Eastern Continent, Tesulem City, Western Border District
To call Sato's family just another ordinary household living like everyone else would be a lie.
Sato was fifteen. His younger brother Tedo was twelve. Their mother had died five years earlier from a cruel illness that devoured her slowly. They lived in a rented apartment, always one month behind on payments. Their father had been unemployed for years now, and the debt he had taken on to survive had grown into something monstrous. Today was the day that debt was due.
And there was no money.
Sato sat in his small room, ear pressed against the thin wall, listening. He was average height, black hair falling messily over his forehead, liver-brown eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He wore a plain T-shirt, worn jeans, and sneakers that were half-torn at the toes.
On the other side of the wall, footsteps paced back and forth without rest. His father.
The doorbell rang.
The pacing stopped.
Then came the sound of the front door opening. Voices—low, calm, dangerous.
Sato's father's voice cracked as he greeted them.
Moments later, the door to Sato's room opened quietly. His father stood there, holding Tedo by the shoulders. The man's face was a mask of grief and terror: black hair streaked with premature gray, beard flecked with white, eyes red-rimmed.
He didn't need to speak. Sato understood.
"Come here, Tedo," Sato whispered, voice steady despite the knot in his stomach.
His father gently pushed Tedo inside, then closed the door with a soft click.
Sato returned his ear to the wall.
The front door opened again. Multiple heavy footsteps entered.
A thud.
His father had fallen.
A thick, mocking voice filled the apartment.
"So? Did you finally open the door? Got the money ready, old man?"
"I'll pay… I swear I'll pay," his father stammered. "Just… five days—no, three days. Give me three more days. I'll get it. I promise."
Laughter—cruel, guttural.
"You couldn't scrape together that amount in a whole month. What makes you think three days will change anything?"
Another voice, rougher: "Or maybe we take it by force."
A wet smack. Someone had struck his father.
Sato's breath caught.
"Hmm. Your limbs still seem intact," the thick voice continued. "Maybe we sell those. Or…" A pause, then a darker tone. "Maybe we take one of your eyes."
Sato was on his feet before he realized it.
He threw the door open.
In the living room, a tall man in a dark suit held his father by the throat, lifting him slightly off the ground. The man was impeccably dressed: black hair slicked back, black sunglasses, perfectly trimmed black mustache. He looked like someone who enjoyed his work.
The moment he saw Sato, he dropped the older man like trash.
Father collapsed to the floor, coughing.
"Hmm. Look at this," the man said, tilting his head. "You've got a son. Maybe we sell him instead."
"No! No, please—no!" His father crawled forward, clinging to the man's leg. "Not him. Not my boys!"
The man kicked him away without effort.
Sato's voice cracked the air like a whip.
"I know!"
The man turned slowly, amused.
"Know what?"
"Where the money is." Sato's voice trembled at the edges.
The man laughed—loud, mocking.
"Well, well. The boy's smarter than the father."
Then his expression hardened.
"Fine. Bring it. Now. Before I kill your daddy right here."
Sato swallowed.
"Okay."
He turned and ran down the narrow hallway toward the back room.
The suited man nodded to one of his thugs.
"Follow him."
"No—no—no!" His father sobbed, clawing at the floor.
"Shut up," the leader snapped. "If you'd brought the money earlier, we wouldn't be here."
The thug moved after Sato.
He stopped at the doorway of the back room, peering inside.
Then—
**BOOM.**
A single deafening gunshot.
The thug dropped like a sack of meat, blood blooming from the center of his forehead.
He never even had time to scream.
The apartment fell silent for one heartbeat.
At that moment, Sato stepped out of the back room, the heavy Desert Eagle trembling slightly in both hands.
The leader and his remaining men froze the instant they saw the gun.
Sato swung it up, barrel aimed straight at the man in the suit. His breathing was heavy, ragged, his arms shaking not just from fear, but from the weight of what he had already done.
The leader raised his hands slowly, palms out, voice suddenly laced with caution and a thin edge of fear.
"Hey… hey, kid. Don't do something stupid. That's not a toy. Put it down."
Sato didn't move. His finger hovered near the trigger.
The man tried again, softer this time.
"Think carefully. If you lower it slowly right now, we can talk. We can work this out. You want that, don't you? For your dad? For your little brother?"
"No." Sato's voice cracked, but it carried. "I want you to leave my dad alone. Leave us alone!"
The leader nodded quickly, almost desperately.
"Okay, okay. We'll leave your dad alone. We'll leave all of you alone. Just calm down and put the gun on the floor. Nice and slow."
Right then, the door to Sato's bedroom creaked open.
Tedo stood there, wide-eyed, frozen in place. The blood pooling around the dead thug on the floor. The gun in his big brother's hands. The terror on Tedo's face was raw, childlike, complete.
Sato's attention snapped toward his brother.
"Tedo—" he started, instinctively lowering the barrel just a fraction.
That was all the opening the leader needed.
In two swift strides, the man closed the distance. Before Sato could react, the gun was wrenched from his grip. A heartbeat later, a powerful hand clamped around Sato's throat and slammed him back against the wall, lifting him until his feet dangled off the floor.
The leader's face was inches away, eyes cold behind the dark lenses.
"Very brave for a kid," he said quietly. "You didn't even hesitate before pulling the trigger."
Sato gasped, struggling for air, vision blurring at the edges.
"But you made a mistake," the man continued, voice low and venomous. "A big one. You decided to play hero. You thought you were tough. You killed one of my men. And you threatened me."
He reached into his jacket and drew a slim, gleaming knife. The blade caught the dim light of the apartment.
"There's an old saying," the man whispered. "'An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life.'"
He brought the knife closer, the tip hovering just over Sato's left eye.
"But killing you right now wouldn't be smart. Someone still has to pay your father's debt, right? If I kill you, who pays?"
He smiled thinly.
"Still… I can't just let this go unpunished. So let's make it fair."
The knife moved in one clean, deliberate motion.
Sato screamed.
Pain exploded through his skull like fire. Warm blood poured down his cheek, over his lips, dripping onto the floor. His vision on the left side turned red, then black.
But in the same instant, something impossible happened.
The wall behind him seemed to ripple—like water, like smoke.
Sato's body lurched backward, as if pulled by an invisible force.
The leader's hand slipped from his throat.
Sato vanished.
One moment he was pinned against the wall, screaming.
The next—he was gone.
A brilliant blue portal had torn open in the very spot where he had stood, swallowing him whole.
The leader staggered back, knife still dripping with blood, eyes wide with shock and something close to terror.
The room was silent except for the soft drip of blood and Tedo's quiet, horrified sobs.
A short while later, Sato came to.
The first thing he felt was pain—sharp, blinding, unrelenting. His left hand flew to his face, pressing hard against the ruined socket where his eye had been. The wound still burned like fire, fresh blood seeping between his fingers. The knife—the same knife that had taken his eye—lay inches away on the ground, its blade slick and red.
He gasped, forcing himself to breathe through the agony. Slowly, carefully, he looked around.
He was in a tent. Not modern. Not anything like the cramped apartment he had just been in. The walls were thick animal hides stitched together with rough cord. Faint light flickered from a small fire pit in the center, casting long, dancing shadows across pelts and old furs piled on the ground. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and something metallic—blood, perhaps his own.
Sato tried to stand. His legs shook. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his skull. He clutched his ruined eye tighter, teeth gritted, and pushed himself up onto one knee.
That was when the tent flap lifted.
A man stepped inside.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in thick wool and layered hides. Long hair and a wild beard framed a weathered face. His eyes widened the moment he saw Sato—then narrowed with something close to rage.
The man barked something in a guttural language Sato had never heard before.
Sato opened his mouth, trying to speak, to explain, to beg—anything.
Before a word could leave his lips, a fist crashed into his face.
The impact threw him backward. He hit the ground hard, tasting blood again. Stars exploded behind his remaining eye.
The man lunged.
Strong hands clamped around Sato's throat, squeezing with brutal force. Sato's vision blurred. He clawed at the man's wrists, but it was like trying to pry open iron. Air refused to come. His lungs burned. His body thrashed weakly.
The man kept talking—growling, spitting words Sato couldn't understand. The voice was angry, accusing, terrified.
Sato's mind reeled. This wasn't real. None of this could be real.
His eyes darted desperately around the tent, searching for anything—anything—to survive.
Then he saw it.
The knife.
It lay just within reach, still wet with his own blood.
Sato's trembling hand stretched out. His fingers brushed the hilt.
The man tightened his grip, pressing harder, leaning in with all his weight.
Sato's vision started to tunnel. Black spots danced at the edges.
One last desperate lunge.
His fingers closed around the handle.
In one frantic motion, he drove the blade upward—straight into the man's throat.
The knife sank deep. Hot blood sprayed across Sato's face, chest, and arms. The man's eyes widened in shock. A wet, choking gurgle escaped his mouth.
The grip on Sato's throat slackened.
The man collapsed forward, dead weight pinning Sato to the ground for a moment before rolling off.
Sato shoved the body aside and sucked in a desperate, ragged breath. Then another. His chest heaved. Blood dripped from his chin, mixing with tears and snot.
He stared at the corpse.
The man's throat was a ruined mess. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the hides.
Sato's hands shook so violently the knife slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.
He had killed again.
Twice in minutes.
He retched, but nothing came up.
Outside the tent, distant voices began to rise—shouts, footsteps approaching.
Sato's heart slammed against his ribs.
He was alive.
But he was not safe.