[APOILLITIS]
A cool winter chill permeates the air, tall spires pierce the night sky, their surfaces alit with neon lights and advertisement boards of differing companies. Pedestrians walk on the sandstone-carved footwalks, their faces glued to their devices. The scent of sizzling roasted meat drifts from street vendors, tempting even the most focused passersby.
But the further we venture into the deeper darker alleyways of Apoilitus we find ourselves standing in front of a rusty manhole that goes into "that" part of the city—and by "that" we mean "the" underground.
The underground is where all sorts of illegal dealings, and assassinations are commissioned, it's the hub for human organ trade, the purchase of banned equipment and banned tidings are held, and it's the place where the scummiest of scum lurk.
Barry—-was one of such scum, a lackey of the Beggar King, his face was marred to the brim with acne and pimples, and a fair share of fat gave him the hideous effect of having three chins—-a patchy joke of a beard only adding on to his "grandeur".
Today marked the fifth year that Barry had started working for the Beggar King and it had been nothing short of a blessing for him to say the least. Kidnap a few runts and ship them off? Easy enough for a goon like him.
Barry strolls through the dim chamber, his patchy lips curling into a devious sneer as his lecherous beady eyes glance at the fresh stock of kidnapped children tied together in lumps behind a makeshift prison cell.
As the man approaches the children tremble their tiny bodies shivering and huddling together.
The cell door opens with a clatter as Barry walks in and looks down at them.
"Too skinny... ugh." He nudges a frail-looking boy with the toe of his boot, making him flinch. "This one? Pathetic. But oh you sweetheart—" Barry crouches, gripping a little girl's chin, forcing him to look up. "Yeah, you got the look. Big, watery eyes. I'm sure you'll bring in massive profits." He snickers. Tears begin pouring out of the little girl's eyes as she tries her best to stifle her sobs.
"D-d-don't t-t-t-touch her,"
"Huh." the goon mutters dumbly, glancing in the direction from where he heard the voice.
But his expression soon turns into one of amusement when he sees that the squeak had belonged to the same frail-looking boy he had nudged earlier.
"A little fight in you now eh dipshit." he grins disgustingly.
The frail-looking boy stumbles back, his face full of fear, his teeth biting his tongue as he curses himself for having spoken.
Of course, this tiny show of fear does not go unnoticed by Barry as his wicked eyes shine sadistically.
"Righ' then, let this be a message for the rest of you fuckers on talking back to yer elders."
He grabs the boy by his ear and drags him out of the cell.
Oh how the boss loves "disciplining" rebellious brats when they resist
**********
Barry strolls through the dim corridor arriving at a massive door, the frail boy in tow, whimpering as his ear is roughly gripped having been literally dragged across the disgusting floor.
The goon taps his knuckles against the heavy wood, a dull thud echoing through the chamber. A muffled voice from inside grumbled before the door groaned open, revealing the Boss's chamber as well as the man himself—Beggar King, Aziroth.
The stench of old sweat, rotting food, and cheap alcohol filled the air. Atop his throne of stolen wealth, Aziroth lounged, his bulbous form half-draped in filthy silks. He wasn't particularly ugly—if not for the lack of hygiene, extra weight, and the stench of pure degeneracy clinging to him, his dark hair and copper eyes might have even passed him off as nobility. Strange… what if he really was a noble? A fallen one perhaps? Or one who simply embraced the filth? Like the disgusting man he was.
Barry shoves the boy forward, snickering as the frail thing stumbles to his knees. The poor boy squeaks, his eyes wide---darting from Barry to the grotesque king before him.
Aziroth leans forward, appraising the boy like a piece of meat.
"Scrawny," he muses. "Won't last long, assuming he doesn't piss himself to death."
Barry shrugs. "The fuckers got some fight in him, though. Might need a bit of breakin' first."
Aziroth lets out a guttural chuckle. "Oh, we'll break him alright."
He cocks his head at the scrawny boy, "Oi! What's your name pint-sized runt?"
The boy stays quiet, his head hung, eyes facing his feet.
"Pissard! I asked you a damn bloody question! Are you so short that your stupid little ears are too low for you to hear me down there?"
The boy yet again stays quiet his head hung low held steady in place....wait a minute steady? Wasn't he trembl-
sniffle sniffle
The boy lets out a small, pitiful sniffle. His shoulders shake timidly.
Aziroth grins. "What's this? The little piss-runt's cryin'?"
Another lackey amongst the beggar king's ranks laughs, shaking his head. "Typical innit boss."
Barry too---emboldened by his boss's amusement and the sheer need to glaze him, cackles stupidly. "What a joke of a runt."
Then—
"Fuckface."
The boy looks up.
The frail, pitiful thing was gone.
The hunched shoulders? Straightened.
The trembling hands? Steady.
The tear-streaked face? Bone-dry.
"Your breathe fucking stinks, your face looks like shit, and bloody originars aren't you a devious bastard for kidnapping kids."
Pale eyes pierce through the copper of the king of beggars with sheer unbridled intensity.
"Yet you have the gall to call ME a pissard you shitface whoreson"
Aziroth's face twitches.
"What did you just say to me, you little sh—"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Beggar King AZIROTH." Wynn rolls the name on his tongue, letting the sarcasm drip. "Such a grand fucking name! Sounds like someone leading armies and shit."
The boy spreads his arms, voice mockingly reverent.
"And yet here you are. A fat, ugly piece of horseshit, squatting in the filth, shaking down children like the lecherous fool you are."
Well, that probably struck a nerve.
Aziroth's fists clench, his knuckles popping. His breathing grows ragged, nostrils flaring, fat fingers curling into trembling fists.
This snotty-nosed runt dares—
"Kill him!"
As if on cue, shadows emerge from behind the throne, bandit masks adorning their faces. A variety of weapons—guns, swords, spears, maces—all raised, all aiming for the boy's throat.
Barry too lunges, dagger flashing.
The room erupts.
The bandits charge like starving dogs, eager to rip the foolish boy apart.
The Boy stands still.
Aziroth watches, his grin widening.
Guess the fool wasn't so tough after all
The fight was to be over before it even began.
Barry's dagger swings down, aiming for the boy's throat.
This was it.
This was the end—
Too slow.
The boy inhales, deep and sharp.
Silence floods the room.
The charge halts.
The air shifts.
Aziroth doesn't know why, but a cold sensation crawls up his spine.
The boy's fingers tighten around the hilt of his blade.
I better make this quick
Eastern Blade: Semi-first movement
Click.
The sound of a blade leaving its sheath.
Or was it the sound of death being unleashed?
No battle cries. No drawn-out struggle.
Barry's lips part as if to speak—but nothing comes.
A thin red line draws an across across his throat.
His knees buckle.
He falls.
And so do the rest of the lackeys.
The ones petrified, the ones furious, the ones surprised.
None escape death.
None escape the Heavenly Demon's very own battle art.
All thirty men.
Still frozen mid-motion.
One by one—they drop.
No screams.
No last words.
Just bodies hitting the ground, their crimson viscous fluids soaking into the putrid filth below.
The boy's gaze shifts to the King of Beggars-No-the Beggar.
After all a King without subjects is not a King.
The man in question trembles, eyes darting from the corpses to the Boy's blade—already back in its sheath.
"Ill give you three options." The boy begins,
"Option A: You be a good little beggar and tell me where you've kept the rest of the kids hidden."
The boy flicks his katana with a practiced flourish, scarlet fluids arcing through the air before splattering onto the ground below.
"Or Option B…" His voice lowers,
"I dissect your fingers, one by one, before you tell me where the fuck you're hiding them."
Gulp.
Aziroth flinches. His body trembles, his breath hitching.
The boy steps forward, his boots crunching against the blood-soaked ground.
"Or even better…"
His eyes flicker—pale irises replaced bya deep, burning crimson.
Aziroth's stomach drops.
Jet-black and scarlet tendrils slither out from the boy, emanating from him as if it were steam.
Aziroth whimpers.
A grin finds itself plastered across the boy's face.
"I burn you alive."
**********
A certain fifteen-year-old boy is perched on the edge of a skyscraper, his "cool" shadow stretches against the city's flashing lights a stark contrast to his not-so-intimidating frame—stuck at 5'1—though he hasn't had his growth spurt yet....is what he seems to ....claim.
The boy's like a predator.
...Minus the height.
He's basically the "short, sneaky menace" of the city.
He leaps from his position, gliding effortlessly across rooftops.
Years have taken their toll on him. His face is almost unrecognizable from what it was in Zerith. His skin is pale but smooth, his snow-white hair gives off a faint cinnamon scent, and his piercing white eyes hold the experience of a veteran, not a teenager.
He had just finished a bounty hunt in the underground—an easy enough task. A small-time mob had been kidnapping kids from the slums, disfiguring them, and thensmuggling them to the outskirts of Helios to beg for money—run-of-the-mill scum.
Unawakened too. Calling them a match for the now-peak First Core Wynn would be preposterous, especially after his brutal training under Muzashi Katagiri. The man had refined Wynn like a blade.
Being a part-time bounty hunter for the Bounty Guild was one of his many side hustles.
With his task done, he was ready to head back.
Another day, another group of scumbags being used to wipe the floor with.
Wynn smirks.
He was so adept at bounty hunting that if there were a trophy for "Most Efficient Bounty Hunter Under 5'3"," his name would be engraved on it. Or perhaps he'd snag the
of the Midget of the Year Award?
Wait a minute.
No! I'm still in my growing phase!
His smirk vanished as quickly as it came.
What an idiot. Beefing with himself.
Shaking his head, he swung himself down a building's fire escape and landed smoothly on the street level.
As he walked, he took a moment to admire the bustling streets—until he felt it.
A presence.
Someone was following him.
His smirk returned, though this time, it was colder.
Wynn didn't stop walking. He didn't tense or show any sign that he noticed. Instead, he casually turned into a dimly lit alleyway.
And then—
He vanished.
The figure tailing him froze in confusion, hesitating for just a second—
Before trying to reach out for their weapons.
But it was too late.
A blade rests against their throat.
Followed by a low chuckle.
"If you're gonna stalk me, at least be good at it."
The figure stiffens. Wynn leans in slightly, his whiteeyes glowing faintly in the neon haze.
"Tell me why you've been following me Gabriel."