The sound of hammering against metal pots echoed through the workshop, the chisel carving through iron like a river cutting through a valley. This was where I worked—an engraving shop. I was never truly talented at engraving, but I understood the work well enough and knew what had to be done. Most of the time, I simply stood behind the craftsmen and watched them work.
Old Lin was the one who took me in when I wandered the streets searching for food and a place to escape the cold nights. With a body like mine, I could barely walk properly, let alone survive on my own. I slept here in the shop with Lin and his wife as though I were their own child, so I always obeyed them without argument. I owed them too much for anything else, even if the old man and I constantly clashed.
At that moment, Lin was hammering away at a metal pot, trying to make it resistant to heat. The chisel he used had clearly lost its edge, and we had no other iron chisel left.
"Old man, it's gone dull. We either sharpen it or get a new one."
Lin's skin carried the dusty color of sawdust, and his beard was always trimmed short because wood shavings and metal dust constantly clung to it during work. There were not many engravers in this district, which made the job exhausting, though profitable. Not everyone possessed a craft like this.
Without turning his head, he answered in his rough voice,
"You've got the money. Go order a new chisel. Bring a kitchen knife too. Your mother needs one for cooking… actually, bring two. Better to have an extra."
He stayed focused on his work. Beside him, as always, rested his pipe. It never left his side.
"Alright. I'm going."
I raised my hand in farewell and grabbed my cane. Walking was never easy for me. My weak body could barely support itself, but they depended on me.
I stepped outside and headed toward the blacksmith.
How I hated these streets.
Cracked brick walls, uneven roads, and the smell of the sea somehow reaching us despite how far we were from the harbor. The salty breeze mixed with the stench of garbage, giving the city its own miserable scent.
I limped forward slowly. Every movement sent pain through my body, as though it rejected the act of walking itself. Still, I had grown used to it long ago.
After a short walk, I reached the blacksmith's shop. The sounds here were different from ours—heavier, harsher, more forceful. Iron was not carved here; it was beaten into submission.
I greeted the blacksmith and told him we needed a new chisel. He smiled and handed me what I came for before taking the order for another one. He warned me it would take at least a week to finish.
The forge behind him burned brightly while his son worked the bellows, melting iron until it glowed red and became easier to shape.
Their work was not all that different from ours. Both shaped metal into useful forms. But blacksmithing felt brutal and unforgiving, while engraving felt refined, almost artistic.
I took the two knives and began my walk home, my cane tapping against the ground while my feet dragged behind me. The pain inside my body had become something permanent.
Every step across those rough streets felt like my body resisting itself.
I tried not to meet anyone's gaze. These slums were filled with beggars, thieves, and cutthroats. Drawing attention was dangerous, especially for someone like me.
Still, most of the local gangs knew me. They bought tools and goods from Lin's shop.
None of this happened because of fate or tragedy. It was simply time. My body, this city, everything here felt worn down and hopeless. Eventually, I accepted that nothing would ever change.
This was simply my life.
Suddenly, a familiar arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders hard enough to bend my back.
"Dean, please… my bones aren't made for jokes."
Dean had been my friend since childhood. He was tall, with brown hair, a long nose, and striking green eyes. Whenever we met, he greeted me like this. He had never been good at expressing affection with words.
As usual, I smacked his fingers with my cane. He jumped back, hopping on one foot while trying to suppress the pain.
"How are you, Lucas?" he groaned. "Is that how you greet your friend?"
Leaning on my cane, I caught my breath.
"My soul nearly left my body. Your foot was a fair price to bring it back."
"So where are you going with that bag?"
He tried to sound casual, but I knew what he meant. He wanted to come along.
"I'm heading home. Come with me if you want."
Dean walked beside me, slowing his pace to match mine. For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then he suddenly asked,
"So… when are you leaving for Torina?"
I had not told him yet. I already knew his reaction would be dramatic, so I planned to wait until I had made my decision.
"Don't you think I deserve to know?"
I looked at him but could not answer. Disappointment already filled his eyes.
"Does Hana know?"
"She does."
Whenever I lied, I blinked too much. Dean knew that, so I turned my face away while answering.
"You're blinking, you bastard. Look at me."
He grabbed me and forced me to face him.
"Who knows? Tell me."
"Everyone except you, Dean."
He froze.
Something inside him seemed to crack apart.
I slipped out of his grip as quickly as possible before he killed me. His breathing grew heavier, his brows tightened, and suddenly he looked like a raging bull preparing to charge.
The sound of his footsteps thundered behind me as he shouted my name.
I barely moved aside in time before he crashed into a stack of barrels, smashing them apart.
Well… not entirely empty.
Dean stood up slowly and grabbed the back of my shirt.
"You're going to regret not telling me."
I tapped his forehead lightly with my cane.
"Dean… look."
He turned toward the shattered barrels.
Inside them was a naked child curled into himself.
"Is he dead?" I whispered.
Dean knelt beside the boy and listened carefully.
"He's breathing… barely."
I looked away nervously.
Maybe someone abandoned him here on purpose. Maybe this was trouble we should avoid.
"Lucas," Dean called sharply. "Look. By the gods…"
"What?"
Dean grabbed the child's arm and pointed at a strange mark carved into his skin.
I slowly rolled up my own sleeve.
The same mark.
Dean and I stared at each other while shock crashed through my body like drowning in the sea while still standing on land.
Dean lifted the child into his arms and we hurried toward Lin's shop. We did not know where else to take him. Dean had no real home. He and his sister moved constantly around the city. They once stayed in a shelter run by the Church of Nergal, but now they rented a room above the tavern where his sister worked as a waitress while he served as a guard.
Lin's shop was our only real option.
I burst inside before even greeting anyone.
"Old man, I need your help!"
Lin turned toward us with his pipe between his lips. The moment he saw the child, the pipe slipped from his mouth and hit the stone floor, scattering ash everywhere.
Without hesitation, he cleared the table with one sweep of his arm and gestured for Dean to lay the child down.
Lin immediately began examining him. His fingers traced the mark on the child's body as though he could feel something flowing beneath the skin itself.
Dean and I stood silently while the old man moved around the boy almost like a performer in some strange ritual. He turned the child over, studying every inch of the carving as though the boy were an object rather than a person.
Then Lin grabbed a knife and sliced open his own palm.
Blood spilled onto the child's body.
The boy absorbed every drop.
Suddenly his eyes shot open wide.
His body convulsed violently before stiffening like dried wood.
Lin calmly wrapped a cloth around his bleeding hand before bending down to pick up his fallen pipe. He relit it with a matchstick.
Dean and I waited for an explanation, but the look Lin gave us was unlike anything I had ever seen before. Disgust. Misery. Regret.
I could not tell which emotion was stronger.
"Help me bury him, boys."
The words left his mouth heavy with sorrow.
Dean approached silently and lifted the child again, one arm beneath his head and the other beneath his legs.
The boy had pale blond hair, a thin body, and bones visible beneath his skin. His face looked strangely gentle.
He could have lived a normal life.
The thought crossed my mind before I even realized it.
I took my coat from the wall and draped it over the child before Dean carried him outside.
Dean's eyes were wet with tears. He could never bear seeing someone suffer. He always tried to protect everyone around him like some foolish hero.
Maybe being around him for so long had infected me with the same way of thinking.
Death was ordinary here.
Nobody stopped us as we walked through the streets carrying the body. People glanced at our expressionless faces and then looked away again.
By the time we reached the city gate, guards were inspecting merchants and travelers entering the capital. People came here every day searching for work or a better life, unaware of the misery waiting for them inside.
Nearby, a ragged man begged the guards to let him in. His clothes were torn apart, barely enough to cover him. He kept shouting about danger coming from the north, about creatures that looked human taking over villages.
The thick fur still hanging from his ruined clothes and his heavy accent made it obvious where he came from.
One of the guards stopped us and demanded to know where we found the corpse and what had happened.
Eventually he ordered us to report to the investigation unit afterward.
We agreed, but told him we first needed to bury the child somewhere outside the road.
He showed little interest in the matter itself.
"Fine," he said. "But afterward, you're coming with me."
Far beyond the walls stood the maple tree.
It had always been there ever since we were children. Its leaves constantly covered the ground around it. The tree stood strangely isolated from the others, distant from the forest as though the rest had rejected it.
Yet despite that loneliness, it possessed its own quiet beauty.
Dean, Hana, and I used to play there when we were young. Even when they stopped coming, I still visited alone whenever I wanted to escape the noise of the city.
That tree had always been my refuge.
I stretched out my hand toward it silently, asking it to welcome the boy kindly into its roots.
Dean laid the child down and we began digging with our bare hands after realizing we had forgotten a shovel.
"All that brain inside your head," Dean muttered while throwing dirt aside, "and you still forgot the shovel."
"You're seriously making a sick man dig through dirt?" I replied irritably.
"If that sick man forgot something important, then yes."
No one could make me smile except this idiot.
"Don't smile," he snapped. "There's nothing funny about this."
I tried to hold back my laughter at the angry look on his face.
Maybe this was simply how I dealt with grief for a child who had never even known happiness.
Dean shoved me lightly toward the body.
My hand brushed against the child's exposed fingers beneath my coat.
The moment I touched him, I screamed.
The pain tore through me so violently it felt as though something ancient had burst free from inside my skull. My lungs burned from the force of the scream.
Then—
everything went dark.