Yaman back to his home, open the door, and say, "I'm back."
He went to the kitchen, then placed the bag of meat, the bag of bread, and the bag of vegetables and fruits on the table and sat down.
His mother, Marilyn, looked at him and sighed wearily. "You've had another fight, Yaman. This is the ninth time, and the week isn't over yet. You're naughty."
Yaman frowned. "It's not up to me.
This city is a bunch of filth anyway. Why do you want to have a feast?" he snapped, biting into an apple, feet on the table as he leaned back in the chair.
Marilyn didn't respond.
She only glared angrily and grabbed his ear.
Yaman winced in pain. They moved into the living room and sat on the couch. Yaman sank down.
His mother took out bandages and antiseptic. "Oh my God, not again," he sighed.
She began to press and rub the bandages onto his wounds.
Yaman bit back a scream; he wouldn't show weakness.
Marilyn looked at him, gave a small smile, and said, "Yaman, it's okay to show pain. Pain isn't weakness, it's motivation."
But Yaman insisted otherwise.
Marilyn looked, smiled, and said, "What a man!" Then she pressed on the large wound.
A scream tore from Yaman and filled the house. Marilyn sighed and said, "Oh my God!"
A few minutes later Yaman's body was wrapped in bandages.
His face remained a frown. Marilyn sighed again and eyed him angrily. "Yaman, when will you stop causing trouble every day? Fighting with your peers and those older than you?"
Yaman shot back, "It's not my fault that this island and its people are a bunch of filth. I'm only defending myself."
"Then what about today's incident?" Marilyn demanded. "I heard that you stabbed someone from the Hellhounds gang."
Yaman was startled. "How did you know?"
"Our neighbor told me — she was buying meat. She was worried about you, you reckless idiot." Marilyn's hand connected with his head in a punch. Yaman stung and answered angrily, "That bastard took my turn for the last piece of meat."
His tone hardened further. "He insulted you. Anyone who insults you, I'll kill them this time." He jabbed with fury in his voice. "If he's like that… next time I'll burn him."
Marilyn sighed at her son's reckless, rebellious behavior. He'd been like this since childhood, and she wouldn't blame him entirely — the island's environment was filthy. But she found a small, grudging pride in his courage that he had defended her. She patted his head and said, "Yaman, you asked me on the right occasion, didn't you?"
Her smile widened. "Your father will return today," she added.
Yaman frowned. "That neglectful father," he muttered.
"Yaman," Marilyn said, leaning in, "don't be harsh on your father. He works day and night for you and me. He sacrifices his life as a knight, confronting the evil dark magicians, the dark guilds, and Zeref's followers." She smiled, soft for a moment. "He will tell you beautiful stories this time."
Yaman barked with anger, "Beautiful stories about saving cities while his island is powerless to protect them.
How pathetic he is. He still believes in the council's nonsense. Look at the Rune Knights here. They deal with gangs and take bribes from them in exchange for silence about their crimes. They spend their time in taverns while he is protecting other cities," he said sarcastically.
Marilyn approached him, her face hard. She slapped him sharply. "Take it and say your father sacrifices his life for you and for your future — and this is how you return the favor to him? Even I hate the council, but what does that have to do with your father? He is doing his duty to protect the weak for you and for me. He works for us. This meat that you brought, the clothes you wear, the roof above you — they are all from your father — and you say he is pathetic? Look at the monsters he faces in this world who kill people and toy with souls, and he puts his life aside, and you call him pathetic. I wish he was here to teach you some values, you spoiled brat."
Then she went to the kitchen angrily.
Yaman felt the slap on his reddened right cheek and sat on the couch, looking out the window at the sea, the sunset adding luster to his dull eyes.
"Perhaps this is the only beautiful thing about this island," he said, stretching out on the couch. An hour passed Night fell.
The front door swung open with a creak. "I'm back," Fernando called, his voice deep and steady. He stepped inside, armor slightly scuffed from his patrols, sword at his side, and a tired but proud look in his eyes.
Yaman looked up from the couch, still bandaged, his feet on the table. "So… the great Fernando returns," he muttered sarcastically. Fernando's eyes softened when they landed on Yaman, but he noticed the fresh bandages and the apple core on the table. He took a careful step closer. "What happened here?" he asked quietly, scanning the boy's wounds. Marilyn appeared from the kitchen, still tense. "He had another fight," she said sharply, arms crossed. "Yaman refuses to sit still while the city chews him up."
Fernando crocheted slightly to meet Yaman's gazebo. "Is that true?" he asked, calm but firm.
Yaman straightened, fists clenched. "I defended us, father," he said. "I can't just watch them take everything from us."
Fernando moves slowly. "I see… but strength isn't only about fighting. It's about knowing when to stand and when to wait. You need to survive first, Yaman. You need to live to protect what matters."
Yaman looked away, defiant but thoughtful. Marilyn softened a fraction, seeing both her husband's authority and her son's stubborn pride