The sun over Sanwi rose heavy, pressing down on the rusted roofs of shacks, striking the dusty alleys like a hammer on an anvil. In this forgotten land, dawn carried no promises; it only announced another day of survival.
Ciel Darkness, sixteen years old, sat on the cracked step in front of their house. His worn-out sandals barely held together, and his torn pants exposed scraped knees. Around him, the neighborhood children laughed as they chased after a deflated ball. Ciel watched them, but did not laugh. His eyes were elsewhere, fixed on an invisible idea no one else could see.
"Ciel! Come eat!" a voice called from inside the house.
He went in. The kitchen, small and dim, smelled of boiled rice. His mother, Cagiver Darkness, bustled around the fire. Her hands were thin but scarred, marked by burns. Her face was tired, yet her eyes still carried an unyielding gentleness.
"Here, my son," she said, setting a nearly empty bowl before him.
Ciel lowered his gaze. The rice was sparse, swollen with water to create the illusion of a larger portion. He glanced at his mother's bowl: almost nothing. Without a word, he slid part of his share into hers.
Cagiver looked at him silently. She said nothing, but her eyes shone with mute gratitude.
At that moment, the door burst open. Blisen Darkness, his older brother, walked in, clapping his hands as if to announce himself. He wore a wrinkled shirt, a cigarette dangling from his lips, insolence etched into his smile.
"Still playing the martyr, little brother?" he sneered, spotting Ciel's half-empty bowl.
"I'm not playing. I'm sharing," Ciel replied calmly.
"Sharing?" Blisen scoffed. "Here, it's every man for himself. If you want to eat, you've got to know how to take. Or steal. Or…"
He tossed a bundle of dirty bills onto the table. Cagiver stiffened but said nothing.
"Now that's real food," Blisen continued. "Not dreams. Not pretty speeches. Money."
Ciel looked away. The bills reeked of dust and sweat—and of blood.
That night, Ciel went out alone. Sanwi changed its face at nightfall. The alleys filled with shadows and whispers; clandestine markets stirred like nocturnal beasts.
He stopped before a circle of men, their faces half-hidden. At the center, sacks of rice were stacked high. Voices rose:
"Five bills a sack!"
"No, ten tomorrow—there won't be any left!"
"Lies, the harvest is coming!"
Ciel watched. His eyes, usually so calm, darted quickly, analyzing every gesture, every word. Then he understood something: the prices didn't change because of the rice. The rice was the same, piled up in the sacks. What changed were the words.
A gaunt man with piercing eyes declared in a deep voice:
"Tomorrow, the roads will be blocked. No deliveries. Anyone who doesn't buy tonight will starve tomorrow."
And suddenly, the bidding soared. The men clawed at the sacks as if they were weapons.
Ciel clenched his fists. It isn't the rice that has value. It's the illusion. The perception.
He stayed there a long time, absorbing every detail.
When he returned, he found Blisen sitting at the table, flanked by two shady-looking men. Papers lay scattered across the surface: a hastily scribbled contract.
"Ciel, come. Watch how real deals are made," Blisen said with a mocking smile.
Ciel stepped closer. The men spoke fast, too fast.
Clause Three: immediate transfer of assets.
Clause Five: full liability in case of loss.
Ciel frowned. An obvious trap. If Blisen signed, he would lose everything.
"Wait," Ciel whispered, tugging at his brother's sleeve.
"What now?"
"Read it again. You're not selling—you're giving it away."
Blisen froze, wary. He reread it, then his eyes widened.
"You rats…" he growled, throwing the papers aside.
The two men left, frustrated.
Blisen stared at Ciel, astonished.
"How did you see that?"
"I just read what they wanted to hide," Ciel answered calmly.
For the first time, Blisen no longer saw him as the naïve little brother, but as someone who could see further than him.
That night, in his narrow room, Ciel took out an old notebook. With hesitant handwriting, he wrote:
Money is a weapon.
Words can kill.
A promise is a contract. He who breaks it loses everything.
He closed the notebook, his heart pounding. A new world had just opened before him.