The dump stretched as far as the eye could see. Rusted towers of scrap, valleys of twisted steel, and a haze of foul air that never lifted. It was a world built from the waste of the old one, poisoned and broken. For most people, it was only a prison. For Aureo Solen Asterin, it was home.
He had lived his whole life in the trash lands. He knew which heaps would shift if stepped on, which valleys trapped poisonous fog, and which ridges gave the best view of scavenger patrols. His body was lean and wiry, stronger than it looked. He wore a patched jacket that hid the golden tattoos running down both arms, ripple-shaped lines that glowed when he breathed with Hamon. His black curly hair often stuck out from under his hood, and his amber eyes glowed faintly in dim light—something he hid behind thick goggles whenever he went outside.
Most people in the trash lands scavenged to survive. Aureo and his father did the same, but their lives were different. They carried the Hamon, a power almost no one else remembered. It came from their tribe, long dead now, wiped out by time and circumstance. The Hamon Tribe had been small to begin with, and its last generations had dwindled until only Joran Asterin and his son Aureo remained.
Aureo's life was simple. Days were spent scavenging old heaps for scrap they could trade, or practicing his breathing drills, or repairing the shack they called home. Nights were spent listening to his father's stories about their ancestors. The Hamon Tribe had always passed their flow on before death, giving the next generation not only their Vital Instruments but also their life energy. Joran himself had been average once. He'd grown strong only after inheriting the Hamon of his own parents and grandparents. Aureo was the same now—average. He'd trained control and rhythm, but he hadn't yet been burdened with the power of others.
The shack was built against the side of a trash mound, reinforced with welded plates and scavenged wood. It wasn't much, but it kept the wind and fumes out most of the time. Inside, they had a cot, a table made from a door laid over crates, and a shelf with what little they owned: tools, water filters, scraps of food, and a few pieces of scavenged metal polished enough to act as mirrors.
Aureo woke early, as always, and adjusted his satchel strap across his chest. The bag was worn but sturdy, stitched with care. To him, it was just where he carried rope, seeds, bits of scrap, and food. He didn't know it was more. Not yet.
He found his father already awake, sitting on the cot with his mask off. Joran's face looked pale in the weak lamp light. The lines around his eyes had deepened, and every breath he took rattled faintly. Aureo hated the sound.
"You're up early again," Aureo said, lowering his mask.
"Couldn't sleep," Joran admitted with a dry smile. He coughed into his hand, then waved it off. "Old bones ache. Old lungs burn. That's how it is."
"You should rest more."
"I've been resting too long," Joran said. He looked at his son carefully, his eyes sharp even through fatigue. "Come here, Aureo. Sit."
Aureo crossed the room and sat opposite him. For a moment, they were quiet, only the creak of the shack and the wind outside filling the silence. Then Joran spoke again.
"It's time," he said simply.
Aureo frowned. "Time for what?"
"For me to pass it on." Joran gestured to his gloves—white, clean, folded neatly beside him. Beside them sat his old jacket and his reinforced boots, both humming faintly with the Hamon that had lived in them for decades. "The Hamon, the instruments. Everything. They'll be yours now."
"No," Aureo said immediately. His chest tightened. "Not yet. You can still fight. You've lasted this long."
"I've lasted longer than anyone had the right to," Joran said firmly. "The Hamon carried me past my limits, but the body breaks down eventually. The years of poisoned air, the beasts, the wounds—they add up. My time's over. Yours begins."
Aureo shook his head, his fists clenched. "I'm not ready."
Joran leaned forward, gripping Aureo's forearms with surprising strength. "You are. You've trained for this since the day you could breathe. You've kept the rhythm. You've learned the flow. You've carried average Hamon all your life so you could master control before carrying more. Now, you'll carry it all."
The glow of the lamp flickered across Joran's lined face. He pulled his gloves on one last time and rested his hands firmly on Aureo's arms. "Breathe with me. Four in. Hold two. Four out."
Aureo obeyed. He inhaled, counted, held, and exhaled. His tattoos glowed faintly as the rhythm steadied.
On the second cycle, warmth flowed from Joran's hands into Aureo's skin. By the fourth, it was stronger, pulsing with each breath. The golden ripple tattoos lit brighter, flowing like liquid light. Aureo's back prickled, the crest there—the three overlapping circles with the sun in the middle—glowing faintly under his jacket.
Joran's breath came shallower as he pushed more out. His body trembled, but he held the rhythm. On the sixth cycle, Aureo felt the weight of it—more Hamon than he had ever carried, steady and alive, filling his chest.
By the ninth cycle, Joran's strength was nearly gone. His hands shook, his breath rasped, but he forced one last surge of energy into his son. It hit like a flood, Aureo's body burning with power as his tattoos blazed gold.
Then Joran let go. His gloves slipped off and landed in Aureo's lap. He leaned back, chest rising weakly. His jacket and boots dimmed, the Hamon in them quieting until they too answered Aureo's breath instead.
"It's done," Joran whispered. "They're yours now."
Aureo gripped the gloves tightly. They pulsed against his palms. He stared at his father, shaking his head. "Don't leave me."
Joran gave a faint smile. "I'll stay in you. In your breath. In your flow. That's enough." His eyes softened. "Aureo Solen Asterin. My son. Last of the Hamon. Keep breathing."
His chest rose one last time, then stilled.
Aureo sat frozen, tears burning in his eyes. He pressed his hand against his father's chest, but there was no movement. No rhythm. The Hamon had left him. It was all in Aureo now.
The shack felt impossibly empty. Aureo pulled the gloves onto his hands. They fit perfectly, molding to him as if they had always belonged to him. He stood slowly, adjusting the jacket, lacing the shoes, all of them humming faintly with his breath. They were his now, part of him.
He gathered scrap and covered his father's body carefully. He set a broken pipe upright beside the cot and tied a strip of cloth around it as a marker. It wasn't a grave, but it would stand.
When it was done, Aureo stood in the doorway of the shack. He looked out over the endless trash fields. His chest felt heavy with grief, but stronger too, filled with more Hamon than he'd ever known. He touched the satchel at his side, still just a bag to him, and adjusted its strap.
He looked back one last time. "I'll keep breathing for the both of us." he whispered.
Then he pulled up his mask, tightened the straps, lowered his goggles over his glowing eyes, and stepped out into the world alone.