The darkness of the narrow alleys swallowed everything within them like living shadows, consuming even the faintest glimmers of light. Sunlight barely pierced these claustrophobic passages, squeezed tight between weathered houses and flickering lanterns that cast trembling halos on damp, moss-covered walls. The salty sea breeze whispered through cracks and crevices, carrying a faint murmur of footsteps, while the distant clamor of the bustling marketplace echoed faintly in the background.
For those who knew Sevala's twisting streets well, this was no place for the faint-hearted. Every corner hid secrets, every shadow promised unseen dangers. This morning, that fragile silence was about to be shattered.
Suddenly, the very air seemed to quiver—an ominous tremor heralding the opening act of a deadly drama: the hunt of predator and prey. Veron moved like a phantom slipping through chaos, a fleeting blur appearing before the first thief with inhuman speed. With a single fluid strike, his fist crashed like a hammer against the thief's jaw, snapping his head back and sending him crashing unconscious onto the slick cobblestones.
Five more criminals lunged forward in desperate unison, their knives catching the dim light in fleeting flashes. But Veron's movements were poetry—brutal yet precise, a savage ballet of violence. A ruthless low kick shattered the second man's jaw, while a spinning roundhouse blow sent the third crashing into a wooden stall, splinters scattering like fireflies in the night.
The gang's leader spun around, panic setting fire to his eyes, but before he could navigate the labyrinthine alleys to escape, Veron materialized behind him and felled him with a single effortless strike.
The remaining thieves fled into the shadows, their screams swallowed by the night, leaving behind only silence… and the faint, metallic scent of fresh blood.
Veron stood still for a moment, chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. Though adrenaline coursed through his veins, his face betrayed only cold efficiency. Gripping the unconscious leader's arm, he dragged the man silently through the winding alleys, every step deliberate, every sound muffled.
As the city's sunlight returned with his emergence from the alleys, Veron arrived at the soldiers' headquarters. Inside, the harsh scent of iron mingled with damp stone and stale sweat—a grim testament to the iron grip wielded within these walls.
He handed over the wanted to the guards, whose eyes flicked with indifferent boredom. Yet his gaze caught something else—a young man training nearby, suspended upside down, feet shackled in iron bars. Despite cruel restraints binding his arms tightly, the youth moved with relentless determination, pushing his battered body up and down to the rhythmic creak of metal, sweat gleaming on his skin.
The youth was about Veron's age. His hands were wrapped in blood-stained bandages—evidence of countless silent battles fought. Their eyes locked for a fleeting heartbeat—silent, sharp, heavy with unspoken understanding. A spark of mutual respect flickered like a fragile flame in the stale air between them.
Veron's jaw twitched slightly—a subtle sign of something more than mere respect. A brief memory surged forward: a younger version of himself, defiant, alone. He swallowed hard, pushing the weight of that past deep down. Without a word, he turned away, pocketed his reward—one thousand Rizo—and vanished into the city , curiosity lingering like smoke in his wake.
By midday, Sevala's true heartbeat stirred. The marketplace buzzed with merchants shouting their wares, piles of marinated meats glistening beside bundles of fragrant herbs. The scent of sizzling food mingled with the salty sea breeze, wrapping the city in a warm, vibrant embrace.
Veron moved through the crowd like a shadow, unnoticed and unfazed. His stomach growled—a harsh reminder that even the strongest fighters are not immune to hunger. Driven by necessity, he ducked into a modest eatery.
Within, worn wooden tables and flickering candlelight offered a brief sanctuary from the city's harshness. Veron ordered ravenously, devouring steaming plates piled high. The first bite was savage, primal; the second, slow and deliberate—each chew a silent testament to the gnawing hunger inside.
His meal was interrupted by a hesitant child no older than ten, standing nervously beside his table.
"Are you the hunter Veron?" the boy asked, voice trembling with a fragile mix of fear and awe.
"Yes," Veron replied without looking up, voice low and heavy with weariness.
The boy swallowed hard, determination pushing past his nerves. "I need your help—for a mission."
Veron's gaze remained fixed on his food. "I'm off duty," he muttered, voice rough.
Desperation brightened the boy's eyes. "Four thousand Rizo! Please!"
Veron's fork paused mid-air. His eyes finally lifted, meeting the boy's—a flicker of interest piercing through fatigue and cynicism.
"Sit… eat," he said gruffly, sliding a plate toward the boy.
They ate in heavy silence, the clatter of utensils and murmurs of other patrons filling the space. The boy leaned closer, voice dropping to a trembling whisper. "It's dangerous. a fighter protected my father from soldiers' bullying, he kick their asses but they arrested him after the fight—and now they plan to execute him."
Veron's jaw clenched, a shadow crossing his features—disappointment, yes, but also something darker: a weariness of fighting causes that seem lost before they begin.
"Sorry, kid. I don't want to stir trouble with the soldiers," he said quietly, almost to himself.
"I'll pay you—"
Before the boy could finish, Veron rose abruptly, tossing coins beneath a plate without care, and strode out. The boy's eyes followed him, hope and dread shimmering in their depths.
Night fell, swallowing Veron's weary form in a dimly lit tavern. He sipped water slowly, the silence pressing like a weight, until a familiar voice broke through.
"Not sleeping with me tonight?" Lara teased, her laughter a soft melody amid the tavern's murmurs.
Veron's eyes remained cold, unmoved. "I'm not interested, Lara."
She stepped closer, curiosity gleaming. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "There's a fighter—strong, stubborn—about to be executed. Those soldiers… they're corrupt. They won't stop. This city… it's rotten to its core."
Veron's thoughts drifted back to the boy's pleading eyes. The weight of decision pressed down hard, tightening in his chest like an unseen fist.
"When?" he asked quietly, voice barely above a breath.
"In three days," she whispered.
He stared into his glass, a half-smile flickering—a calm mask concealing a brewing storm beneath.
Morning came, unveiling the first scene of injustice. Soldiers dragged Abrin from his cell toward the execution square. The jeers of the crowd and the harsh orders barked by guards fell flat against Abrin's unshaken calm. His eyes burned steady, radiating quiet defiance.
Veron watched, memories of the previous night swirling in his mind. His gaze caught the boy from the eatery, watching as well. Their eyes met. The boy hesitated, then approached.
"Won't you do something?" he asked, voice trembling, hope warring with fear.
Veron laughed darkly, a sound drained of hope. "I don't know you, your father, or that dead man. Of course, I won't."
He turned away, but the image of the young man training in chains, destined for death, clung stubbornly to his thoughts,
He looked at Abrin for a long moment before extending his hand to the boy "Give me the money" he said, his voice sharp and commanding.
"You will do it ?!"
The boy's eyes lit up with relief and excitement as he handed over the wallet. "You can count it—it's all there" he said with happiness.
Veron took the money, counting out a thousand rizo with meticulous precision. Without a word, he tossed the rest of the wallet and coins back to the boy.
"This is enough for me"
"Consider the task complete," he stated, his tone final and unwavering and he left the area .
He stop after some minutes thinking of a plan before a soldier's urgent voice shattered the silence
"Hunter! We need you!"
Panic flared in the soldier's eyes.
Veron frowned sharply, heart pounding. "What is it?"
"To the square. Now!"
He moved swiftly, every muscle coiled, senses sharp. Upon arrival, several soldiers lay unconscious; another tried to flee.
There stood Abrin—silent, deadly, a force of unyielding will.
Veron's voice cut through the tension, cold and commanding. "You know what you're doing, right?"
Abrin's answer came calm, defiant. "Avoiding execution?"
"Running from justice," Veron corrected, voice steely.
The soldiers hesitated, circling the square with flickers of doubt.
"Don't attack him. He's stronger than you. I'll handle this," Veron commanded.
Abrin muttered, "Justice belongs to the corrupt… it's no justice at all."
Veron stepped closer, locking eyes with the fighter.
"Are you afraid of death?"
"Not death…" Abrin replied, eyes ablaze with fierce determination.
"But of dying before I achieve my goal. That would be the true disgrace."
Veron placed his sword—wrapped in black bandages—on the ground and advanced steadily.
"And your goal?"
Abrin's fist shot forward like lightning.
Where veron blocked the punch with his elbow, protecting his head.
"To become… the strongest fighter in the worlds! Stay back!"
The entire square froze, air thick with tension.
A battle poised on the brink of eruption. How will this fight end?