Point of view: Lihan
The carriage finally stopped on the outskirts of Celes Street after several days of travel. Lihan had spent the time observing the changing landscape—from agricultural fields to dense forests, and finally to more urban and neglected terrain. The stories Joren had shared during the trip had not been encouraging: robberies in broad daylight, unexplained disappearances, a corrupt local guard that turned a blind eye to obvious crimes.
"This is where we part ways, boy," said Joren, turning from the driver's seat. His expression was serious, worried. "Be very careful in this place. Don't trust anyone too quickly, and keep your money well hidden. Understand?"
Lihan nodded, getting down from the carriage with his repaired backpack over his shoulder. "I understand. And thank you, Joren. For everything. I wouldn't have made it this far without you."
The carriage driver—an older, silent man who had barely spoken during the entire trip—gave Lihan a farewell gesture with his head. There was something of respect in that simple movement, as if he recognized the bravery (or perhaps the madness) of someone so young venturing alone into a place like this.
"Take care, young Lihan," Joren finally said, extending his hand. Lihan shook it firmly. "And if you ever return to Solvanta, look for me. I'd like to know you survived this place."
"I will," Lihan promised with a smile he didn't quite feel.
He watched as the carriage pulled away, the wheels creaking on the compacted dirt road until it finally disappeared around a curve. Only then did he turn to face Celes Street proper.
The city—if it could be called that—was a labyrinth of narrow alleys and deteriorated buildings. The architecture was a chaotic mix of styles, as if different cultures had built without any cohesive plan. Some structures were of ancient, cracked stone, others of rotting wood that barely held up. The streets were full of people who moved with purpose but without joy, their faces marked by distrust and weariness.
Definitely not Solvanta, Lihan thought with a touch of nostalgia for the warm and grateful town he had left behind.
The first thing he needed was a place to stay. He walked down the main street—if this path barely wider than the surrounding alleys could be called main—looking for some inn that didn't look completely in ruins.
Finally, he found one: "The Rusty Dagger." The name didn't inspire confidence, and the two-story building with peeling paint and a door that hung slightly crooked on its hinges didn't help either. But the windows had light, which suggested it was at least operational, and there was a sign that proclaimed "Rooms Available - Low Prices."
Low prices are what I need, Lihan thought, mentally checking his coin purse. The hundred gold pieces from the Solvanta reward were a decent sum, but he needed to be careful with his spending if he wanted to reach Neothalis and still have enough for equipment.
He entered the inn, the door creaking loudly to announce his arrival. The interior was... exactly what he expected. Dark, smelling of stale beer and something else he preferred not to identify. There were some tables scattered around what served as a common area, occupied by rough-looking men who watched him with interest when he entered.
Lihan kept his expression neutral, though his hand instinctively slid toward where he normally carried his sword. Damn, I need to get a new weapon soon.
The innkeeper was a corpulent man with a greasy beard and small eyes that evaluated Lihan as if calculating how much money he could extract from him. Or perhaps how much he'd be worth on the black market. The thought sent a chill down Lihan's spine.
"Need a room, boy?" asked the innkeeper in a rough voice.
"Yes. One night," Lihan responded firmly, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
"Ten copper pieces."
It was cheap—suspiciously cheap. But Lihan wasn't in a position to be demanding. He took the coins from his inner bag (being careful not to show how much more he had) and placed them on the counter.
The innkeeper swept them up with a fat hand, then handed him a rusty iron key. "Second floor, third door on the left. Don't make noise, don't bring trouble, and don't expect room service."
"Understood," Lihan said, taking the key.
He climbed the stairs—which creaked dangerously under his weight—to the second floor. The hallway was narrow and poorly lit, with doors on both sides. He could hear muffled voices behind some, and something that sounded disturbingly like sobbing from another.
Don't think about that now, he told himself firmly. You can't save everyone. First, you need to make sure you can save yourself.
He found his room and opened the door. The interior was... functional, he supposed. A narrow bed with questionable-looking sheets, a nightstand with a half-melted candle, and a small window with wooden shutters. There was no internal lock on the door, which was concerning.
I've slept in worse places, Lihan reminded himself, thinking of the times he had camped outdoors during missions, sleeping on the ground with only a thin blanket between him and the cold earth. At least here, there was a roof and walls.
He left his backpack on the bed, checking that the magic glove that concealed his transformed arm was still secure. The glove was simple but effective—matte black, made of some material that the Solvanta villagers had enchanted to create an illusion of normalcy. When he wore it, his volcanic rock arm looked like a common human arm. It wasn't perfect—if someone touched it, they would feel the strange texture and heat—but from a distance, it worked well.
I need to find something better in Neothalis, he thought, observing how the glowing cracks were barely visible through the illusion enchantment. Something more permanent.
He decided not to stay in the room longer than necessary. This place put his nerves on edge, and the faster he got what he needed and found transportation to Neothalis, the better.
First on his list: a sword.
The smithy was in a slightly better part of Celes Street—"better" being relative, of course. At least the buildings here seemed structurally sound, and there were fewer people lurking in the shadows with questionable intentions.
The sign above the door simply said "Steel and Fire," with an image of a hammer striking an anvil. When Lihan entered, he was greeted by the familiar heat of an active forge and the rhythmic sound of metal being hammered.
The blacksmith was a middle-aged man with arms like tree trunks and a trimmed gray beard. He looked up when Lihan entered, his eyes quickly assessing him before nodding with approval—probably recognizing a real adventurer instead of some local delinquent pretending to be tough.
"Looking for a weapon, boy?" asked the blacksmith, his voice hoarse probably from years of inhaling forge smoke.
"Yes. A sword. Something balanced, good for versatile combat," Lihan responded, approaching the counter where several weapons were displayed.
The blacksmith grunted with approval. "You know what you want. That's good. Too many idiots come in here asking for 'the biggest sword' or 'the most intimidating looking one.' Then they wonder why they can't balance it properly." He gestured toward a wall where several swords hung. "Try them. See which one feels right."
Lihan spent the next few minutes trying different swords. Some were too heavy, designed for warriors who depended on brute strength. Others were too light, more appropriate for elegant fencing than the hard combat he regularly faced. He needed something in between—something that could handle both powerful strikes and quick movements.
Finally, his fingers closed around the handle of a sword that felt... right.
It was a bastard sword—long enough to be used with two hands when he needed power, but balanced enough to wield it with one hand if the situation required it. The blade was simple but well-forged steel, without unnecessary adornments. Approximately one meter in length, with an edge that gleamed under the forge light. The handle was wrapped in worn but well-maintained leather, with a round pommel that could be used as a blunt weapon in close combat if necessary.
He raised it, spinning it experimentally. The weight was perfect—he could feel how it responded to his movements, like an extension of his own arm. He made some practice cuts, and the balance was exactly what he needed.
"That's a good choice," commented the blacksmith, observing with an expert eye. "I forged it myself a few months ago. Good steel, solid temper. It won't break on your first serious fight, I guarantee that."
"Does it have a name?" Lihan asked, though he knew it was a strange question. Only legendary swords had names, after all.
The blacksmith let out a rough laugh. "I'm not that pretentious. But if you want to give it one, go ahead. Weapons acquire personality with use. Maybe after a few battles, you'll know what to call it."
Lihan nodded, feeling a connection with the blade. Ash Steel, he suddenly thought, the name appearing in his mind as if it had always been there. Maybe it was because of his transformed arm, because of the ashes of the Fire Colossus that were now part of him. Or maybe it was because this sword represented a new beginning—reborn from the ashes of his previous weakness.
"How much?" Lihan asked, returning his attention to the blacksmith.
"Twenty gold pieces."
It was a fair price—neither inflated nor suspiciously cheap. Lihan counted the coins and placed them on the counter. The blacksmith checked them, then nodded with satisfaction before handing over a simple leather sheath for the sword.
"Take good care of it, and it will take care of you," said the blacksmith as Lihan secured the sword to his hip. The familiar weight was comforting, filling a void he had felt since his previous weapon melted in the dungeon.
"I will. Thank you," Lihan responded sincerely.
He left the smithy feeling more complete, more prepared. But he still needed armor—his current clothing offered no real protection—and probably some potions if he could find a trustworthy alchemist in this place.
One step at a time, he told himself as he walked through the streets of Celes Street, his hand resting comfortably on the pommel of Ash Steel.
Point of view: ???
The woman moved like a shadow through the alleys of Celes Street, her steps so silent that not even the rats that infested the place detected her. She wore an outfit designed for both mobility and intimidation—a tight burgundy top that left her toned abdomen exposed, black tactical pants with multiple pockets and straps, and knee-high combat boots that had stepped on more blood than she'd like to admit. A dark hood partially covered her face, casting shadows that concealed her features except for her eyes—eyes with heterochromia, one golden like gold and the other gray so light they seemed like the moon under the dim light.
(Imagen)
Her name was Kara, though she had used so many aliases in recent months that she sometimes forgot which was real. Rank A adventurer, Assassin class, and currently pursuing something much more personal than any official guild mission.
Slavers. Human traffickers. The most despicable pieces of shit that walked this earth.
Kara had been tracking them for months, following leads, eliminating buyers and sellers one by one. Each death brought her one step closer to the source—to the slave market operating somewhere in this rotten city. And every day that passed, more women disappeared. More lives ruined, more families shattered.
And Lyra, she thought bitterly. Commander Lyra, the only local knight she could trust. Disappeared three weeks ago without a trace.
Lyra had been her contact, the only one in the local guard who actually cared about the disappearances. They had worked together, sharing information, planning how to expose the trafficking network. And then one day, Lyra simply... was gone. Nobody, no note, nothing. As if she had never existed.
Kara knew what that meant. Lyra had been captured. She was probably in that damn slave market right now, maybe already sold, maybe worse.
I'll find her, Kara promised herself as she followed the shadows. I'll find her and get her out. And then I'll burn that place to the ground.
But first she needed to find it. And the man she had been following tonight—a mid-level slaver according to her intelligence—was going to lead her straight there. Or at least she hoped so.
The slaver—a thin, nervous type who kept looking over his shoulder—finally turned into a particularly dark alley. Kara frowned. It was too obvious, too convenient. Her instincts screamed that something was wrong.
But she had come too far to turn back now.
She slipped into the alley, her twin daggers—Whisper and Bite, she called them—already in her hands. The slaver had disappeared, but that wasn't unexpected. There was probably a hidden door or—
The air changed.
Years of training saved her life. Kara threw herself to the side just as something massive flew past where her head had been a second before. She felt the impact on her shoulder—not direct, just a graze, but enough to send waves of pain through her arm.
She rolled, recovering her balance and turning to face her attacker.
Saint Father.
The man facing her was a monster. There was no other word to describe him. He was easily over 190 centimeters, maybe pushing two meters, with a muscular structure that would have made even the most dedicated warriors feel inadequate. He wasn't bulky in a clumsy way—every muscle was defined, sculpted, as if he had been carved from stone by an artist obsessed with physical perfection.
He had short black hair, almost shaved in a military style, which accentuated the hard angles of his face. A square jaw, prominent cheekbones, and eyes of a cold gray that looked at her with a mixture of amusement and something much darker. He wore simple clothes—a black sleeveless shirt that showed arms the size of her thighs, combat pants, and heavy boots.
And the way he looked at her...
Kara had seen lust before. She had seen men undress her with their gaze, had dealt with unwanted advances more times than she could count. But this was different. This was possessive, predatory, as if he had already bought and paid for her and was just deciding how to play with his new acquisition.
"Well, well, well," said the man, his deep voice resonating in the narrow alley. A smile spread across his face, revealing perfectly white teeth. "So you're the little rat that's been causing so much trouble."
Kara didn't respond, assessing her position. The alley had only one exit—behind the man. The walls were too high to climb quickly. It was a perfect trap.
Damn. I should have known.
"You've killed quite a few of our buyers," the man continued, beginning to walk slowly toward her. He was in no hurry, knowing she had nowhere to go. "And some sellers, too. That's... annoying. Bad for business, you know?"
"Good," Kara spat, adjusting her grip on her daggers. "That was exactly the intention."
The man laughed—a deep and genuinely amused sound. "You've got guts, I'll admit that. Though..." his gaze slowly slid over her body, stopping at places that made Kara's skin crawl, "seeing that you're such a... well-endowed woman, I think you'll be an excellent product. Probably worth quite a bit on the market. Especially if we train you properly first."
White fury exploded in Kara's chest. So that's how it's going to be.
"Go fuck yourself," she hissed and attacked.
She moved fast—faster than most people could follow. Her daggers were extensions of her will, cutting toward vital points with deadly precision. She had killed men bigger than her, had defeated opponents who theoretically should have overpowered her.
But this man...
He blocked her first dagger with his forearm—the metal bounced off the protection on his skin, and from the sound it made, it must have hit steel. Her second dagger found air when he moved with speed that contradicted his massive size. It was obvious he was playing, using only the essentials of his strength and speed to keep her at bay.
"Come on, you can do better than that," the man mocked, still not drawing the sword hanging from his hip.
Kara channeled magic through her body—strengthening enchantment, one of the basics that every rank A adventurer mastered. She felt her muscles harden, her speed increase. She attacked again, a series of quick strikes designed to overwhelm his defense.
None connected.
The man moved with condescending grace, blocking or dodging each attack with frustrating ease. And occasionally, his left hand shot out, not for a knockout blow, but for calculated touches—a superficial strike on the cheek, a controlled punch to the side of her thigh, a momentary grip on her wrist that was too long.
Each time his fist made contact, Kara felt something strange. A... soft, warm weakness spreading from the impact points. A strange tingling that made her movements a little slower, a little less precise. Her determination, once a furious flame, now flickered like a candle in a soft breeze. A part of her felt that resisting was too much work, that simply stopping would be a relief. And with each touch, that feeling became sweeter, more tempting.
What the hell am I thinking?
The fight continued for what seemed like ages, though it couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes. She fought with the desperation of knowing she was being slowly subdued, not by brute force but by an insidious poison affecting her will. The man laughed from time to time, the deep and resonant sound sending chills through her body.
Finally, they separated. Kara was panting, bleeding from several superficial cuts, her clothing torn in places. The man was barely breathing hard, his expression one of mildly satisfied boredom.
"Alright, enough playing," said the man, and this time there was something more serious in his voice, the tone of an owner who has finally put on a leash. "I'll tell you what—you've impressed me. Not many women last this long against me. So I'll give you a choice: surrender now, and I'll be gentle when I process you. Resist, and... well, there are buyers who pay extra for damaged products."
Kara felt the word "surrender" resonate in her mind, and to her horror, a considerable part of her wanted to do it. Wanted to simply... stop. The warmth of numbness, the idea of not having to fight anymore, was incredibly seductive. It would be easier, after all. Why keep resisting when I'm clearly outmatched?
NO. She shook her head violently, rejecting that thought. That's not mine. He's doing something.
"What... what are you doing to me?" she demanded, trying to keep her voice firm despite the growing feeling of defeat in her chest.
The man smiled broadly, the gesture sending a chill that was no longer just fear. "Ah, you noticed. Smart. I have a gift, you see? Special magic that makes women lose their will to fight. Makes them more... malleable. More submissive to male orders." He shrugged casually, his possessive gaze traveling over her body. "It only works with physical contact, but once I've touched you enough times..."
Icy horror ran through Kara's veins. That explained why she felt so... weak. Why does each blow make it harder to gather her determination? This bastard was mentally manipulating her with each touch.
Lyra, she suddenly thought. If they captured her using the same method...
She didn't have time to finish that thought. The man advanced again, and this time he wasn't playing. His fist crashed into her stomach with devastating force.
Kara felt something crack inside her—ribs, definitely broken ribs. She flew backward, her back hitting the stone wall of the dead-end alley with an impact that made lights explode behind her eyes.
She collapsed to the ground, coughing up saliva. The will to fight... was simply gone. She couldn't muster the strength to get up, to wield her daggers, to do anything except look with helpless fury as the man approached, feeling the pleasant surrender spread through her body.
(Imagen)
"There we go," he said with satisfaction. "Much better. Now, I just need to—"
The sound of steel cutting air interrupted his words.
The man moved by pure instinct, leaning back as a sword passed right where his neck had been a second before. The blade still managed to connect, opening a deep cut on his shoulder that began to bleed profusely.
"SHIT!" the man roared, jumping back and pressing a hand against his wound. Blood dripped between his fingers. His eyes, previously amused, now burned with fury. "WHO THE FUCK—!?"
Kara looked up, her vision still a bit blurry, to see her savior.
He was young—probably a teenager who maybe hadn't reached eighteen years old. Average height, slim but clearly trained build. Disheveled black hair that fell over emerald green eyes that now gleamed with intense fury. He wore simple traveling clothes, a red scarf wrapped around his neck, and held a bastard sword in a perfect guard.
But what most caught her attention was his expression. There was no doubt, no fear. Only pure, unadulterated fury—the kind of anger that comes from witnessing something absolutely unforgivable.
"HOW DARE YOU INTERRUPT?!" shouted the slaver, his face twisting with rage. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT I DO TO IDIOTS WHO GET IN MY BUSINESS?!"
The young man didn't back down. Instead, he stepped forward, his sword pointing directly at the larger man's chest.
"YOU!" he shouted with a voice that trembled with barely contained emotion. "I don't know who the fuck you are, but I saw your look! The way you look at this woman!" His grip on the sword tightened until his knuckles turned white. "It makes me want to VOMIT!"
The slaver blinked, momentarily surprised by the pure intensity of the boy's response. Then he laughed—a harsh, mocking laugh.
"Really? Are you going to get all heroic over a whore you don't even know? Kid, you have no idea what you're getting into."
There was a moment of tension, the alley falling silent except for the drip of blood from the slaver's shoulder and Kara's labored breathing.
Then the young man looked at her—really looked at her, not in the lascivious and possessive way of the slaver, but with genuine concern. And he gave her a smile.
It was a warm, reassuring smile, the kind of smile that promised everything would be okay. And in that moment, a wave of warmth spread through her chest, momentarily overcoming the cold sweetness of the slaver's magic. A feeling of hope and relief that had nothing to do with her broken ribs.
He's... cute, Kara thought dazedly, feeling a blush on her cheeks, the silly thought providing a necessary anchor in the chaos. But it was true—there was something genuinely attractive about this young stranger who had jumped to defend her without hesitation.
"Don't worry," said the young man, his voice now gentle when addressing her. "I'll protect you. I promise. With my life if necessary."
The slaver snorted. "Big words for someone so small. Very well, kid. If you want to die being a hero, I'll be happy to oblige!"
He lunged forward, his massive fist seeking to crush the young intruder.
The young man planted himself firmly, his sword raised, and his expression changed from reassuring to fiercely determined.
The battle was about to begin.
And Kara, despite her battered condition, couldn't help but feel a spark of hope ignite in her chest.
Maybe... maybe this isn't over after all.
.
Point of view: Lihan (Flashback - 30 minutes earlier)
After securing Ash Steel to his hip, Lihan had spent the next hour buying the rest of what he needed. Light armor—nothing too heavy that would limit his mobility, just a reinforced leather breastplate and protectors for his arms and legs. Some basic healing potions from an alchemist who seemed only marginally less suspicious than everything else in this city. A new canteen. Some travel rations just in case.
By the time he finished his purchases, the sun had set completely, plunging Celes Street into a darkness that somehow made the place feel even more dangerous. The street lamps were few and far between, creating pools of light surrounded by deep shadows.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since the breakfast Marta had prepared in Solvanta. He followed his nose to a street food stall selling something advertised as "Spiced Meat Sandwiches."
The vendor was a middle-aged man with a scar running down his left cheek and an expression suggesting he had seen too much shit to worry about much more.
"How much?" Lihan asked.
"Five coppers."
Lihan paid for and received a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper. He walked away from the stall before unwrapping it—he didn't want the vendor to see his reaction if it turned out to be terrible.
To his surprise, it was actually... decent. The meat was a bit tough and the spices were strong enough to hide any freshness issues, but he'd eaten worse. He leaned against a wall, savoring the food while observing the flow of people on the street.
Celes Street at night was a different place. Honest people had retreated to their homes, leaving the streets to those who thrived in darkness. He saw exchanges that clearly involved illegal goods, heard whispered conversations about jobs and targets, and noticed the way certain individuals moved with the confidence of those who knew the laws didn't apply to them.
This place is rotten to the core, Lihan thought grimly, taking another bite of his sandwich. How is it that no one has cleaned this up?
But he knew the answer. Places like Celes Street existed because the people in power didn't care. Or worse, because they benefited from the chaos and illegality.
He finished his meal, wiping his hands on a rag the vendor had included. He was about to head back to the inn when something stopped him.
A feeling. A tingling at the back of his neck that he had learned to never ignore.
Something is wrong.
He couldn't explain it rationally. He hadn't seen or heard anything specific that triggered the alarm. But years of surviving dangerous situations had honed his instincts to an almost supernatural point. Rei always said he had the luck of a stray cat—able to sense danger before it materialized.
Lihan followed that feeling, moving almost on autopilot as his feet took him through side streets and alleys. The feeling grew stronger, more urgent.
This way. Something is happening this way.
He turned a corner and finally saw it—or rather, them.
A massive man—the kind of physique that made professional warriors look like children—was standing over a knocked-down woman. And the way he looked at her...
Lihan's stomach churned.
That look. He knew it. He had seen it in his visions, in those nightmares the dungeon had shown him.
It was the same look the prince had given Rei. The same predatory, possessive look that reduced a person to nothing more than an object to be used and discarded.
It was the same look Trent probably had when no one was watching.
Something in Lihan broke.
He didn't think. He didn't plan. He simply acted.
Ash Steel came out of its sheath with a hiss of steel against leather. He closed the distance in seconds—faster than he had run in his life. His target was simple: the bastard's head. Clean decapitation. Instant end.
The man moved at the last second—combat instinct, probably—but not fast enough. Lihan's blade found flesh, cutting deep into the man's shoulder and opening a wound that immediately began to bleed.
The man's roar of pain and surprise was music to Lihan's ears.
"WHO THE FUCK—!?" The man turned, pressing a hand against his bleeding shoulder, his eyes searching for his attacker.
And Lihan didn't back down. He stepped forward, his sword pointing at the bastard's heart, and let all his fury out.
"HOW DARE YOU INTERRUPT?!" shouted the man, his face twisting with rage. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT I DO TO IDIOTS WHO GET IN MY BUSINESS?!"
"YOU!" Lihan shouted back, each word loaded with months of repressed frustration, fear and determination. "I don't know who the fuck you are, but I saw your look! The way you look at this woman!"
Like the prince looked at Rei. Like Trent probably looks at women when he thinks no one sees.
"It makes me want to VOMIT!"
The man laughed—really laughed—as if this was all some kind of joke.
"Really? Are you going to get all heroic over a whore you don't even know? Kid, you have no idea what you're getting into."
Lihan looked at the woman—really looked at her for the first time. She was beautiful, even battered and bleeding. Dark hair that fell over heterochromatic eyes that looked at him with a mixture of surprise and something else he couldn't identify. Her clothing was designed for combat, and the daggers lying nearby suggested she was a capable fighter.
She was overpowered, he realized. Whoever this bastard is, he's strong. And knowing my bad luck, this piece of shit is probably stronger than me.
But it didn't matter.
He gave the woman a smile—the reassuring smile Ashe always gave him when he was scared before a difficult mission. The smile that said, "Everything's going to be okay, trust me."
"Don't worry," Lihan said, keeping his voice firm. "I'll protect you. I promise. With my life if necessary."
And he meant it. Every word.
Because if he couldn't protect this unknown woman from this bastard, how could he protect Rei and Ashe from Trent? From the prince? From any of the nightmares he had seen?
This is my test, he realized. My first real test since I left that dungeon.
The slaver snorted. "Big words for someone so small. Very well, kid. If you want to die being a hero, I'll be happy to oblige!"
He lunged forward.
And Lihan, holding Ash Steel with both hands, planted himself firmly and prepared for the fight of his life.
For Rei. For Ashe. For this woman, I don't even know.
I won't lose.
I CAN'T LOSE!
The slaver's fist rushed toward him like a falling hammer.
And Lihan, with a shout of defiance, launched forward to meet it.
.
.
.
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