The heavy iron door of the subterranean vault stood open, a dark maw leading to a world Kenshin had not seen in eleven years.
He stumbled out of the dungeon, his bare feet hitting the cold, spiraling stone steps.
His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving with every laborious step.
He was covered in sweat, dirt, and the fresh blood of his torturer.
His tattered linen trousers clung to his scarred, muscular frame.
Up and up he climbed, leaving the oppressive, damp cold of the dark stone behind.
When Kenshin finally pushed open the heavy wooden doors at the top of the stairs, the sensory overload struck him with the force of a thunderous impact.
Light.
Blinding, searing sunlight.
Kenshin shrieked, throwing his hands over his dark-green eyes.
After a decade in absolute darkness, the radiant morning sun burned his retinas like physical fire.
The sounds of the Underward capital—the clatter of horse-drawn carts, the shouts of merchants, the ringing of blacksmith hammers—crashed against his eardrums.
It was a cacophony of life that his fractured mind could not process.
He was a sixteen-year-old boy in the body of a lethal weapon, but in that moment, he reacted like a terrified, feral beast.
His body trembled violently.
Kenshin stumbled blindly away from the grand estate of Zenjiro, his flash-step speed kicking in purely out of panic.
He ran through the cobblestone streets, shoving past startled citizens, tearing through narrow alleyways, desperate to find the safety of shadows.
He did not stop until he dove into a massive refuse pit behind a row of abandoned taverns.
Kenshin collapsed among the discarded crates and rotting debris, pressing his back against the damp brick wall.
He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his head, rocking back and forth as he gasped for air.
Mother is dead.
The thought hammered into his skull, overriding the blinding light and the deafening noise.
The only person in the world who had truly loved him, who had smelled of lilac and smiled with pure warmth, had been slaughtered by the very man who threw him into the dungeon.
Kenshin stared up at the sliver of blue sky visible between the towering stone buildings.
A cold, absolute resolve slowly began to harden the shattered pieces of his mind.
The weeping, pleading boy named Ritsu was buried in that dungeon, chained to the iron chair.
He lowered his arms.
His dark-green eyes stopped trembling, freezing into chips of unfeeling jade.
“I will make them pay,” Kenshin whispered to the empty alley.
“Zenjiro. Null. Everyone. I will tear their world apart.”
-Break-
High above the refuse pit, perched on the edge of a slanted slate roof, two cloaked figures knelt in the shadows.
“He came out,” the first scout murmured, his sharp eyes tracking Kenshin’s movements.
The second scout nodded, pulling his dark hood lower over his face.
“Go. Tell the Master that the target has finally surfaced.”
Without another word, the second scout vanished into a blur of motion, leaping across the rooftops to deliver the message.
-Break-
Hours passed before Kenshin finally stepped out of the refuse pit.
He walked aimlessly through the bustling streets of the Underward.
Citizens in elegant, dark-gothic clothing gave him a wide berth.
Mothers pulled their children close, and merchants cast him glances filled with pure disgust.
Kenshin did not care.
He knew he looked like a monster—a barefoot, shirtless vagrant covered in a terrifying roadmap of jagged, pale scars and dried blood.
Because of the years of alchemical potions pumped directly into his veins, his internal biology was completely ruined.
He did not feel normal thirst, nor did he feel the agonizing pangs of starvation that should have crippled him.
As he turned a corner into a wider cobblestone square, a commotion caught his attention.
Five boys, looking to be around his own age, were gathered in the dust.
Four of them were shoving and kicking a smaller, weeping boy who was curled into a ball on the ground.
“Give us the coin, you little rat!” the largest bully sneered, raising his boot to deliver another kick to the victim’s ribs.
Kenshin did not think.
He simply stepped directly into the center of the circle, placing himself between the bullies and the crying boy.
The four aggressors paused, looking up at the newcomer.
Kenshin did not raise his fists.
He did not speak a single word.
He merely tilted his head, his messy blackish hair falling over his face as he locked his cold, dead, dark-green eyes onto the leader.
The sheer, suffocating magical pressure radiating from Kenshin’s scarred body was palpable.
It was the aura of a boy who had survived a decade of absolute hell.
A jolt of terror struck the bullies.
The leader scrambled backward, tripping over his own feet.
Without a word, the four of them turned and fled down the street as fast as their legs could carry them.
A moment later, a woman rushed out of a nearby bakery.
“My baby!” she cried, scooping the weeping boy off the dirt.
She turned to thank whoever had intervened, but when her eyes landed on Kenshin—his bloodstained chest, his hollow, murderous gaze—she gasped in horror.
She clutched her child tightly against her chest and sprinted away, fleeing from her savior as if he were a demon.
Kenshin watched them go, his expression unchanging.
He needed to survive.
He needed resources if he was going to hunt down Zenjiro.
His dark eyes shifted to the bustling market square ahead.
An elderly merchant was walking past a fountain, a heavy, velvet coin pouch dangling loosely from his belt.
In a fraction of a heartbeat, Kenshin moved.
He blurred past the old man, his hand effortlessly snapping the pouch from the belt without breaking his stride.
“Thief!” the old man yelled, his voice echoing across the square.
“Somebody help! He took my pouch!”
Kenshin ignored the shouting, breaking into a dead sprint.
The cobblestones blurred beneath his bare feet as he tore through the market, knocking over baskets of fruit and scattering the crowds.
But he was not the only one moving fast.
From a nearby rooftop, a young woman with breathtakingly long, midnight-blue hair watched the theft.
Her icy blue eyes narrowed, calculating the thief’s trajectory.
Why is he in such a horrific condition?
Asami thought, noting the brutal scars covering Kenshin’s back.
And he is running far too fast for a common street rat.
She leaped from the roof, her slender, elegant figure moving with true Gladeon grace.
She hit the cobblestones in a sprint, her speed matching Kenshin’s as she chased him down the long avenue.
“Stop right there!” Asami commanded, her voice ringing out with absolute authority.
Kenshin did not look back.
He pushed his legs harder, launching himself over a wooden merchant cart.
Suddenly, a young man appeared from an intersecting alleyway, moving to intercept Kenshin.
He possessed short, black hair and piercing olive-green eyes.
He was tall, lean, and incredibly fast.
“Asami!” the young man, Horuto, called out, easily keeping pace with her.
“Is this the boy the Master sent us to retrieve? What is he doing?”
“I do not know, Horuto,” Asami replied, her midnight-blue hair streaming behind her like a banner.
“But that boy does not feel normal. His aura is heavy.”
“Let us see how long he can hold out,” Horuto said, a confident smirk touching his lips.
“Takashi is going to cut him off from the front.”
Kenshin rounded a sharp corner, sprinting into a long, enclosed stone alleyway.
Without warning, a third figure dropped directly from the high stone walls, landing squarely in Kenshin’s path.
It was Takashi—a young man with black hair, light green eyes, and a broad, highly muscular physique.
Takashi did not hesitate.
Moving with elite martial precision, he launched a devastating, high-speed sweeping kick aimed directly at Kenshin’s jaw.
Kenshin’s survival instincts, honed by thousands of lethal projectiles thrown by Null, flared to life.
In a blur of motion, Kenshin threw both of his heavily scarred arms up, crossing them tightly in front of his face.
CRASH.
The physical impact of the clash shattered the air in the alleyway.
The sheer kinetic force of Takashi’s kick sent a shockwave through the dust, but Kenshin’s guard held.
His bare feet dragged backward across the cobblestones, leaving deep grooves in the dirt before he finally came to a halt.
Takashi’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.
Very few warriors could block his heavy strikes so cleanly.
Before Kenshin could lower his arms and sprint the other way, Asami and Horuto landed softly at the entrance of the alley, completely blocking his only route of escape.
He was surrounded.
Asami stepped forward, her icy blue eyes locking onto Kenshin.
She was strikingly beautiful, her porcelain skin contrasting with her dark hair, but her gaze was as sharp as a blade.
“That was a good block,” Asami said, her tone strict and unyielding.
“But the games are over. Hand over the pouch.”
Kenshin slowly lowered his arms.
His muscles tensed, ready to fight his way out.
“And what if I do not?”
Asami’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“I am going to smash you into the cobblestones if you do not.”
“Whoever you are, stealing is a crime,” Horuto added, taking a calmer, more measured step forward.
“Just give the pouch back. We do not want to hurt you.”
Before Kenshin could retort, a low, hollow growl rumbled from his stomach.
Despite the alchemy sustaining his life, his mortal body had not consumed actual food in days.
Horuto paused, his olive-green eyes softening slightly.
“Huh. You are hungry?”
Kenshin remained silent, his jaw clenched tight.
Then, ever so slightly, he gave a slow, hesitant nod.
Horuto let out a quiet sigh.
“Just hand over the pouch. Do not worry, we will give you proper food after this.”
“Why are we wasting time on a filthy street rat?” Asami asked coldly, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Let us just take the pouch by force and drag him back.”
“No,” Horuto replied firmly, looking at Kenshin.
“Because I know exactly how it feels to be starving in these streets.”
Horuto unclipped a small leather satchel from his belt.
He pulled out a wrapped portion of dried meat and bread, placing it gently on the cobblestones.
With a swift kick, he slid the food directly to Kenshin’s bare feet.
“See?” Horuto said gently.
“Just take the food, and give us back the stolen goods.”
Asami remained quiet, though she clearly disapproved.
Takashi, standing behind Kenshin, finally spoke up.
“Well, it looks like you are not in any condition to go anywhere,” Takashi said, his light green eyes tracing the horrific network of scars, burns, and bruises covering Kenshin’s torso.
“Where did you get those marks? They are brutal.”
“Come with us,” Horuto urged.
“You are not safe out here.”
“I am not going anywhere with you,” Kenshin growled, his voice rasping.
“I do not trust you.”
“Listen, boy,” Asami snapped, taking an aggressive step forward.
“You are going to agree whether you want to or not. Do you understand?”
“Shut up!” Kenshin roared, the sheer volume of his voice echoing off the stone walls.
Asami’s temper flared.
She stepped forward to strike, but Takashi raised his hand.
“Enough!”
Takashi blurred forward, aiming a swift, precise chop to the back of Kenshin’s neck to knock him unconscious.
But Kenshin’s reaction speed was unnatural.
He ducked, twisting his body to cleanly dodge Takashi’s lethal strike, spinning away to create distance.
Takashi halted, his eyes wide.
“You are fast… where did you learn to move like that?”
Horuto and Asami exchanged a look of pure shock.
No commoner had ever dodged Takashi’s strikes so effortlessly.
Kenshin planted his feet, preparing to leap up the stone wall to escape.
But before Kenshin’s muscles could even tense, the air in the alleyway seemed to vanish.
A figure materialized directly in front of Kenshin with a speed that defied reality.
It was an imposing, mature man.
He was completely bald, possessing a long, majestic grey-white beard and deep-set, dark eyes that carried the weight of centuries.
It was Master Brados.
Kenshin did not even have time to blink.
Brados moved his large, strong hand, delivering a dual, lightning-fast strike—one blunt impact to Kenshin’s stomach, and a precise nerve-pinch to the side of his neck.
Kenshin’s eyes rolled back into his head.
The adrenaline vanished, and his scarred body collapsed like a cut string, plummeting into absolute darkness.
Horuto immediately dropped to one knee, bowing his head respectfully.
“Master.”
Brados looked down at the unconscious boy, his deep brown eyes carrying a complex mixture of sorrow and undeniable authority.
“Take this boy to our sanctuary,” Brados commanded, his deep voice leaving no room for argument.