A boy, no older than thirteen, hung limply from cold, rusted chains bolted into the stone wall behind him. His arms ached. His body trembled. His lips were cracked, and his eyes, half-lidded from fatigue, fluttered open to a room blurred by pain and darkness. He didn't know how long he had been here—hours, days, maybe longer. The air was thick with rot and dampness, a metallic tang of old blood clinging to every breath he took.
With a slow, pained movement, he turned his head. That's when he saw them—two motionless figures slumped against the opposite wall, also bound in heavy chains.
His heart thudded. "Mother? Father!" he cried, voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "Can you hear me?"
No response.
Their heads hung low. They didn't stir, didn't flinch. Their stillness was unnatural.
"Please!" he shouted louder, mustering every ounce of strength left in his frail frame.
The sound of footsteps echoed. Two silhouettes emerged from the shadows of the corridor, cloaked in darkness. One of them moved swiftly, pressing a gloved hand over the boy's mouth.
"Quiet, brat," the figure hissed.
The other scoffed. "What's the point of shutting him up? Let's just kill him already."
"No," the hooded one snapped. "You idiot. Don't you know who this is?"
The second man blinked. "What are you talking about?"
"This boy—he's a direct descendant of Sergio. The Sergio. The legendary fighter whose strength could punch a hole clean through a man's chest. He was faster than thirty cheetahs combined. Raw power in human form. This boy has that blood. He's worth more than your miserable life."
A third voice spoke up from somewhere nearby. "So... do we contact Armin now?"
"Not yet," the hooded figure replied, more cautious now. "The boy doesn't know what he is. His powers are dormant. If we hand him over now, we're selling raw ore instead of a forged blade. We train him first. Then we deliver him to Armin. For triple the price."
There was a pause.
"I thought we were going to execute him," one of them admitted. "So I didn't feed him this whole time."
The hooded figure turned sharply. "Then restrain him properly. He can't die. Not yet."
Two of them grabbed the boy roughly, unhooking him from the wall and dragging his weak form through a dark corridor. They shoved open a door and threw him into a small, dim room. A single oil lamp cast flickering shadows across the cracked floor. One of the captors knelt beside him.
"What's your name, kid?"
The boy hesitated, blinking slowly. "...Radalf Carness."
"Radalf, huh?" the man muttered. "Weird name, but fine. I'm Castin."
Inwardly, Castin sneered. What kind of parents name their kid Radalf? No wonder we killed them.
Radalf shifted. "Can I… have something to eat?" he asked, voice barely audible. "And… my parents. Where are they?"
Castin stood up with a scoff, leaving without a word. Moments later, the hooded figure returned, setting down a small plate of stale bread and dried meat in front of the boy. Radalf stared at the food, then looked up at the hooded man.
"Eat. You'll need your strength soon," the figure said, turning to leave.
But in a blur of motion, the boy's fingers snapped the weakened cuffs at his wrists. In one fluid movement, he snatched the metal fork from the plate and lunged. The fork plunged into Castin's lower jaw, drawing a guttural scream as he stumbled back.
The boy didn't stop.
In the same breath, he turned and drove the fork deep into the hooded figure's throat. Blood sprayed across the floor as the man gurgled, choking, his eyes wide with shock before he collapsed.
Breathing hard, the boy stood still for a moment, surrounded by silence and blood. His muscles tensed, not from fear, but from clarity.
"My name is not Radalf Carness," he whispered, his voice steady. "My real name… is Azvik Sheath."
The stone corridors twisted like a maze, cold and narrow, lit by the flickering light of torches mounted on iron brackets. Azvik crept forward, barefoot and silent, every sense alert. The dagger in his hand felt too big and too small all at once—clumsy, but necessary.
He passed rusted doors and broken chains. He heard voices in the distance—guards, maybe—but he didn't turn back. He kept moving. Every step away from the room with his parents felt heavier, but he forced his legs forward. There was no time to mourn. Not yet.
After a few minutes of navigating the labyrinth, he found a stairwell winding upward. At the top, a thick wooden door. He pressed his ear against it.
Silence.
He pushed.
It creaked open into a courtyard bathed in moonlight. Cracked stone tiles stretched across the ground, and high walls encircled the space like a fortress. He could see the outline of guard towers above, unmanned for now.
A gap in the far wall—half-collapsed stone—offered the only way out.
Azvik sprinted.
He was halfway across when a sharp voice rang out behind him.
"Stop right there!"
He turned to see a figure in full armor, drawing a blade from his side.
Azvik's breath hitched. He tightened his grip on the dagger.
The man charged.
Azvik didn't think—he moved. Ducking low, he slid beneath the soldier's swing, his body acting faster than his mind. The man stumbled forward, and Azvik lunged, ramming the dagger upward into his exposed side. The soldier cried out, then fell.
Azvik stared at his hands, at the blood. His heart pounded, not from fear—but from something else. He wasn't just surviving. He was fighting back.
The moment didn't last long. Shouts echoed from the tower above.
He darted for the broken wall, scrambled up the jagged rubble, and leapt down the other side, rolling into the dirt.
The cold night air hit him like a wave.
Freedom.
He ran into the forest beyond, not knowing where he was going—only that he had to get far away. Trees blurred past him. Branches scratched his arms. His bare feet bled from stones and thorns.
Still, he didn't stop.
By dawn, he collapsed near a creek. He drank until his stomach ached, then fell to the ground, exhausted.
His dreams were filled with fire, chains, and a name whispered again and again: Sergio.
Sheath's breath came in sharp gasps as he stumbled into the abandoned outpost. The metallic clang of armored footsteps echoed behind him—steady, merciless. His only chance at survival was killing the man chasing him, but that seemed almost impossible. The soldier was a tank in steel—towering, heavily armored, and wielding a sword that could cleave Sheath in two with a single swing.
And Sheath? He had nothing but his bare hands.
Slamming the heavy metal door behind him, Sheath twisted the lock with trembling fingers. A loud click echoed through the base as the latch slid into place. Outside, the armored man rammed into the door, but the thick steel held firm. The structure groaned under the pressure, but didn't give.
Sheath backed away, heart pounding. He didn't have much time.
He raced through the dimly lit interior of the base, eyes scanning every room, kicking open doors and tearing open crates in a frenzy. Empty shelves. Broken chairs. Dust and old papers. Nothing he could use.
The pounding at the door grew louder. Louder. He could hear the armored man grunting, slamming against the entrance again and again. It wouldn't hold forever.
Sheath yanked open another door—nothing.
Then the last one.
Inside, leaning against the wall, was a shotgun—its barrel dusty but intact. Beside it, a combat blade, the kind used by soldiers for close-quarters fighting. His hands didn't hesitate. He grabbed them both.
With a deep breath, he turned back toward the door.
The moment he unlocked it, it burst open with a crash. The armored man stood on the threshold, sword in hand, eyes burning with fury behind his helm.
Sheath raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger.
BOOM.
The shot struck center mass. The armored man staggered back, a sharp grunt escaping him as smoke curled from his chestplate. The blast dented the armor but didn't pierce it completely.
He was wounded—but not dead.
The man roared and charged, blade gleaming under the flickering lights. Sheath barely raised his own blade in time to block the first swing. The clash of steel rang through the hall as he ducked, rolled, and parried again.
Despite the size difference, Sheath moved with surprising speed. The man's armor slowed him down, and Sheath used that to his advantage. He aimed low, sweeping at the soldier's legs, then high, striking at the shoulder joints. But nothing made it through.
Then he saw the dent—the spot where the shotgun had hit. The armor there was cracked, slightly open.
That was his target.
The soldier lunged again, bringing his blade down in a brutal arc. Sheath twisted aside and drove his knife forward, straight into the damaged section of the armor.
The blade slid in.
The man grunted, stumbling as blood bloomed from the wound.
Sheath didn't stop. He shoved deeper until the hilt met flesh. The armored man's sword dropped from his hand with a loud clang, but he wasn't done yet. Even wounded, he lunged forward, tackling Sheath to the ground.
They rolled across the floor, struggling.
Sheath's hands scrambled for the shotgun, just out of reach. The man raised a gauntleted fist, ready to crush his skull.
Sheath twisted, kicked, and finally got his fingers around the shotgun's grip.
He turned and pulled the trigger.
BOOM.
The shot tore into the man's side. This time, the blast was too much. The soldier let out a choked cry and collapsed backward, armor clanging against the floor.
He didn't move again.
Sheath lay there for a moment, staring up at the cracked ceiling, his chest heaving, his limbs numb.
He'd won.
He had killed a man twice his size, fully armored, and trained for war.
But there was no triumph in his eyes. Only exhaustion.
Slowly, he sat up and crawled over to the soldier's body. He placed a hand on the hilt of the blade still buried in the man's chest, then pulled it free with effort. Blood pooled on the floor, mixing with dust and ash.
Inside a sleek, dimly lit office, Armin sat behind a polished black desk. The room was silent, save for the quiet ticking of a clock on the wall. Papers were neatly arranged, and a steaming cup of tea sat untouched beside him.
His communicator buzzed.
Armin pressed a button, leaning back in his chair. "Report. Did you capture the boy?"
A tense voice crackled through the speaker. "Negative, sir. We… lost him."
Armin's eyes narrowed. "Lost him?"
"He killed all three operatives we sent."
Silence.
Then Armin spoke, his voice low, cold. "He killed them?"
"Yes, sir. He managed to escape and took them out in the process. One of them we found with his throat slit. The other two… we're still piecing together what happened."
Armin stood slowly, walking over to the window. Rain tapped softly against the glass.
"Do you have any idea how dangerous that boy is?" he said quietly. "He's not just some street rat. He's a direct descendant of Sergio. Blood like his isn't supposed to survive this long, let alone awaken."
He turned, his eyes sharp now. "And you sent me weaklings—men who couldn't even handle a thirteen-year-old?"
"Sir, they were trained operatives—"
"Trained poorly," Armin snapped. "A complete waste."
There was an uneasy pause on the other end. Then, the man added, "There is one thing—they succeeded in killing his parents."
Armin's expression shifted slightly. He walked back to his desk and sat down, folding his hands.
"Well," he said after a beat, "at least they did one thing right."
He ended the call with a flick of his wrist and sat in silence, staring into the distance.
A storm was coming—and the boy named Azvik Sheath was at the center of it.
And Armin had just made him angry.