The arena groaned beneath the rising sun.
Its once-proud stone pillars, now chipped and blackened with the scars of time, leaned like drunkards after a long war. Moss clung to the broken stairways, iron gates rusted in place, and banners that should have boasted glory now hung in tatters like forgotten promises. Cracks veined the ground, and dust curled in the morning air as if the Colosseum itself exhaled — tired, ancient, and barely holding together.
And yet…
At the center of this decrepit pit of trials stood a boy. A golden-haired, golden-eyed boy with not a scratch on him.
Harriet Reacher.
He breathed evenly, chest rising and falling with the kind of calm that didn't match the chaos around him. Around him lay dozens of Grade 5 Idents—men and women who had trained, bled, and honed their skills for years—now crumpled like broken dolls. Some moaned softly, others lay still, unconscious or simply unwilling to rise again. The dirt beneath them had been torn, pounded, scorched—but not a single mark lay on Harriet.
His long sleeves fluttered lightly in the breeze, gloves spotless, hair barely ruffled. His golden eyes scanned the fallen one by one, not with pride or arrogance, but with that odd quietness that always clung to him like a second skin.
He hadn't even tried to show off.
The Colosseum—Section 9's grand stage of strength, now little more than a crumbling amphitheater—could barely contain the moment. The broken arches above him loomed like skeletal guardians, and faded murals painted across cracked walls depicted heroes long gone…yet none of them had ever stood in that arena like this. Alone. Undefeated.
A quiet tap echoed as Harriet adjusted his gloves, casually brushing a strand of golden hair from his face. He didn't smile. He didn't gloat. He just tilted his head, as if wondering why no one else was getting back up.
"…Huh," he said, voice light, barely louder than the wind. "Guess I overdid it again."
His boots crunched softly over the debris-littered ground as he walked toward the edge of the arena, stepping over unconscious warriors with a gentleness that felt almost out of place.
From the viewing platform above, the worn stone balcony creaked under shifting weight—eyes watching him now not with disbelief, but dawning curiosity.
No one in Section 9 had ever seen someone so casually make a statement like this. Not here, in this cracked skeleton of an arena, where dreams came to die and ambition dried up like dust in the cracks.
But today… someone had won. Someone who looked like a soft-hearted dreamer. Someone who didn't belong in the mud, yet stood tall in it.
Harriet paused at the edge of the arena, glancing once more at the trail of bodies behind him. He exhaled softly, golden eyes narrowing in thought.
Then, without a word, they appeared.
A ripple of unseen energy shimmered around him—faint, like heat haze over sunlit stone—and from that ripple came the spectral limbs. Pale, translucent, and eerily graceful, they moved like ribbons through water. Only Harriet could see them clearly—ten, maybe twelve spectral hands, conjured by the force of will he carried behind those long sleeves.
The first pair drifted down to the nearest unconscious Ident, a large man twice Harriet's size. The spectral fingers tapped gently on his cheeks.
"…Hey," Harriet murmured, crouching beside him. "You good? C'mon. Open your eyes."
The man groaned but didn't wake.
Another hand lightly patted someone else's face. A third attempted to lift a limp arm. The fourth pinched a nose. Nothing.
Harriet scratched the back of his head with a ghostly hand. "Yeah, thought so."
He stood slowly and closed his eyes. The air shifted again—quiet and full of tension like a string being drawn. Then, with surprising gentleness, the invisible hands went to work.
One by one, the unconscious fighters rose from the ground—not dragged, but lifted with care. Bodies hovered, suspended as if held by windless magic. Harriet's expression never changed; he simply raised his chin, and the ghostly limbs obeyed.
Twelve grown adults floated behind him like oddly-shaped balloons.
It was an absurd image—ridiculous even—this armless boy strolling through a crumbling arena with an entire crowd of fallen warriors drifting after him in midair. Some slumped backward, others hung like tangled puppets. A few drooled. A boot slipped off someone's foot and thudded to the dirt behind him.
"…Gotta stop doing this," Harriet muttered as he moved. "People are getting heavier."
He rose off the ground slowly, using several of his spectral limbs as invisible platforms beneath his feet. The whole bizarre parade ascended toward the half-collapsed tunnel leading into the underground structure of Section 9.
The entryway was worn and jagged, iron frames rusting under layers of neglect. Moss clung to the ceiling like damp fur. The signage overhead—once proud—was nearly unreadable.
INFIRMARY WARD B.
With a flick of his wrist, Harriet directed the floating bodies to drift in ahead of him, ducking under beams, maneuvering around collapsed masonry and hanging wires. The tunnel echoed with the soft clinking of armor and the occasional groan as someone stirred.
Torchlights flickered weakly in the stone corridors, illuminating the infirmary beyond. It was cold, dim, and smelled faintly of mildew and tonic herbs. The beds were old. The walls flaked. The ceiling dripped. And yet… this was the best they had.
Harriet began gently placing each fallen Ident on a cot, or in some cases, on a repurposed bench or bundle of cloth.
"Sorry," he murmured, adjusting a pillow under one of them. "You took that one real bad. I'll tell 'em to go easier next time."
The last one to be set down was a stocky woman with a bloody nose. Harriet crouched beside her, adjusting her collar with two spectral fingers. He lingered for a moment, staring at her bruised cheek, then tapped it lightly.
"You still breathe, right?" he asked.
A soft wheeze answered.
Harriet grinned. "Tough one."
Then he stood, brushed the invisible dust from his sleeves, and looked around at the fallen warriors. His golden eyes held no triumph. No glee. Only a quiet, impossible hope—one that didn't match the broken stone walls, or the rusted iron frames, or the reek of medicine.
He didn't belong here.
But maybe, just maybe… he was exactly what this place needed.
As Harriet stepped out of the infirmary tunnel, the heavy iron door creaked behind him, closing with a tired groan that echoed through the stone corridor. The air outside felt warmer than inside, touched by the faintest breeze that drifted in through the Colosseum's shattered upper arches. Dust motes swirled in the shaft of light cutting through the gloom like a slow dance of ash.
He took a long breath, cracked his neck, and rolled his shoulders—though, given his lack of arms, the motion looked a bit strange.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps. Fast, uneven. Small.
He turned his head slightly.
At the edge of the archway, half-hidden behind a collapsed pillar, stood a kid. No older than twelve. Bruised cheek. Swollen lip. Big eyes. And unmistakably—undeniably—one of the kids Harriet had punched in the arena the day before.
They locked eyes.
Harriet blinked.
The kid raised his hand awkwardly in a wave. "U-uh… hey."
Harriet raised an invisible hand in return, giving the kid a mock salute. "Hey."
The kid shuffled forward, hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. "I, uh… just wanted to say thanks. For not… y'know. Breaking my ribs or something."
Harriet gave a faint laugh through his nose. "I was trying not to. You threw a mean punch, though. Surprised me."
The kid straightened a little. "Really?"
Harriet nodded. "Yeah. Your stance was awful, but your swing had heart."
The kid's cheeks flushed with pride.
"I'm Eli," he said quickly, glancing around as if to make sure no one was watching him. "From Hall Three. I was watching your match today."
"Wasn't much of a match," Harriet said, stretching his neck again. "More like cleaning day. Everyone needed a nap."
Eli laughed nervously, then bit his lip. "You… really don't have arms, huh?"
Harriet looked down at his sleeves. The gloves hung empty as ever. He wiggled one, just to be silly. "Nope. Never did. Would've made brushing my teeth easier though."
"You still beat all of them."
Harriet gave a shrug, using one of his invisible hands to ruffle Eli's hair in a quick, unseen swirl that made the kid jump.
"Hey!"
"You'll get better," Harriet said. "Try aiming before you swing next time. And maybe… not at someone who can throw you across the arena."
Eli grinned, even through his bruises. "You'll teach me someday?"
Harriet tilted his head.
"…Maybe," he said after a moment. "If you don't cry next time I hit you."
"I didn't cry!"
"You did," Harriet said with a grin as he walked past the boy. "I saw snot."
"No you didn't!"
Harriet gave a lazy wave over his shoulder—an actual, visible spectral hand this time—then disappeared into the broken hallways of Section 9, leaving the boy behind with wide eyes, already running to tell the others.
The hallway leading to the Director's office was dim, its stone arches groaning with time and disrepair. Faded banners of the Champion Association still clung to the walls, their once-proud colors muted and tattered, frayed by years of indifference. Dust danced in every beam of light that squeezed through the cracked ceilings.
Harriet passed rusted suits of armor left to crumble, long-dead torches, and a door that barely held on its hinges—emblazoned with a worn-out plaque.
Garron Veldt – Section 9 Director
He didn't knock. He just pushed the door open with a spectral hand.
Inside, the office was a mess of paperwork, unfiled reports, and bottles—so many bottles. Some empty. Some half-full. Some so old the labels had become part of the glass. A single flickering lantern illuminated the back of the room, where a broad-shouldered man lounged behind a crooked desk with one foot resting lazily on a stack of scrolls.
Garron "Iron Gut" Veldt.
His hair was long and iron-grey despite his middle age, pulled back in a loose tie. His eyes—sunk deep in dark rings of fatigue—glimmered like forged steel that had long since cooled. A bottle of dark amber rested in one hand, while the other scribbled half-heartedly across a parchment.
"…You promised you'd teach me a thing or two," Harriet said, voice flat but steady. "You said you'd help me get stronger. All you've done is throw me into the arena."
Garron didn't even look up.
"That will work," he muttered, scratching the quill across the parchment. "Look at you. Not a scratch. That means something's working."
Harriet stepped forward, brow furrowed. "I want to get stronger faster. The kind of strength that lets me protect people for real. This pace… it's not enough."
Garron finally looked up, a slow sigh escaping his nose. His eyes met Harriet's, and for a brief moment, all the lazy disinterest peeled back—just a flicker—and something else stirred behind those tired eyes. Something ancient. Heavy. Stronger than anything Harriet had ever felt from another Ident.
Then it was gone again, drowned in a long swig of booze.
He leaned back, bottle still in hand, and gave a lazy grin.
"You really don't stop, do you, kid?"
Harriet didn't smile. "You said you were the strongest man in this place."
"I am," Garron replied with a shrug. "Physically, anyway. Strongest bones. Strongest swing. Strongest gut, obviously."
He took another long pull from the bottle.
"…And the weakest will," Harriet finished for him.
Garron chuckled. Not offended. Not angry. Just… accepting.
"Right again," he said. "I've buried too many friends to keep swinging for dreams. You get tired of fighting ghosts, eventually. Booze is simpler."
Harriet's jaw clenched.
"You're wasting your strength."
"And you're wasting your breath."
They stared at each other—two extremes in one crumbling office: a boy with no arms, burning like a forge with unshaped fire; and a man with arms like steel who'd long since let his flame go cold.
Finally, Garron leaned forward, setting the bottle down with a heavy clink. His expression was suddenly sharper. Clearer.
"…Come back tomorrow," he said. "Before sunrise. And don't eat."
"Why?"
"Because if I'm gonna train you," Garron said, stretching his shoulders with a lazy grunt, "it's gonna hurt more than you think. So let's start on an empty stomach."
Harriet blinked.
"…You're serious?"
"Only when I'm drunk," Garron muttered, standing up—his full height casting a long shadow across the room. "And lucky you, I'm drunk all the time."
He gave a grin full of broken promises and buried rage.
"Let's see if you're strong enough to handle the weakest man in this section."
The office door creaked open once more, protesting the movement like everything else in Section 9.
A young woman stepped through, arms crossed, her boots echoing sharply against the cracked stone floor. Her uniform was worn but well-kept—pristine compared to everyone else in this decaying corner of the Champion Association. A sharp contrast to the chaos of the room and the stench of alcohol that hung thick in the air.
"Father," Klara said flatly, her tone sharp as a whetted blade. "You're drinking again. How many times have I told you it's not good for your health?"
Garron didn't even flinch. Still slouched in his chair, he slowly turned his head toward her, lips puckering like he was tasting the air.
"Hm… you smell like responsibility. Did you just finish the morning drills?"
"Don't dodge the question."
"Ah… anyway," he said, stretching dramatically as if her words had been a minor breeze brushing past him, "good timing. Can you both take care of the ghouls that popped up near the west outskirts of the section? Reports said they're chewing through livestock. Getting annoying."
Harriet blinked. "Wait, ghouls?"
"Yes, ghouls. You know—ugly things, sharp teeth, loud noises. Your type."
Klara narrowed her eyes, her voice dropping low. "You're assigning me fieldwork just to avoid this conversation again?"
Garron raised a hand with mock sincerity. "Me? Avoiding? Never. I'm simply delegating—a key skill in leadership."
"You haven't led anything in months," Klara shot back. "Last week, you assigned a sewer patrol to someone who didn't even belong to our section."
"And they did a fine job, I assume?"
"They fell into a pit."
"I mean, that's one way to inspect the infrastructure," Garron shrugged.
Klara turned to Harriet, clearly exasperated. "You see what I deal with?"
Harriet gave a small, helpless shrug. "He said I'd get stronger by fighting in the arena."
"And did you?"
"…Maybe."
"There you go!" Garron announced cheerfully, lifting his bottle like a toast. "Look at us—building character, forming bonds, slaying ghouls. Now off you go, my radiant children of violence."
Klara scowled and turned to leave, motioning Harriet to follow her. "Come on. Let's get this over with before he 'delegates' us to clean the latrines next."
As they walked out the door, Garron called after them, swaying slightly in his seat.
"Bring me back a souvenir! Preferably not a cursed one! And try not to die—you're still on payroll!"
Klara's voice echoed back cold and unimpressed. "I'm cutting off your whiskey stash."
"Nooo—! Klara, not the stash! That's Grade A rotgut!"
But she was already gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a final thud.
Garron stared at the empty doorway, took a sip, and sighed deeply.
"…She gets it from her mother."
Harriet stepped out into the corridor, the door groaning shut behind him with the weight of Garron's nonsense still lingering in the air. The stone hallway was dimly lit, flickering torches casting restless shadows along the walls as he caught up to Klara's brisk stride.
He rubbed the back of his neck, his sleeves hanging empty beside him, and muttered, "I thought being assigned to a Grade 2 Ident meant I'd be getting proper training. Two weeks, and tomorrow'll be the first time I get a single lesson from him."
Klara didn't slow her pace. Her dark braid swayed with each step, her arms folded behind her back in a soldier's rhythm. "Lesson? You're already learning something just by surviving around him."
"Is that what this is called? Surviving?" Harriet snorted. "I think he's just throwing me at people and hoping something sticks."
A small smirk tugged at her lips. "That's his way. Sink or swim. If you're still alive, congratulations—you're swimming."
Harriet glanced over, curious. "So… you mean that's how he trained you too?"
She chuckled, a dry sound that didn't quite reach her eyes. "No. He used to care. Used to yell at me about form, about patience, about breathing and footwork. Now?" She gestured back toward the office. "Now he just drinks and tells war stories no one asked for."
There was a beat of silence between them, their boots crunching over the uneven, dust-covered stone path that led toward the western gate.
Then Klara added, "Well, if you're looking to learn something that isn't how to fall over dramatically, I am a Grade 3 Ident. Could teach you a trick or two while we kill ghouls."
Harriet smiled at that, a little sheepishly. "Thanks, but… I think I want to learn it from him."
Klara raised an eyebrow. "From Garron? Really?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I want to understand why he's like this. There's strength in him. I've seen it. It's like… he's the strongest man I've ever met—and also the weakest."
Klara blinked, caught off-guard by the words. "That's… not far off, actually."
They walked on, the silence stretching now, not awkward, but thoughtful.
Harriet tilted his head. "You know, you don't really talk about him much."
"There's not much to say," she replied after a moment. "He's my father. He used to be something great. Now he's trying to remember what that felt like."
"Do you think he'll ever remember?"
"I don't know," she said quietly. "But maybe someone like you… could remind him."
They walked the rest of the way in silence, the wind brushing the dust off the crumbling stone, carrying with it the distant groans of something feral waiting beyond the gates. West of Section 9.
The outer gates of Section 9 groaned open with a sound like tired lungs exhaling rust. Beyond them lay the west outskirts—jagged stone paths, twisted trees, and broken watchtowers clinging to time like old men to war stories. The setting sun painted the landscape in bruised orange and gold, casting long shadows that crawled along the dirt and fractured brick.
Harriet strolled beside Klara, his empty sleeves swaying slightly with each step, his golden eyes flicking toward her.
"…Hey, Klara."
"Mm?"
"How old are you?"
She raised an eyebrow, not slowing her pace. "Why?"
He offered a sheepish smile. "Just curious. You seem kind of… I dunno, young."
Klara gave him a sideways glance, then turned her eyes back to the road. "I'm fifteen."
Harriet stopped in his tracks for a second. "Wait—fifteen?"
She glanced back over her shoulder, smirking. "Yeah. Shocking, huh?"
He hurried to catch up. "You're fifteen and already a Grade 3 Ident? That's… that's insane."
"Insane or efficient?"
"Insane," he said plainly, then laughed. "I mean, most kids your age are still figuring out how not to burn soup. You're out here cleaving through monsters and lecturing your drunk dad."
Klara rolled her eyes, but her smirk stayed. "Life moves fast in Section 9. Either you grow up or get buried."
Harriet was quiet for a moment. Then, a bit softer. "Still. That's heavy. You shouldn't have to carry that much at your age."
Klara glanced at him again, more curious than defensive.
He added with a small grin, "You ever think about just… goofing off once in a while? Maybe pull a prank on one of the medics. Start a food fight. You know—act your age."
"I'll leave that to you, arena menace," she teased. "Besides, someone has to be responsible around here."
Harriet grinned. "Yeah, but even responsible people need a break. You're allowed to smile without feeling guilty, you know."
Her expression softened slightly. "…You're strange, Harriet"
"I've been called worse," he said, laughing.
She nudged him gently with her elbow. "Still weird that the guy who flattened half the arena yesterday is also this sentimental."
Harriet flashed a cocky grin. "I contain multitudes."
Klara snorted. "Yeah, well, let's see how many multitudes you've got when those ghouls show up."
He shrugged, golden eyes glinting. "As long as you don't let me get eaten, we'll be fine."
The wind turned foul.
At the edge of the ruined road, where cracked stone met brittle earth, a sickening sound rose—a low, gurgling hiss, like boiling meat mixed with whispers. From the dark hollows of half-buried homes and shattered watchtowers, they came.
Dozens at first. Then hundreds.
They crawled, shuffled, and limped into view—Ghouls.
Their forms were malformed, as if corpses had been reassembled by someone who had never seen a living body. Some were half-bone, with twisted limbs trailing scraps of burial cloth. Others retained bloated flesh, sagging like melted wax, faces stuck in screams and hunger. Their eyes—or what remained of them—burned with a dull green rot.
They moved like a tide of wrongness, clawed hands scraping across the dirt, mouths gnashing teeth that were no longer fully human.
Harriet narrowed his eyes. "Well. That's a lot."
"Stay close," Klara said calmly, already reaching into the small, leather-bound notebook tied to her waist with a strip of faded red cord.
She tore out two slips of paper—each no larger than a finger—and held them out between her hands. Her eyes sharpened.
"Slash," she spoke, soft but clear.
The word echoed unnaturally in the air—resonant, crisp, as if reality itself acknowledged the sound. Instantly, glowing letters seared themselves onto the first paper in flowing, spectral ink.
"Cut."
Another ripple, another imprint. Her power didn't need ink or brush. Her words alone were the spell.
She placed the SLASH paper between her index and middle finger, and the CUT paper between her middle and ring finger—right hand only.
Then she stepped into the tide.
With a flick of her fingers, the SLASH command carved through a charging ghoul's torso, slicing it in two clean halves. Another flick of her wrist sent the CUT paper tearing diagonally through a second ghoul's skull, and with a single pivot, she repositioned both papers—re-aimed, re-used.
Klara never needed to use a paper more than once to kill. But she also never wasted them by adding two words unnecessarily.
Harriet wasn't slow. He dashed through the enemy, his spectral arms flinging ghouls aside, slamming them into broken walls, pinning them to the ground with violent force. He struck with precision, clean and hard, not a single wasted movement. His coat whipped behind him as he moved, his golden eyes sharp with focus.
But Klara was on another level.
She twisted between the ghouls, never stopping, her right hand a blur of slashing enchantment. She reused each paper again and again, flicking them to cut at angles, piercing through gaps in armor-like bone, sending undead falling in twos and threes. She muttered new words only when necessary, always singular, always efficient.
She never carried more than she needed.
Never shouted when a whisper would do.
Harriet turned just in time to see her leap and kick off the ribcage of a tall ghoul, flipping backward, mid-air, and hurling her SLASH paper like a blade. It tore through two more heads before returning to her hand, still glowing. Still ready.
"...How many times can you use those things?" he muttered, dodging a strike before sending his invisible hand into a ghoul's face, crushing its skull with invisible force.
Klara landed lightly beside him. "As many times as it takes," she said calmly, reloading a fresh slip between her fingers. "As long as I keep it to one word per page."
The battlefield quieted only minutes later.
Dozens of torn and twitching ghoul bodies littered the cracked stone, and yet Klara's notebook was barely any lighter. She fanned the remaining pages out as she walked, none of them even smudged.
Harriet, covered in dirt but untouched by wounds, gave her a sideways glance. "Remind me not to play cards with you."
She smiled faintly, eyes calm. "You'd lose."
Then, as the wind picked up again and blew the dust away from the corpses, Harriet gave a satisfied sigh and said, "You're really strong, Klara."
Klara didn't answer right away. She simply adjusted the string tying her notebook closed and replied, "My father wouldn't say that."
But Harriet, golden eyes warm and steady, just grinned. "Well, I'm not your father."
The sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the broken stone paths as Klara and Harriet walked side by side, heading back toward the battered colosseum that loomed in the distance. The faint hum of torches being lit echoed through the air as the underground levels stirred to life beneath the ancient structure.
Harriet wiped a bit of dried ichor from his shirt sleeve with a look of distaste. "I swear, these things get smellier every day."
Klara tilted her head, mildly amused. "Maybe you're just getting more sensitive."
"Could be," he said, grinning. "Or maybe I've spent too long near that infernal mess hall. It's started to ruin my sense of smell."
Klara chuckled under her breath. "Dinner's going to be awful again, isn't it?"
"You already know," Harriet replied, hands in his coat pockets, spectral arms still hovering faintly behind his shoulders. "Dry stew. Hard bread. That one meat nobody's sure comes from anything legal."
Klara gave a soft sigh. "I don't get why you keep eating there."
"Because I can't cook to save my life," he said plainly. "Burnt rice. Soup that turns into paste. Once I tried to make eggs and they exploded."
She blinked. "Exploded?"
"Pan caught fire. Whole thing turned into a mini battlefield." Harriet held out his hand and mimed a small blast with a wry grin. "I don't even have hands and I still managed to mess that up."
Klara shook her head, biting down a smile. "I cook for myself. Can't stand the public kitchen."
"You cook?" he asked, eyes widening slightly. "Wait, like… well?"
She glanced at him. "Better than exploded eggs."
"Damn. I should've stuck with you instead of the stew line."
"Too late now."
"Nah," he said, playfully bumping her shoulder with one of his ghostly hands. "I'll earn my invite. One ghoul-slaying mission at a time."
They walked in silence for a bit longer. The colosseum grew larger with every step, its towering arches lit dimly by flickering lanterns. From this distance, the cracks in its pillars and the wear in its bones looked almost like scars—etched into stone, but still standing.
Klara glanced at Harriet out of the corner of her eye. He was humming to himself softly, eyes forward, his expression unusually calm for someone who'd just thrown a hundred corpses into the dirt.
"You're strange," she said.
"Thanks?"
"No, I mean…" she paused, searching for the right words. "Most people down here stop trying after a while. They give up, or settle. You… don't. You punched people in the face yesterday, and today you carried the whole arena to the infirmary."
Harriet shrugged. "Well, if I'm not dead, then I'm improving, right?"
She didn't answer.
But something in the way she walked changed—less rigid, less guarded. The silence between them felt less like distance, more like understanding.
Up ahead, the colosseum gates creaked open. People milled about the entrances—some bruised, some joking loudly, some simply sitting with their heads lowered. A few waved at Harriet as he passed, casual but warm.
He waved back with a smile, his invisible hands mimicking the motion behind him like ghosts playing catch-up.
"Want to eat together?" he asked, glancing at her.
Klara shook her head. "I'll cook something. But thanks."
"No worries." He turned toward the lower halls. "I'll be in the warzone that is the public kitchen, then. If you hear a bang—"
"I'll assume it's just your eggs."
He laughed. "Exactly."
And then they parted, each heading down a separate hallway beneath the colosseum. Yet something lingered behind them—an unseen ripple in the stale air, a change not spoken aloud. As if the gloom that clung to Section 9 had, for a moment, pulled back just a little.
Not because someone demanded it.
But because someone simply walked forward.