Year X775 – Vulcanus Island
The skies over Vulcanus were covered in smoke. From the distant mountains, fires were rising into the sky, each volcanic eruption a reminder that this land is unforgiving—not only to nature, but to humanity as well.
It's a land where the strong eat the weak.
Vulcan City was alive that Thursday, its market bursting with desperate voices. Meat, rare as gold, was laid out in dwindling portions. Merchants shouted their prices, mothers argued over vegetables, and children clung to coins like treasure. Above it all, the stink of sweat, smoke, and blood hung in the air.
Through the crowd walked a boy. Black hair brushing the nape of his neck, brown eyes sharp enough to cut glass. His clothes were worn, but cared for — a black jacket, dark shorts, and red shoes. In his pocket, a stiletto pressed against and his Dagger, his only shield against the wolves that roamed the streets.
Yaman Ignis.
He stood in line for the butcher's stall, eyes fixed on the last piece of meat. Each second that passed gnawed at him — what if he failed? What would his mother eat tonight? What would his father say when he returned from duty as a Rune Knight?
At last, it was his turn. His hand lifted, lips parting to claim it—
A violent shove.
He stumbled back, rage flaring as a bald, tattooed man muscled his way to the front. The red hound inked on his arm told the crowd all they needed. Hellhounds gang. Fear rippled like a disease, people shrinking back.
Yaman did not shrink.
"Hey, bastard," the boy said, his voice slicing the silence. "It's my turn. Move, or I'll make you."
Gasps rippled. A child challenging a Hellhound? Madness.
The man turned, lips curling into a cruel grin. "What are you gonna do, brat? Cry for mommy? Or maybe she wants a real man instead of some little street rat." His laugh was ugly, his words filth. "Lerbik'll show her."
The name struck Yaman like a spark to dry wood.
His vision blurred red.
In one swift motion, the stiletto flashed. Steel bit deep into flesh. The man roared, clutching his waist as blood pooled beneath his fingers. Curses spilled from his mouth as he crumpled to the ground.
The market froze.
Yaman stepped forward, dagger dripping. His glare was molten. "The meat. Now."
The butcher hesitated, terror etched on his face. But the boy slammed the blade on the counter, the sound sharp as thunder. The man flinched, wrapped the meat, and handed it over with trembling hands.
Yaman tossed the coins onto the table, grabbed the bag, and turned away as whispers chased him through the market:
"Reckless…"
"Insane…"
"Bold…"
Still clutching his dagger, he walked on. Past the gangs swaggering through the streets, past the gamblers laughing at broken men, past the prostitutes women luring drunks into alleyways and Prostitutes open brothels to prepare for the night.
The city was rot, through and through.
He whispered, more to himself than anyone else:
"If there were true justice… none of this would exist. Someone has to build it. Someone has to burn this filth away."
But his path was not free. In an alley, three boys emerged, knives glinting. Their leader sneered.
"Looks like our delivery boy brought dinner for us."
Yaman set the bags down carefully, his eyes never leaving theirs. Slowly, he raised his bloodied dagger.
"Try me."
Steel clashed in the shadows. Pain tore through his arms and side as blades cut him, but his fury burned hotter. With each strike, his enemies faltered until, bloodied and beaten, they fled into the dark.
Breathing hard, Yaman gathered the bags, his grip trembling but unbroken. He limped home along the shoreline, where the sea and the fire met, where his mother waited.
The boy who had spilled blood for bread carried not just food — but a seed of something greater.
Not vengeance. Not survival.
Justice