Along the desolate road stretching across the desert, the sun hung low on the horizon like a glowing ember, casting long shadows over every rock and grain of sand. This road linked the Kingdom of Darfal to the lands of Auraya — a colony that Lumiéra had swallowed years ago.
A lone man walked with steady steps, his pack slung over his back, his face dusted with a thin layer of grit. It seemed he had been traveling endlessly, until the border line came into view.
The Gate of Auraya rose ahead: a massive wall surrounded by a deep trench, crossed by a long stone bridge guarded by watchtowers. At the entrance to the bridge stood a small inspection post where the attendant checked travel permits.
He was such a frequent passerby that the supervisor no longer needed to check his ID.
But the attendant this time wasn't the man he knew — it was a woman with a stern gaze.
The woman raised her hand, signaling him to halt.
— "Identification, please."
He reached calmly into his pocket and handed it over.
Her voice remained formal:
— "Just to remind you… if you're from Darfal, you won't be allowed to cross."
— "I'm not from Darfal," he replied with quiet confidence.
She took the card, studied it, then lifted an eyebrow.
— "You hold two nationalities… Auraya and Lumiéra."
— "That's right."
— "And what were you doing in Darfal, then?"
Eric gave a short, unreadable smile.
— "Just sightseeing."
She glanced at the card again before asking:
— "Your name is…"
He cut her off, as if wanting to finish this quickly:
— "Eric Samuel."
She paused for a few seconds, her eyes examining him closely, before saying:
— "Very well, Mr. Samuel… you can pass."
She gestured to the guards, and they lowered the stone bridge. Eric crossed with steady steps, heading toward the towering gates that led into Auraya's heart. His gaze scanned every corner, his mind committing the details of the place to memory the way a seasoned soldier would memorize the map of a battlefield yet to come.
Inside Auraya, stone houses and bustling markets filled the narrow alleys and wide squares, the air rich with the scents of spices and fresh bread. The mix of people was striking: the dark-featured, long-haired natives of Auraya mingled with Lumiéra's soldiers and officials, their faces stern and their uniforms precise — as if the land itself were split in two halves that only met out of necessity.
On one side, armed Lumiéra guards watched in silence, eyes sharp enough to catch the smallest movement in the crowd. Eric avoided drawing their attention by wearing his old Lumiéra military service medal — a small piece of metal on his chest, enough for the soldiers to glance at him briefly before turning away.
He walked calmly through the alleys, passing shouting vendors, a young musician playing an old stringed instrument, and children darting through the crowd. His eyes moved constantly, noting every change since his last visit.
A store he once knew now stood shut, sealed with Lumiéra's official stamp. An ancient temple, once open to all, had been converted into an administrative office, Lumiéra's white flag marked with its emblem fluttering above.
After several rounds through the city, thirst began to burn Eric's throat. Fortunately, a familiar tavern was close by.
He stepped inside through the wooden door. The place was crowded with all sorts: fishermen, heavily armed freelance fighters with weapons tucked under their tables, and civilians quietly sipping their drinks… the sort of place where a minor quarrel could erupt into a full-blown massacre.
The tavern owner, an acquaintance though not an old friend, noticed Eric's arrival.
— "Oh, Samuel!"
— "Yeah, it's me."
They shook hands.
— "Hah! How have you been, brother?"
— "Good."
— "Nice medal."
— "You know how it is…"
— "Anyway, what can I get you?"
— "The usual."
— "The usual, huh?"
— "Heh, yes."
— "Right away, my friend."
Eric sat waiting for his order, casting casual glances around the room. Most faces were familiar — except for one man: a scarred, hard-featured figure drinking in silence, as if trying to drown something deep inside.
The owner soon returned, carrying a cup.
— "Here you go, my little friend — iced lemon with mint. I'm sure you'll like it… in fact, I know you will."
— "Heh, of course."
Eric took a sip. Just then, the tavern bell rang as a new figure entered, followed by murmurs from the hunters nearby:
— "Damn… it's that cursed knight."
Eric paid no mind. The newcomer sat beside him. When Eric glanced over, he saw a towering knight in gleaming white armor bearing Lumiéra's crest.
— "I'll have my special drink," the knight said, giving Eric a brief look before averting his eyes upon noticing the medal on his chest.
He took his bottle and headed to the crowded back section, where hunters were gathered — not that this posed any problem for him. He stopped at a table mid-conversation.
— "I believe you're in my seat, gentlemen."
The group went silent, then stared.
— "Huh?"
— "Did you hear what he said?"
— "He said it's his seat!"
Laughter erupted. One of them stood, gripping his sword.
— "You think you can do whatever you want, Lumiéra dog?"
He raised the blade toward the knight's neck — but the knight didn't flinch. Instead, he slapped the sword, shattering it into pieces, then grabbed the hunter by the neck and hoisted him high.
— "Heh… pathetic."
With a single motion, he hurled him into a nearby table where another man was quietly drinking, spilling the man's bottle across the floor.
— "Aren't you going to stop them from wrecking your tavern?" Eric asked the owner.
— "Trust me… I'm used to this every day," the man replied.
The knight challenged the room:
— "Anyone else have something to say before I sit?"
— "Yeah… my drink!!!"
The voice was loud and furious — the scarred man before he smashed his empty bottle over the knight's head from behind, then followed with a flurry of fast, brutal punches. Within moments, the knight crashed to the ground under a rain of blows. Some hunters intervened to break it up as the scarred man stormed out.
Eric couldn't help but be impressed. How could an ordinary civilian drop a man of that size — and a Lumiéra knight at that?
— "What a fighter… you know him?" Eric asked the tavern owner.
— "Not much. Regular customer, just drinks and leaves. Sometimes comes in with bandages on his face… there are illegal street fights in Lumiéra, high-stakes bets. I think he's in on them — sometimes with weapons."
— "Hmm… interesting."
After the chaos, Eric left the tavern, heading toward a narrow alley where illicit trade thrived. The place was dim, the air heavy with the scent of goods long stored. A man stood there in a long coat, half his face covered by a mask — his appearance alone spoke of secretive business.
The masked man noticed Eric and smiled in a deep, cheery voice:
— "Ah… my favorite customer!"
Eric approached calmly.
— "Hmm… what do you have today?"
— "Things you'll definitely like!"
He slowly opened his coat, revealing an assortment of goods: healing potions crafted by mages, small firearms, and other magical devices. What caught Eric's eye were two identical glowing spheres.
He pointed at them.
— "What are these?"
The man smiled confidently, picking one up.
— "Magical orbs. Soldiers use them to communicate from anywhere… even if you were in another world. Hahaha."
— "Hmm… how much?"
— "Pricey, I admit. Getting them wasn't easy… but since you're my favorite, I'll make you a deal."
"What do you mean the train to Lumiéra is stopped?"
"Sir, it's out of my hands. There are tensions in Lumiéra right now. For your safety and the public's, departures are restricted to specific times."
Eric's destination had been Lumiéra — but luck wasn't on his side. Now, he'd have to treat this delay as an opportunity to make use of his time.
Elsewhere, the scarred man with the shadowy past sat in a park, quietly smoking a cigar. A familiar figure approached — a betting professional, the one who arranged his fights.
— "Oh, there you are."
— "What do you want?"
— "A fight. You ready to get back in the ring?"
— "If the opponent's worth it, sure."
— "Trust me… he's better than you think."
— "Who is he?"
— "Don't know him personally. But he's your next match."
— "Fine."
Later, the scarred man — Arthur — walked through an alley leading to the arena where he often fought. A voice called from behind:
— "Arthur, right?"
He turned to see Eric leaning against a wall.
— "And who the hell are you?"
— "Doesn't matter… I hear you fight for bets."
— "That's none of your—"
Eric cut in:
— "How about a wager?"
Arthur frowned, confused, as Eric stepped closer.
— "Let's say we fight. If you beat me, I'll give you any amount of money you want… no betting cuts."
— "Any amount? And if you win?"
— "Then you become my man, work for me. Don't worry… I'll pay better than any fight."
Arthur smirked, chuckling.
— "Heh… you're dreaming. Deal, then, stranger."
On the appointed day, Arthur strode through the corridor into the arena, surrounded by roaring crowds of spectators — bet brokers, local gangs eager to profit from the fighters' blood.
He stripped off his shirt, revealing a lean, scarred body — scars telling stories only he knew. In his hands, he gripped two long, heavy dagger-like swords, his signature tools for ending matches.
This arena was no place for honor — it was survival. The only rule: cripple your opponent or force him to yield. Killing wasn't the official aim, yet death often came here uninvited.
Not seeing his opponent, Arthur turned to the fight organizer.
— "Where's the mystery man?"
The organizer grinned.
— "Relax… he'll show."
And from the far side of the arena, Eric appeared — wearing a light black jacket, holding a long, black-glinting sword, walking with unshaken steps.
The crowd's murmurs swelled — an unknown challenger daring to face one of the fiercest street fighters alive. Most bets naturally fell to Arthur; he rarely lost.
They closed the distance until only a few steps separated them.
Arthur eyed the sword.
— "So… you're the mystery man? Nice blade."
Eric's voice was low:
— "You remember the wager?"
Arthur smirked.
— "Of course, my friend… but I'm afraid it won't matter. You see… I don't lose."
Those words were like a lit match to a barrel of fuel. Their eyes locked in burning challenge, the crowd roaring in anticipation.
The fight was about to ignite. Who would emerge victorious?