The city was suffocating.
That was the first thought that crossed Rondan's mind as he walked through the narrow back alleys of the capital. Dim lanterns hung crookedly on crumbling walls, casting faint light on the cracked pavement. The stench of smoke, sweat, and despair filled the air like an unshakable curse.
His long black hair swayed with the cold night wind, and his crimson eyes burned with a defiance that no darkness could smother. Nineteen years old and already hardened by a lifetime of oppression, Rondan was no ordinary young man. He was a spirit in revolt, carrying in his heart a fire that would not die until his people were free.
The dystopian regime that ruled this land had left its citizens with nothing but suffering. Its iron laws crushed hope and silenced rebellion before it could even take root. But Rondan fought back in his own way—
not only with weapons, but with his unique martial art, a dance of death so fluid and beautiful it left enemies breathless before they fell.
---
Footsteps echoed behind him.
Rondan's muscles tightened as he spun around. Four masked enforcers emerged from the shadows, their black uniforms blending with the darkness. They carried iron rods and knives, their intent obvious.
> "There he is," one of them hissed. "Target Number Seven."
"The commander's orders are clear," another growled. "Kill him."
Rondan's lips curved into a cold, mocking smile as he stepped back lightly, shifting his stance.
> "Your only mistake," he said quietly,
"was letting me dance."
---
The fight erupted.
One of the men lunged at him, swinging his rod in a wide arc. Rondan's body bent low like flowing water, his movements impossibly smooth. With a single spin, his left leg swept upward in a graceful arc, striking the attacker's arm with a sickening crack. The man screamed and dropped his weapon as Rondan pivoted, spinning once more like a dancer taking center stage.
Another enforcer charged, knife flashing, but Rondan stepped into the attack with lethal precision. He grabbed the man's wrist mid-strike, twisted, and spun behind him, using the enemy's own momentum to slam him to the ground.
The remaining two hesitated, unnerved by the elegance and ferocity of what they had just witnessed. Rondan's crimson eyes glimmered in the darkness, and for a moment, he truly looked like a sovereign of battle.
> "Well?" he taunted, tilting his head. "Are you just going to stand there?"
The men roared and attacked together. But Rondan was already moving. He stepped forward, his body flowing like a dancer in perfect rhythm with the beat of unseen music. Each strike was a movement; each kick, a step. His hair whipped through the air as he leapt and spun, dodging blades and countering with blows too fast to follow.
One by one, the enforcers fell. And when the final man collapsed, Rondan stood alone beneath the flickering lantern light, chest heaving, but his gaze sharp as ever.
---
He didn't have long to savor the victory. Pain lanced through his side where a blade had grazed him, blood seeping into his shirt. He staggered slightly, and for the first time that night, his vision blurred.
And then he heard a soft, startled voice behind him.
> "You're hurt…!"
Rondan turned just in time to see a young woman rushing toward him, her dark hair tied back and a worn satchel slung over her shoulder. She knelt beside him, hands trembling as she pressed cloth to his wound.
> "Who… who are you?" he managed, voice hoarse.
She met his gaze, her eyes filled with determination.
> "My name is Nora, and if you want to survive," she said firmly,
"you'll have to trust me."