Seven Years Later
"Apples, apples! Fresh, juicy, natural-lookin' Apples straight from The Empire! Get 'em here, and get 'em fast before they're all sold out! Apples, apples..."
"Can't I get an apple, mom?" Ansel — now seven years old — was walking through the bazaar alongside his mothers. Vendors yelled their wares with no inhibition as a deluge of bodies flowed through the plaza.
Elize's grip on her son's hand tightened imperceptibly as the pair weaved through the crowd. "We can get some apples on the way back, Ansel."
"Really?" Ansel beamed. His hair had grown longer— falling around his nape in uneven waves. He blew out a puff of air at his fringe, following behind his mother with a playful gait. "Can we also get some mangoes?"
"We'll see, Ansel." She looked back at her son with a weary smile.
Adjusting the collar of his coat, Ansel looked over the bazaar's hurried scenery.
A man sat atop a stack of crates, smoking bubbles from a pipe. A red turban was wrapped around his head, and a pair of spiked sunglasses sat atop his nose ridge. He flicked a bronze coin towards a wandering beggar— watching as it landed unnoticed on the floor. "Tch."
Ansel, seeing the glint of the coin, broke free from his mother's grasp. He dodged through the crowd of pedestrians, causing some to stumble and lose their footing. Just as his hand reached out to grab the coin, a foot stomped down— almost breaking Ansel's fingers.
Looking up with a nervous expression, Ansel met the gaze of the turban-wearing man. His clothes were ragged and covered with dust, and his arms were littered with countless tattoos. The sunglasses slid off the man's nose, dropping onto Ansel's head with a soft 'clunk' that knocked him out of his daze.
"Were you tryna' take my money, kid?" he sneered.
"Oh! I—I'm sorry, sir!" Ansel stood up, sheepishly rubbing his neck as he backed away.
"I don't want my weekly act of philanthropy to be wasted on a brat like you, 'kay?"
"Sorry, mister." Ansel looked down in shame, fidgeting with his fingers.
"Good." The man chuckled, reaching over to ruffle Ansel's hair. "...But 'sorry' ain't going to cut it." His fist came in fast, hitting Ansel's cheek and sending him toppling onto the floor. Sand plumed out from the impact as the crowd stilled for a moment.
Ansel's trembling hand reached over to touch his cheek. It stung the moment his fingertips made contact. He had never been hit before. Looking up with trembling pupils, Ansel watched the man's expressionless face. "W-why?"
"ANSEL!" A voice cut through the din. Elize came running through the crowd, muttering apologies as she pushed other pedestrians out of the way and ran up to kneel beside Ansel. "Ansel! What are you doing?!"
Looking up at the turban-wearing man, Elize gulped. "Mister Yoran."
"Well, well... Ms. Einchalle. Long time no see."
"I'm sorry for whatever trouble my son may have caused you." Elize said with a bow, refusing to meet Yoran's gaze.
"Oh, so this brat is yours? I see... I suppose I can let him off the hook."
"Thank you, Mister Yoran, your graciousness—"
"If you let me take you out to dinner."
"I—"
"Come on now, I'm sure old Hakim wouldn't mind. Just let me lend you out for a day, huh? I'll even let the brat keep the coin."
Fachil Yoran— also known as the 'King of Farrah'. Despite dressing like a beggar, he rules the bazaar market of Farrah with an iron hand. Every single bazaar deal — from shady back-alley transactions to jewellery trades — goes through him, and his 'Snake Tamer' syndicate.
Ansel kept his gaze on his mother, watching her reaction. His hands were trembling violently, and his knees felt like they could fall apart at any moment. He slowly stepped backwards, retreating behind his mother's back and avoiding Yoran's gaze.
Yoran bent down and picked up the bronze coin, offering it to Ansel. "Come on kid, what do you say? Your mother for a bronze coin. You could get a nice juicy slice of mango, or a pretty flower necklace for your crush, hm?"
"Please, I'm sorry..." Ansel clutched onto his mother's dress, tears welling up in his eyes. The bazaar was often rowdy and chaotic— but he himself had never gotten caught up in the mess. Now, standing amidst the crowd and being the centre of attention, fear crawled up his spine.
"Mister Yoran, please, I beg of you—"
"Then I'll give the brat a beating. That sounds fair." Yoran reached over and yanked Ansel's wrist. Seeing this, Elize interjected and swatted away Yoran's hand, a furious look in her eyes.
"Please, don't touch my son. I agree to your offer, and I apologise, Mister Yoran." She tried desperately to hide her wavering gaze.
Ansel looked at his mother with a terrified expression, his gaze flicking between her and the cruel face of Yoran. Seeing his mother go through such turmoil, an overwhelming sense of guilt built up in Ansel's chest.
"But just now... you just hit me, didn't you?" Yoran sneered, "I don't let people touch me for free, you know? Now..." he brought a finger to his lips, "I'll rent you out for a week."
Elize's shoulders trembled. She wished desperately for Hakim to arrive. Her shoulders continued to tremble, and a tear trekked a path down her cheek. Farrah was the second-largest garden in the Zeta (Sixth) Layer. Being in the uppermost layer of the federation, the inhabitants of Farrah (and The Zeta Layer) were blessed with clean air, and manageable living conditions.
It was perfectly possible to lead a somewhat comfortable life. But the bad actors ran rampant. Though the authority Hakim had as a member of Farrah's garden council could be used on Yoran, Yoran's reputation as the leader of the Snake Tamer overshadowed that authority.
"Come on, Elize. Stop with the waterworks, 'eh?" Yoran spread out his arms, waggling his hips. "Don't you remember the fun times we had in high school? There's no need to be afraid."
"Hic, ngh..." Elize tried to hold back her tears as she took a step towards Yoran.
Ansel, however, refused to let go. His grip on his mother's dress tightened. Though he didn't understand Yoran's relationship with Elize, he knew one thing: "You're making my mom cry. You're a bad person."
Yoran gasped sarcastically, placing his palm flat against his chest. "What a righteous little brat! Looks like we have ourselves a knight in the making here!" He laughed, taking a step towards Elize.
Clutching Elize's wrist, Yoran tried to tug her forward. "Come on now. Come over here and I'll give your brat the bronze coin as promised, and all will be forgiven, hm?"
Reaching over to lift up his tunic, Yoran flashed a dagger strapped to his belt. "You better hurry up, Elize."
Elize couldn't move. She couldn't bring herself. Not after the memories came surging back— the time she spent with Yoran in high school were the most miserable, and shameful years of her life. She worked up the courage to admit this to Hakim over the course of many years. The fear of judgement strained her heart.
When she finally let it all out, Hakim still accepted her with his whole heart. That was the difference between Hakim and Yoran. Hakim was unconditional, and Hakim was kind. Finally meeting Yoran's gaze with red-rimmed eyes, Elize spoke. "I... I can't, Fachil, I can't..." She sobbed.
"Do you need some convincing?" Fachil grinned, reaching for his dagger.
Seeing this, Ansel's pupils dilated. His head was vibrating fast— too fast. It felt like the blood in his body was evaporating; bubbling up to his brain and pouring out of his eyes in the form of tears. A searing point of pain swelled within his brain.
Then, like a light switch being flicked off, the world went monochrome. Time stopped as Fachil reached for his dagger. Ansel's eyes were clenched shut, holding onto his mother. When he felt the warmth disappear, he realised what had happened.
As he looked around his frozen surroundings, vague memories of a similar event during his infancy sprung to his mind. With the tears now drying on his skin, an unfamiliar sense of anger built up within his heart.
Seeing the distressed state of his mother, and the dagger attached to Fachil's belt...
"I have to save her. I have to save mother."
click...
Time began to move again.
Elize clenched her eyes, tears beginning to break out— when a wheezing sound escaped from Yoran's mouth.
The veins on Yoran's neck bulged violently, and his eyes looked ready to pop out from his head. The crowd began to disperse back, murmurs wafting through the air.
Elize looked around with a confused expression— before she noticed it:
Yoran's dagger was missing from its sheathe. Instead, it was firmly planted deep within his loins. The blade wasn't even visible. As blood began seeping from his groin, Yoran fell down onto the floor, experiencing the worst possible agony a man could experience and letting out a horrifying scream. "AAAAARRRGGHH," he seethed, "WHAT THE HELL!?"