The Solmaris Market—the beating heart of the city—throbbed wildly beneath the blazing sun of Aureveil. The sky burned cloudless, gripping the earth with a heat that bit into the skin. The air reeked of sweat, spices, and rot. Rows of stalls crammed into sooty alleys—shouts of merchants, laughter of traders, brays of donkeys, and the rumble of wooden wheels blended into a symphony of chaos.
Amid the frenzy, a small boy walked slowly, eyes sharp and watchful. His clothes were torn, knees bloodied, stomach growling loud. Malvin Blank, twelve years old—a name once praised... now forgotten by all.
He didn't come to the market to buy.
He came to steal—because that was the only way to survive.
With an empty belly and wounded feet, Malvin slipped between the stalls, absorbing the scene, inhaling the scent of food and opportunity. Sometimes he succeeded—a piece of hard bread, a sour fruit. Sometimes he failed—slapped, chased, or thrown out.
But he learned. From every failure, he learned.
Day by day, he honed his instincts. Learned to hold his breath, sneak without sound, read body language.
This world knew no mercy—so he could not afford to expect any.
In one failed attempt, he had to flee from a market guard. His body slammed into the stone wall of a narrow alley. Gasping for air, knees bleeding, heart broken.
And yet, just as his body wanted to give up...
That memory returned.
> "If you fall, get up. If your opponent is bigger, use space. Not every fight needs strength. Martial arts aren't for show—but to survive, and to protect."
The voice of his father—General Jack Blank—echoed in his mind.
Malvin closed his eyes for a moment. Drew a deep breath. Straightened his body. Lifted his chin.
He was no longer a noble's son.
No longer the heir of a great name.
But he was still alive.
And as long as he lived, he could fight.
From that day on, Malvin began repeating the lessons his father once taught—barehanded drills, balance techniques, ways to read the environment. In shadowed alleys, beneath stairways and pillars, he trained alone. Sometimes in the chill of night, sometimes under the harsh morning sun.
He trained his muscles, trained his breath, trained his focus.
And little by little, he adapted. Malvin learned which stalls were easiest to steal from, which guards had poor sight, the busiest hours, the best hiding spots. He no longer looked like a lost boy—but a shadow within a system that had forgotten he existed.
Two weeks passed.
Solmaris was still loud, still hot. But something had changed—not the city, but a small boy now standing at the edge of the market, by a worn-out fountain.
Malvin.
Once, his face was weary and his eyes dim. Now, a small smile curled on his lips, as if he carried a secret... or an ambition.
His body was still small, but stronger. His tattered clothes had been replaced—thanks to a carefully executed night of thievery. He now wore a loose ash-blue shirt tucked into black capri pants, slightly rolled at the hem. On his feet, an old pair of leather boots, laced and scuffed, yet sturdy enough to carry him forward.
He stood calmly, watching the market's chaos with eyes like a war strategist. The crowd passed him by, unaware of his presence—and that made him smile wider.
Within his heart, a voice spoke—not to the world,
but to himself:
"The streets are my stage."
And upon this stage, Malvin began to write his own role—no longer as a victim,
but as the leading act in a story that had only just begun.