I walked quickly, almost without thinking, like my body knew the way by heart. The cobblestones cracked under my shoes, full of fissures, stained with rust and old streaks of oil. Same as every morning.
I took the road to the port with the nagging feeling I was betraying another path.
I should be in school.
Sitting on a rickety chair, listening to someone talk about ancient history or anima physics.
But I don't have time for that.
Or money.
School is for those who can afford to think about tomorrow.
Me, I need to eat today.
A flame barranquero tore through the sky like an orange flash. Its spread wings caught the hazy sunlight as it dove, snatching a fluorescent worm mid-air, then landed on a rusty metal railing, corroded by salt and time.
"Get over here, ahaha!" someone shouted behind me.
I spun around and dashed into the corridor, my bag bouncing against my back.
"I'm coming!" I called out, grabbing my helmet with one hand and some beams with the other.
The chimneys of Kroghalia belched black ash, and the sky looked like an overripe fruit. The port was alive with noise. Screams, screeches, metal grinding, sweating bodies.
I plunged into the chaos.
My back already ached. My arms still trembled from the last load. The crates had been filled with iron and heatstones, heavy as guilt. And yet, I barely felt the strain.
Consolidation affinity...
Since always, my anima has reinforced my body, muscle by muscle, nerve by nerve.
It's not flashy. Not like those who hurl flames or create weapons with a snap of their fingers.
But me, I lift beams. I grit my teeth.
It's not glorious, no.
But it buys me a meal.
A colleague passed by and clapped me on the back without slowing down.
"You're doing good work, kid!"
I threw him a quick smile and headed toward the rusted scaffolding.
Mr. Sharrkan was up there. Always in position.
Helmet firmly on his head, hands black with coal, his authority clung to him like an old set of armor.
He studied blueprints with the focus of a general.
I climbed the steps two at a time. Once level with him, I hesitated, then spoke up.
"Mr. Sharrkan... could I take a bit of wood for the winter?"
I gestured hesitantly toward the junk pile.
"I saw some lying around there..." He looked up at me. His forehead gleamed with sweat, his smile was genuine. He lifted his visor and sighed.
"Winter is coming, that's true..." He raised his hand and waved me over.
"Of course you can take some, kid!"
I thanked him with a nod. Two workers passed behind me, each carrying a beam.
They spoke casually, assuming I couldn't hear them.
"That guy's a machine..."
"Sharrkan says he does the work of six men..."
"Must be real desperate to work like that." I pretended not to listen, but my ears catch more than people think.
I loaded three beams onto my shoulders. Just to prove a point. Just to end the day strong.
"He's from the village of Azela, right?"
"Yeah, nearby. Not a very creative name. Same as the country, ha!" I left the port without answering, my miner's bag full of coal pressed tight to my back.
A faint smile crept across my lips.
Thirty cui and some leftover coal. Enough for some bread. Maybe a small treat.
I looked up. The sky blazed with pink and gold.
The shadows grew longer.
Shit... I have to see Lauren.
"It's late already... but I still have time before meeting her," I muttered.
"I'll go through the market."
****************************************************
The 10th Block Market hit me like an explosion of sound and color.
Voices shot out from all directions:
"Two bound-shards for the price of one!"
"Anima bulbs, cheap! Factory-certified!"
"The Factory recommends this wax!"
"Lunalit fish! Freshly caught!"*
The smells of frying and spice punched me in the gut.
Half-naked men grilled meat barehanded — their fingers lit with flame.
Some had horns. Others wore glass respirators or quartz-carved lenses.
A kid passed by wearing a hat shaped like a live octopus, its arms still twitching.
I smiled.
The market... It's so close to Azela, but it's another world.
I took a deep breath.
"Still smells amazing..."
The coal bag stuck to my back. Massive. Ridiculous.
Glances shot my way.
"How's he carrying that?"
"That brat again..."
I walked through the crowd, eyes scanning the stalls, stomach growling.
"What are you doing in Kroghalia?!" a voice called.
I turned.
Papy Min.A friend of my mother's who always spoiled me even though I was a pest when I was younger, I affectionately call him Papy.
He manned a makeshift grill, laying meat on a dented rack.
But it wasn't a normal fire. The flame came from a giant plush strapped to his waist — an old relic from another era, its belly opened like a furnace, spitting heat.
His bound-frame.
One of the most ridiculous and practical things I'd ever seen.
And he wore it proudly, as always.
His beard was shorter. His eyes still sparkled.
"It's late. Get back to the village," he barked, mock-stern.
I ran to him.
"Papy Min!!"
He crossed his arms. I scratched the back of my head, sheepish.
"You know... just trying to earn a little cash..."
He handed me a box. The smell was already leaking out.
*"Falafels.They'll give you strength for the walk back to Azela.And take these for the time you watered my plants."*
My eyes misted, ridiculous.
"Papy..."
I left with the box under my arm, warmed as much by the food as by the gesture.
I could share them with Lauren. She loves these.
But just as I turned down an alley, something pulled me from my thoughts.
A blonde strand.A colorful wrapper.A Blubys lollipop.
I stopped.
A boy passed by me, calm.I looked at him. Head-on.
Time slowed.
His hair floated. He chewed slowly. His eyes were calm. Too calm.
I'd never seen him here. Around us, the crowd blurred. Just him and me, in frozen noise.
I turned. He was already disappearing, swallowed by the mass.
I stood there, box of falafels in hand.
Weird... New faces in this sector are rare.
I sat on a wall near Granny Nim. She folded her origami with the focus of a silent artisan.
Further off, mercenaries were handling blades at a stall.
"The Factory approved all the merchandise, hihihihi..."
"Yeah? You sure, old man?"
I munched absentmindedly.
Not on the falafels.
On old scraps from a dented box a woman had given me earlier.
"Mercs doing their shopping at the market now?"
I chewed slowly.
"Everything's changing fast... Their numbers keep growing."
I looked up.
"I wonder what people eat in the rest of the world..."
********************************************
I walked through the lower streets of the city, hands in my pockets, coal bag still strapped to my back.
To the left, people were injecting themselves in shadowed corners.
To the right, a woman was vomiting from a balcony eaten by moisture.
In a narrow alley, two prostitutes moved in mechanical rhythm — no exchange, no eye contact.
I didn't slow down. Just kept walking, eyes forward.
Scenes like these? I've seen too many. They don't shock me anymore. They just slide off.
The air stank of fatigue, misery, and rancid frying oil.
Under a bridge, a commotion caught my eye. A small crowd had gathered.
An overturned automas was still smoking, lying on its side.
Anima-tape spiraled around the crash site, crackling softly, pulsing with light, cutting off access.
A recorded voice echoed through speakers nailed to the beams above:
— Automas accident.
— Presence of Aqua in the blood.
— Name: Mera Jackinson. Deceased on impact.
I sighed, shoulders dipping just a bit.
— The Menders are on-site. Passage will remain closed until investigation concludes...
Another looped message. Another meaningless death.
I glanced up at the bridge above me. No way I was waiting.
I crouched low, planted my feet firmly, and bent my legs…
Then jumped.
My legs launched me meters into the air in one clean leap.
My hand caught the edge of the bridge.
I pulled myself up, grunting through my teeth.
— The things I gotta do... just to cross a damn bridge...
Once at the top, I straightened up slowly.
Automas rolled past on the central road, their turbines humming, their frames clanking in rhythm.
I walked alongside the barriers, the sun warming my back.
Farther ahead, a group of Sentinels were pinning a man to the gate.
They cuffed him with methodical efficiency, not saying a word more than necessary.
The Sentinels...
A militarized peace force deployed in Fabrique-licensed sectors.
Their role: keep order, check IDs, identify the cursed. Arrest criminals.
But in places like ours — the slums?
They never set foot there. They have no authority anyway.
And honestly? They don't care.
— I told you it's just a tattoo! the man shouted, panicked.
— A joke tattoo!
One Sentinel turned her head toward me.
— You there! Watch yourself. The edge of the bridge is off-limits.
I gave her a casual smile without breaking stride.
— Don't worry. I'm a regular.
Behind me, the man kept yelling, but his voice was already swallowed by traffic noise.
Another agent added flatly:
— We'll see what the tests say.
I looked down at my glove.
The leather was worn, but tight. Underneath, the bandages hadn't budged.
I just hope Lauren's on time...