The sky was red that night. Not the warm glow of sunset, but a cruel, searing red—fire devouring everything.
Axel was only eight years old, barefoot in the dirt, clutching his wooden toy sword as he ran between collapsing huts. Screams tore through the night, villagers crying out for loved ones swallowed by the blaze.
"Mother! Father!" Axel's voice cracked, tiny against the roar of fire.
He stumbled into the town square—only to see him.
A boy no older than sixteen, black hair flowing in the firelight, stood at the center. His eyes glowed faintly, an unnatural crimson, and in his hand rested a massive black blade, its edge dripping shadows. He didn't belong here. He didn't belong anywhere.
The villagers attacked him desperately, some with pitchforks, others with rifles passed down from the wars. Gunfire cracked, smoke filled the air—but the bullets bent mid-flight, swallowed by swirling darkness. With a single gesture, the boy sent tendrils of shadow lashing out, tearing through men like paper.
And then—he floated. Rising from the ground as if the world's gravity had no claim on him, his casual clothes fluttered like nothing more than a street urchin's. But his presence was inhuman.
Axel's father charged, shotgun in hand. "Stay back, son!"
The Witch boy—didn't even swing his sword. He only raised a hand, whispering something that chilled the blood. The darkness erupted, and Axel's world ended in an instant.
He woke on the ground later, coughing in the ash. His village was gone. His parents were gone. His right arm mangled, burned beyond saving.
In the distance, silhouetted against the inferno, Ash drifted upward into the night sky like a phantom. His face unreadable—neither angry, nor joyful. Just…empty.
And Axel, the boy, swore that night he would kill the witch who looked like a boy and carried a blade too big for his frame.
The night reeked of smoke and blood. The once lively village was now only rubble, glowing faintly with dying fire.
Amid the ruins, a boy no older than eight clawed desperately at collapsed beams, his cries hoarse.
"...Mom? Dad? Please!"
His small frame shook with exhaustion. His left hand, mangled beneath a fallen stone, was twisted and ruined. Blood soaked his sleeve. Axel's cries grew weaker, his breath shuddering.
A crunch of boots cut through the silence.
Out of the haze stepped a man. A long trench coat swayed at his sides, one hand resting near the revolver strapped to his hip. His grey eyes scanned the wreckage until they locked onto the child.
Cain froze. His jaw tightened. "...He's just a kid."
For a moment he stood there, watching the boy fight against the inevitable, his ruined hand trembling. Cain cursed under his breath, then strode forward.
Axel's vision blurred, the world tilting. He barely noticed as strong arms lifted him from the rubble. The boy whimpered, mumbling through the haze of pain:
"...I couldn't…save them..."
Cain's face hardened, but his grip tightened protectively. "No one could've, kid." He glanced at the flames around them, muttering, almost to himself:
"Damn it… what kind of world leaves a child to this?"
Axel's body went limp. His eyes fluttered shut as the last thing he felt was the steady rhythm of Cain's heartbeat against his ear.
When Axel awoke, he wasn't in the ruins anymore. Instead, the smell of smoke was replaced by wood and herbs. A dim lantern flickered in the corner of a small cabin.
The boy's left arm was wrapped in bandages, ending just below the elbow. The stump ached, but it was clean, tended to. He lay beneath a thick blanket on a worn leather couch.
Across the room, Cain sat in a chair, coat hanging on the wall behind him, a cigar burning low between his fingers. His revolver rested on the table, next to a bottle of whiskey.
Cain's sharp eyes flicked toward the boy as he stirred.
"You're awake."
Axel tried to sit up, groaning, but Cain raised a hand. "Don't. You'll tear the stitches."
The boy blinked through the blur of tears and pain. His voice cracked.
"...They're gone, aren't they?"
Cain exhaled smoke, leaning back in his chair. He didn't answer right away. Then, with a voice heavy and blunt:
"Yeah. They're gone."
Axel bit his lip, tears spilling down his cheeks. His small shoulders shook.
Cain studied him in silence, something hard flickering in his gaze — but there was also that faint trace of pity he hated admitting he had. Finally, he spoke again:
"You got a choice now. You let this break you… or you live. And if you live, you learn how to fight back."
The boy looked up, his face streaked with grief but lit by a fragile ember of resolve.
Cain snuffed out his cigar and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Rest. Tomorrow, we talk about what comes next."
The lantern's flame danced across Axel's tear-streaked face as he drifted back into exhausted sleep — the first night of many under Cain's roof.