The streets of Melromarc were louder outside the castle walls.
Vendors shouted. Horses clattered across cobblestone. The smell of iron, sweat, and roasted meat mixed in the air.
At the center of it walked Flint Marko, the Shield Hero.
Beside him, Myne moved gracefully, pointing toward shop signs.
"We should start with equipment," she said sweetly. "Even if you're defensive, you'll need proper gear."
Flint grunted.
"I've handled worse without armor."
She laughed lightly, though her eyes studied him.
"That may be true… but this world is different."
He knew that.
And he didn't trust her insistence.
Still, preparation wasn't weakness.
They turned down a narrower street toward a blacksmith's forge. The steady clang of hammer on metal rang through the air.
That's when Flint saw her.
A small demi-human girl — no older than ten — straining against a cart piled high with crates. Her animal-like ears drooped with exhaustion. A heavy iron collar circled her neck.
A man walking behind her cracked a whip in the air.
"Move, you filthy beast!"
The whip lashed.
It didn't strike hard — not this time.
But it didn't need to.
The flinch said enough.
Flint stopped walking.
The street noise seemed to dull.
Myne glanced at him. "Oh… just a demi-human slave. It's normal here."
Normal.
The word landed wrong.
The man raised his hand again.
He never got the chance.
The Intervention
Flint crossed the street in three long strides.
He didn't transform.
Didn't let sand slip from his skin.
Didn't reveal anything unnatural.
He simply grabbed the man's wrist mid-swing.
The crack of the whip froze in the air.
The man snarled. "What do you think you're doing?! She's my property!"
Flint squeezed.
Just enough.
The bones in the man's wrist creaked audibly.
"I don't care what she is," Flint said quietly.
His voice wasn't loud.
But it carried weight.
"You don't raise your hand like that."
The man tried to pull away.
He couldn't.
Flint's grip tightened slightly more.
The threat wasn't flashy.
It wasn't magical.
It was the quiet understanding that if this went further—
The man would lose more than pride.
People had begun to gather.
Whispers spread.
"That's the Shield Hero…"
"What's he doing?"
The little demi-human girl stared up at him, wide-eyed.
Fear.
But something else too.
Confusion.
No one usually stepped in.
The Line in the Sand
The man's voice cracked. "I-I can report you! Slaves are legal!"
Flint leaned in closer.
"So is walking away."
He released the wrist abruptly.
The man stumbled back, clutching it.
For a moment, pride battled survival in his eyes.
Survival won.
He spat on the ground and backed away into the crowd, muttering curses.
The cart stood still.
The girl didn't move.
Myne stepped up beside Flint, her expression tight.
"That was reckless," she said softly. "You can't challenge local customs so openly."
Flint didn't look at her.
"Funny thing about customs," he replied. "They change."
He knelt in front of the girl.
"What's your name?"
She hesitated.
Then whispered it.
He noticed the iron collar again.
Felt something old and dangerous stir beneath his skin.
In another life, he'd been called a criminal.
A monster.
He knew what it felt like to wear a label that chained you.
He stood slowly.
To Myne, he said, "Blacksmith can wait."
Her smile faltered slightly.
"And what exactly are you planning, Sir Shield?"
Flint's eyes drifted toward the distant sign of a slave crest merchant's building.
"Let's just say," he murmured, sand shifting faintly beneath his boots without anyone noticing,
"I don't like kids pulling chains."
The forge sign creaked above the street.
Myne folded her hands neatly. "I'll go ahead and speak with the blacksmith. You handle… whatever this is."
Her smile was polite.
Measured.
Flint didn't argue.
"Meet me inside in a few minutes," he said.
She studied him for a second longer — calculating — then turned and entered the forge.
The door shut.
The street noise returned.
And Flint Marko turned back toward the slave driver.
The man hadn't gone far.
He stood near the cart, rubbing his wrist, muttering under his breath.
When he saw Flint approaching again, he stiffened.
"What now?" he snapped, trying to recover bravado. "You made your point."
Flint didn't answer immediately.
The Shield was still there.
It always was.
Strapped to his arm.
Heavy.
Unremovable.
No matter how much he flexed his hand or shifted his wrist, it remained fused to him — a reminder of the rules of this world.
He couldn't just walk away from it.
Just like he couldn't walk away from this.
He stopped inches from the man.
"You got paperwork for her?" Flint asked.
The man blinked. "Of course I do."
"Good."
Flint's voice lowered.
"Because if I see that whip touch her again… I'll start asking questions. Loud ones."
The man scoffed. "You think you can threaten me? You're the Shield Hero. You can't even attack."
A few nearby onlookers chuckled nervously.
Flint slowly raised his shield arm.
The metal caught the sunlight.
"I don't need to attack."
His free hand tightened into a fist.
The cobblestones beneath his boots gave the faintest crack — just a subtle shift, like the ground itself had flinched.
He didn't transform.
Didn't let sand spill from his skin.
But the threat was there.
Contained.
The man felt it.
Felt that if this escalated, legality wouldn't matter.
And neither would witnesses.
Flint leaned closer.
"You're going to take that collar off."
Silence.
The man swallowed. "That's property of the crown's system—"
Flint took one step forward.
The man took two back.
"Take. It. Off."
The words weren't loud.
They didn't need to be.
After a long, tense moment, the man fumbled for a key at his belt.
The small demi-human girl stood frozen as he unlocked the iron collar.
It fell into his trembling hands.
"Fine," he hissed. "She's useless anyway."
Flint's jaw tightened — but he didn't rise to the bait.
The man shoved the key back into his pocket and disappeared into the crowd, pride shattered but body intact.
The girl rubbed her neck where the collar had been.
She didn't run.
She didn't speak.
She just looked at Flint's shield.
Then up at him.
"You're… a hero?" she asked quietly.
He looked down at the weapon attached to his arm.
"Guess so."
He crouched to her level.
"What's your name?"
She told him.
He nodded once.
"You got anywhere to go?"
A small shake of her head.
Flint stood slowly.
The kingdom would notice this.
Myne would definitely notice this.
A Shield Hero interfering with the slave system? That wasn't going to stay quiet.
Good.
He glanced toward the slave merchant district in the distance.
Then toward the castle's towers rising over the city.
They thought he was the weakest hero.
Defenseless.
Limited.
They were half right.
He couldn't remove the shield.
Couldn't swing a sword.
Couldn't cast flashy spells.
But defense?
Defense meant endurance.
And endurance meant time.
Time to watch.
Time to plan.
Time to dismantle something rotten from the inside.
He looked down at the girl again.
"Stay close to the forge for now," he told her gently. "Don't wander."
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
As he turned toward the blacksmith's door, his mind was already moving.
If the kingdom ran on slaves—
Then the shield wouldn't just protect villages from Waves.
It would protect those the kingdom stepped on.
And if that made him enemies?
So be it.
The door to the forge creaked open.
Myne looked up from inside, smiling as if nothing had happened.
"Everything handled?" she asked sweetly.
Flint stepped into the heat of the forge, shield gleaming in the firelight.
"Yeah," he said evenly.
"For now."
But this wasn't over.
Not even close.
The forge doors closed behind them with a heavy thud.
New leather armor rested over Flint's broad shoulders. It wasn't flashy — just reinforced straps, hardened padding, and a belt for supplies. The shield, as always, remained fused to his arm, metal gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
Myne walked slightly ahead, cheerful once more.
"We should gain experience quickly," she said. "The others are already training outside the castle walls."
Flint adjusted the strap across his chest.
He didn't answer.
Behind them, small footsteps pattered against the dirt road.
The little dog demi-human — Shiva — followed quietly. She kept a careful distance, as if afraid she'd be told to leave.
Flint didn't tell her to go.