12 years ago

  Blū felt a sharp pain as blood dripped from his forehead. The image of his friends, so brutally restrained, spun through his mind in a blur. He felt sick… helpless. Every corner of his mind screamed at him to get up, but his body wouldn’t respond. All he could do was lie there in the alley, surrounded by Figree and his goons, as his hands were bound behind his back.

  “Don’t look so gloomy,” Figree said, stepping over and crouching to meet Blū’s eyes. “We’re going on an adventure, right?”

  Somehow, Crit spat the rope from his mouth, managing to shout a few words before he was silenced again. “Where’re we going?” he cried out in terror.

  Figree almost looked impressed by Crit’s courage, his off-putting smile never leaving his face. “Young men like you are in high demand. Bodies are the core of all business—whether it’s corpses or labor. And don’t worry, you won’t die. Not soon, at least. There are plenty of powerful people with endless lists of jobs, and hopefully they’ll pay a nice sum for each of you.”

  Blū could taste blood in his mouth. The ringing in his ears muffled the screams and shouts of his friends as the strangers hauled them to their feet. The man holding Blū had tied the rope so tightly it felt like sandpaper scraping against his skin. Once bound, they yanked him up. He couldn’t walk straight—he stumbled, swayed. Nothing was clear, but slowly his thoughts began to align. His blood surged as understanding returned in full force, anchoring him to the horror around him.

  They were going to sell him… and Crit… and the other boys from the orphanage too. Lady Marirari would never know what happened to them. She’d be left with haunting guilt, sleepless and tormented, while they toiled in some dark mine or dragged heavy loads up a mountain trail. The thoughts gripped Blū harder than the ropes that held him.

  The only escape from the fear clawing through him was to scream.

  “FIGREE!!!” Blū roared, just as a sling of rope gagged him. But the rage didn’t fade. He screamed through the gag, his fury stronger than anything he’d ever felt. This wasn’t anger over pride or possessions—this was the rage of a creature fighting to survive.

  “FIGREE!!!” he bellowed again, the name caught between clenched teeth and rope.

  Irritated, Figree clenched his fist and struck Blū in the throat, silencing whatever pleas he had left. Tears of pain rushed down Blū’s cheeks. His chest tightened as if a hand had wrapped around his lungs. Though his vision blurred, he could still see Figree’s face—and Crit’s reaction. The boy fought against his captor, struggling madly at the sight of Blū being hit.

  A wooden club ended the rebellion with a single strike. Crit’s body went limp. Figree barked something in disapproval, but Blū couldn’t process the words. He couldn’t feel any more numb.

  Suddenly, one of the strange men flew across the alley, soaring over every head before landing upside down at the far end. His body compressed awkwardly onto his twisted neck, legs sticking stiffly in the air. No man in that position could be conscious.

  Everyone—strangers and boys alike—turned toward the alley’s entrance.

  “This is far too much noise for a peaceful morning,” said Master Silver, chewing on a colorful fruit. “Far too violent for scenery as lovely as this.”

  One stranger lunged at him with a wild punch—but Silver dodged effortlessly. He tossed the rest of his fruit into the man’s face, then grabbed his shoulder and flipped him clean over his head.

  The strangers exchanged panicked glances, hoping someone—anyone—had a plan. Meanwhile, the master advanced slowly, calm and unbothered.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Blū dared not let hope take root. But as he looked at Silver—his aura calm, his presence undeniable—he couldn’t help it.

  He felt… a chance.

  Figree roared out orders, calling for his men to take the Master down. Two of them stepped forward, hesitant fists raised. Silver slammed one man’s head into the alley wall, then deflected the second’s punch and struck him hard in the chest. The one he’d flipped earlier came from behind—only to be kicked square in the chest before he could make his move. Silver spun again, striking down another stranger as he tried to rise, knocking him out cold.

  The man with the triangular bags under his eyes—the last of the goons—turned and fled, vanishing down the alley. Figree took a long breath, the final member of his group still standing.

  “Fancy yourself a hero, then, old man?” Figree yelled.

  Silver wiped a drop of fruit juice from the corner of his mouth with his thumb, not bothering to meet Figree’s eyes. “A hero? No… And I’m not old—”

  Figree charged before he could finish. Even caught off guard, Silver deflected the barrage of punches, quickly matching his opponent’s speed as they settled into close combat. Within the rapid exchange, each fighter landed quick jabs—one to Figree’s nose, two to Silver’s chest, then two to Figree’s gut, and another to Silver’s ribs. Almost supernaturally, Figree zipped behind him, faster than Blū could follow, his fist drawn back.

  Unamused, Silver turned and caught the punch, then drove his foot up under Figree’s chin. Dazed, Figree staggered. The punch that followed hit his torso with practiced precision, its raw force blowing a gust down the alley. A sharp crunch echoed through the narrow space as Figree was hurled backward.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Silver said, cracking his knuckles. “Not the greatest Levula I’ve seen.”

  “Master!” Blū called out.

  The other boys, seizing the moment, ran in terror through the opening left in the confrontation. None of the strangers rose. Figree lay slumped, his face slack.

  Silver let them go. He looked down at himself, brushed the dust from his white uniform, and adjusted his belt. He still seemed calm, almost casual about the entire ordeal.

  But any relief Blū might have felt was swallowed by the dread creeping up his spine. He didn’t want to turn around. He felt that if he did, the sick weight in his stomach might never leave him. But… he wanted to be a hero. And being a hero meant doing the hard things.

  The lifeless figure on the ground was every bit as heartbreaking as he’d feared. Blū crawled forward on his knees, hoping—just maybe—

  He laid a hand on Crit’s shoulder and gently rocked him. When that got no response, he placed his hand in front of his mouth, trying to feel a breath. He felt something. Just a slight breath. Guilt laced his tears. He was almost grateful for the blur they cast over his vision.

  Silver approached from behind.

  “I should have saved him,” Blū said weakly, his voice strangled by the pressure in his chest.

  “Yes,” Silver replied.

  “I wish I could have.”

  Silver clicked his tongue sharply. “It’s not about you. It’s about the boy who could have died!”

  Blū’s tears poured harder.

  “Being a hero isn’t about you,” Silver said, his voice firm but not unkind. “It’s about who you do it for.”

  Blū wiped his eyes with a trembling hand. “Okay. Then that’s the kind of hero I’ll be.”

  He looked up and saw Silver blink, slightly taken aback. But the moment passed. Silver quickly returned to his composed indifference.

  “If that’s the case,” he said, “then I’ll train you. That’s the kind of man I’ll train.”

  It was as if something inside Blū finally broke open. Another wave of tears came surging out. He lowered his head and pressed it to the dusty ground.

  “Then I swear it!!! THAT’S THE TYPE OF HERO I’LL BE!!!”

  Silver sighed—this time, with a trace of sympathy behind it.

  “Well then, boy, you’d better follow me.”

  Blū stood with the determination to carry out his master’s command with utmost dedication. But in that same moment, the feeling returned—more intense than ever before.

  “Master!” he cried through tears. “May I please do one thing? Before I go?”

  ◇─◇──◇─◇

  Blū ran as fast as he would when fleeing from the local gangs—maybe even faster. He knew that if he missed this chance, the weight of regret would be as heavy as his inability to save Crit. He had to see her. He couldn’t afford to miss it.

  The streets were thick with people, a crowd far heavier than usual. Though it was his regular route, it felt like the hardest path he’d ever taken. Even the upscale neighborhoods were packed—like a stampede of bodies all determined to block his way. Still, he darted forward, legs burning, weaving between merchants and sidestepping every passerby.

  All to reach one house.

  But it still wasn’t enough.

  Blū stood frozen, empty, as he stared at Mearly’s vacant home. The last of her carriages disappeared down the road just as he arrived. One of the workers had told him: every piece of furniture, every bit of cutlery, every painting... and her. All gone.

  She had left.

  He hadn’t fought hard enough.