The journey was harsh. Dirt roads, infested with bandits, seemed to swallow every lone traveler. Ciel walked on, his eyes always alert, his thoughts fixed on the unknown.
At last, Darklang appeared: a city built on dust and misery. Dilapidated buildings, flickering neon signs, markets swarming with swindlers and thieves. Here, money flowed like a filthy river, and everyone sought to plunge their hands into it.
Ciel felt his heart beat faster. This place reeked of danger—yet also of opportunity.
A new playing field, he thought.
In a smoke-filled tavern, he had his first encounter. Men played cards, others bet on underground fights. Ciel sat in a discreet corner. He wasn't ready to play. Not yet.
But soon, a rough voice called out to him.
"Hey, kid. You think you can hide here?"
A massive man approached, a scar slashing across his face. Two henchmen followed behind.
"They say you're from Sanwi. That you made Moruto lose everything. Is it true?"
Ciel remained impassive.
"Moruto lost himself."
The men burst out laughing.
"You speak well, kid. But here, words aren't enough. Here, we want to see if you can still stand when blood starts flowing."
The man laid a dagger on the table, driving it into the wood.
"You want to exist in Darklang? Show us you can survive."
Ciel lowered his eyes to the blade. His heart raced, but his mind stayed sharp.
Everything is calculation. Even fear can be a weapon.