his chest—and the guard's head snapped back. Blood flew in a quick, brutal ribbon. His boots skidded; his knees buckled; he hit the earth with a heavy, surprised groan.
The glow in Haru's hand flared for one desperate heartbeat, then dimmed to a slow ember. He tasted copper. His arm hummed as if something beneath his skin had sputtered and then gone quiet. For a breathless second he stood stunned over the fallen man, chest heaving, the world around him inclined on a new angle.
The second guard, frozen until now in disbelief, lunged. He was faster than the first had been, fury in his eyes. Haru turned, swinging again before he could think about whether he deserved to win this. His fist met the man's ribs, and the guard folded like a puppet with cut strings—winded, surprised, his hand flying to his side where Haru's blow landed with enough force to bruise through layers of leather.
A ragged silence tore through the garden. Birds stilled on low branches. Somewhere in town a cart wheel creaked. The man tied to the tree looked at Haru with something like worship and equal parts terror, blood streaking from his broken lip.
The two guards scrambled up, spit and grit on their faces, eyes wide with a mixture of anger and that animal reflexive fear of being bested. The taller one rose, jaw clenching, and swore; the other barked orders at his companion, fingers already going for a weapon. Around the ruined garden, whispers rippled as neighbors who had followed the commotion peered from behind hedges and shuttered windows.
Haru's knees trembled. The glow had faded almost completely, leaving his skin slightly flushed and the faint, lingering warmth of pressure under his knuckles. He stared at his palm as if it might explain itself. He had not meant to hit that hard. He had not meant anything beyond getting between the guards and the man. Yet the strength that had answered him had been real—too real to dismiss as luck.
"Get him," the taller guard snarled, spitting blood and fury. "He's one of them—he's—" His words trailed off. He jabbed a thumb at Haru, and the gesture felt like an oath. The second guard drew iron with a clatter that made the loose wood of the fence tremble.
Haru's heart hammered. His legs remembered the countless times Kaito had corrected his footing, Genjiro had told him about patience—lessons that suddenly fit together in a new, painful way. He had been running by instinct and something else had answered. The something had a name he didn't know and a weight he couldn't yet bear.
From the edge of the garden someone cried out—"Guards! Arrest him!"—and as the sound spread the town seemed to tilt toward consequence. Haru backed up a step, fist still clenched, Kara heavy at his hip and useless in its sheath. Around him, the watchers stirred, some faces creased with fear, others with a dawning, curious hope.
He had stopped the beating. He had not stopped the trouble.
The taller guard roared, spittle flying, and charged with the heavy stomp of boots that crushed gravel beneath them. Haru's pulse spiked, every nerve firing like a live wire. The air between them seemed to hum, taut and alive, carrying the sharp scent of sweat, iron, and dust.
Haru ducked low, feeling the uneven ground beneath his feet. The taller man swung a massive fist, the leather on his gauntlet scraping against stone with a harsh, metallic screech. Haru rolled forward, the grass and dirt tangling at his hands, and sprang up behind the guard, pivoting with the momentum of his teenage body. His fist shot forward again, colliding with the guard's side in a crunch that echoed off the broken fence. The man grunted, stumbling into a heap of overgrown weeds, arms flailing for balance.
The second guard attacked from the side, dagger glinting in the late morning sun. Haru twisted sharply, the blade narrowly missing his ribs, leaving a shallow scratch that stung sharply. He could feel the vibration of metal against air as the guard's momentum carried him past, and Haru seized the moment. With a lunge, he slammed his shoulder into the guard's chest, toppling him backward into a heap of cracked clay pots and spilled fruit. Oranges rolled across the dirt like tiny suns, the smell of citrus mingling with the faint copper of blood.
The bound man at the tree shouted encouragement, his voice hoarse but urgent: "He's—he's helping me!"
Haru's chest heaved, sweat and dirt streaking his face, dark hair plastered to his forehead. He spun, striking again in a blur of fists and movement that left one guard staggering, clutching his shoulder, and the other backing up, wide-eyed with disbelief. Each hit landed with a thump, solid and echoing. Dust and grit rose around them in small clouds, catching the sunlight in streaks like sparks.
The taller guard regained his footing, staggering, fury coiling in him like a living thing. He lunged again, wild and desperate, but Haru anticipated it, ducking low and weaving through the swing. The guard's momentum carried him past, and Haru's fist snapped upward, connecting under the jaw. The man's head jerked violently back, a grunt tearing from his throat, and he collapsed to the ground, dazed, teeth gnashing.
Haru's breaths came in quick, uneven bursts, chest heaving. His fists were still clenched, legs coiled and ready to pivot. The second guard stared at him, dagger trembling in his fingers, clearly reconsidering his chances. Around the garden, weeds shivered as though the plants themselves were holding their breath, and birds took flight from the nearby trees, cawing in alarm.
The bound man tried to struggle against the ropes, but Haru held up a hand. "Stay still," he said, voice low but steady, eyes scanning the surviving guard with sharp focus. Every instinct in Haru screamed—dive, punch, protect—and the world seemed to narrow, every movement in the garden magnified. Dust swirled in golden ribbons around his legs, sunlight flickering across the bruises and blood of the men he had already knocked down. For a suspended second, the fight didn't feel like motion—it felt like time itself had bent, focused entirely on the chaos, the danger, and the boy who refused to stand down.
Kara trembled at Haru's side, a faint, red glow creeping along the blade as if sensing his intent. Without thinking, Haru yanked it free from its sheath, the metal singing softly in the quiet of the ruined garden.
"BUTAMAN SLASH!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the scattered debris and broken wood.
The air itself seemed to shiver in response. The blade cut through it with a sharp, whistling hiss, a red streak slicing in a perfect arc that slammed into the last standing guard. The man's eyes went wide in shock, and he was thrown backward by the sheer force of the swing, skidding across the dirt and tangled weeds before collapsing into a heap.
He groaned weakly, the ground dusting his uniform, but he didn't move again. Haru didn't know how long it would take him to recover, and he didn't particularly care. The danger was over, for now, and the bound man at the tree looked at him with wide, incredulous eyes.
Haru let the tip of Kara settle against the ground, still glowing faintly red. His chest heaved, adrenaline thrumming in his veins, and for the first time in a long while, the world around him felt sharp and alive. The two guards—down, dazed, and momentarily harmless—were proof that he had crossed a line he hadn't even realized existed. He had defended someone who couldn't defend themselves, and the power he had summoned, untrained and raw, had answered without question.
The man tied to the tree swallowed hard, his voice shaking. "Th… thank you…"
Haru said nothing, simply sheathing Kara and turning his attention back to the path that would lead him out of Cyrus. The danger wasn't fully gone—the town had its rules, and the Lord's reach was long—but for this moment, he had acted, and he had won.
Haru knelt beside the bound man, brushing dirt and blood from his sleeve as best he could. "Hey… what happened here? Why were those guys attacking you?" he asked, voice low but insistent, eyes scanning the still-rising dust of the ruined garden.
The man swallowed hard, still trembling, his bruised face twisted with fatigue and fear. "This town… it wasn't always like this," he said, voice hoarse. "There used to be no government at all. People lived freely, worked their own fields… no one telling them what to do."
Haru tilted his head, listening intently as the man continued. "Then… one day, Lord William came to the town. Nobody's ever seen his face, not really. But he took control. He sits in that small building at the center of town and rules over everyone. He's… he's a tyrant. He makes people pay him weekly taxes, and he gives his soldierlites free reign. They can take, hit, steal… anything they want from the townspeople, and no one can stop them."
Haru's dark eyes narrowed, his grip tightening slightly on Kara's sheath at his side. He frowned, chewing over the words. "But… that's wrong," he said finally. "I don't even know what a tax is, but I know that if you collect them, you shouldn't be a jerk about it. You shouldn't hit people or scare them or make them suffer."
The man blinked at him, a small, incredulous smile breaking through the bruises and grime. "You… you really mean that?"
Haru said nothing, letting the words hang in the air. His gaze stayed fixed on the small building at the center of town, shadowed and silent.
The man's eyes shone with a mix of hope and relief, and he nodded weakly. "Right… right. Maybe… maybe someone like you is what this town needs."
Haru didn't respond, just stood slowly, brushing the dirt from his pants. His fists itched, his mind buzzing with the unfairness of it all. He didn't know what lay ahead, didn't know how far Lord William's reach extended—but for now, he had seen the wrong and had acted. And he wasn't about to let it go unanswered.
Haru helped the man to his feet, steadying him as best he could. The man leaned heavily on Haru's shoulder, wincing with each step, his clothes smeared with dirt and blood. They moved slowly through the overgrown garden, Haru's dark eyes scanning the edges for any other threats, making sure the guards he'd knocked out weren't getting back up.
As they reached the main streets of Cyrus, the town seemed to hold its breath around them. People peeked cautiously from behind shutters and market stalls, murmurs rippling through the crowd like a quiet tide. The man let out a sigh, grateful but exhausted. "I… I don't know how to thank you," he muttered.
Haru gave a small shrug, gripping Kara at his side, and nodded toward the building at the center of town. Its walls were dark, weathered stone, and narrow windows gave nothing away. The wooden doors were reinforced, with iron bars crossing their surface. This was the place everyone feared: Lord William's tax office.
Without hesitation, Haru tightened his grip on Kara, set the man gently down near the street, and started forward. His footsteps echoed against the cobblestones, each one a steady drumbeat of determination. The townspeople parted instinctively, murmuring under their breath, some peering from safe distances, others quickly retreating indoors.
Haru paused only briefly at the base of the steps leading to the door, his dark eyes sweeping the imposing structure. He didn't speak, didn't hesitate. With a deep breath, he pushed the heavy door open, stepping inside, the faint red glow of Kara brushing against the dim interior as he prepared for whatever awaited him within.