The city’s sky echoed with the shattering wail of sirens as heavy rain reflected the flashing red and blue lights. In a quiet alley, Fitran covered the mouth of an old nobleman with a blood-stained hand. His sharp knife had pierced the heart, tearing through the velvet coat and expensive flesh. He could hear the last heartbeat vibrating in the cold night air.

  “Your breath does not deserve to taint this world,” Fitran whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling, as if each word were a spell that severed him from humanity. He let the body lie there, blood flowing into the dark drain. “Though you think this life is yours alone.”

  He examined the target organ, his heart stirring at the thought of the existence of people like this—nobles who felt untouchable by the laws of life. As he wrapped it in specialized cloth, Aveline’s face appeared in his mind, her frail body and soft voice from last night when he held her. Her breath had been heavy and cold, her gentle tone shaking as she spoke: “I only want one night that isn’t cold, Sir…” Fitran paused for a moment, feeling the sincerity in her words, before stepping toward his next prey: the guards, the palace’s underlings who tonight became the bait.

  “Prepare yourself,” he whispered, tilting his head to hear the patter of rain and their soft sobs as they realized death was drawing near. Each step Fitran took was measured, every strike executed with precision—his shadow merging with the gaslight illuminating the ancient stone walls. “The scent of their fear is more valuable than gold.”

  Within an hour, three vital organs were already in his grasp. Kidneys, heart, and liver—all belonging to nobles who once regarded the lives of the common folk as mere figures in their ledgers. “How does it feel now, to realize that you are but one among so many?” He spoke to the corpse lying there, half-hoping for a response. “But there is no time for regret. Sleep now; this will soon all come to an end.”

  At the Mafia Headquarters—Sapphire District

  The iron door creaked as Fitran kicked it open with a forceful bang, the sound echoing in the dark room filled with cigarette smoke. “Salvador!” he shouted, tossing a bag filled with organs forward to Salvador, the mafia boss seated calmly. “My time is limited.”

  Salvador turned slowly, the cigarette smoke swirling around him, his eyes reflecting minimal concern. “You truly are a savage creature, Fitran,” he said in a cold tone, “yet even beasts can be tamed with the right bait.” He exhaled smoke with arrogance, as if daring Fitran to react.

  Fitran clenched the knife hidden in his pocket, feeling waves of unease crawling within him. “Where is your doctor?” he asked, his voice firm and demanding. “Aveline is waiting. Hurry, before I reconsider this decision.” He could sense the anger simmering behind Salvador's gaze; this game was perilous, and he knew how deep the danger ran.

  Salvador raised his index finger, and two of his henchmen stepped forward confidently, their faces cold and menacing. “Be careful, your step could prove fatal,” Salvador jested, his sardonic laughter echoing. “Let’s see just how much love you have saved for that unfortunate girl.”

  Salvador turned, a plume of cigarette smoke curling gently in the air. “You are truly a wild creature, Fitran. Even wild creatures can be tamed with the right bait,” he taunted, his eyes narrowing as if appraising. “Are you ready to negotiate?”

  Fitran dismissed the insult, focusing on something far more urgent. “Where is your doctor?” he asked again, his voice steady and full. “Aveline has been waiting. Move swiftly, before I change my mind.”

  Salvador signaled, and two of his men stepped forward to lift the bag harboring the unseen organs, their faces devoid of expression, clearly accustomed to such horrors. Yet, as Fitran prepared to leave, a faint sound of weeping reached his ears from the cellar, shaking the heart heavy with tension within him.

  Fitran frowned, his steps uncertain as he moved forward. The sound pierced his thoughts, drawing the attention of his ears, resurrecting memories he had buried long ago. “Who is it? Who is crying?” he asked himself slowly. He descended the stone stairs cautiously, each step shrouded in a discomfort that lingered ominously. The weeping became clearer, amplifying the oppressive atmosphere around him.

  Behind the terrifying bars, he saw a young girl—around thirteen years old, her hair a tangled mess like a kite lost in the wind, and her blue eyes, filled with fear, glimmered urgently. The girl's cheeks were bruised, her hands bound, as if she were a small bird trapped in a cage. “Help… help me,” she whispered, her voice cracking and weak, as if it were the last drop of hope remaining.

  The girl's eyes conveyed deep terror, yet within her gaze was a glimmer that made Fitran shudder unexpectedly. His body felt feeble, his head throbbed violently; it was as if two worlds were clashing in his mind. “Who are you?” he whispered, his voice barely more than a soft sigh escaping his lips.

  “Rinoa…” That name slipped out effortlessly, filling the walls of his mind like a lost mantra that resurfaced, something foreign yet strangely familiar, as if his entire existence hinged upon that one word.

  Salvador suddenly appeared behind him, his smile sinister and his expression reflecting dark satisfaction. “You're intrigued, aren't you, Fitran?” he asked, his voice teasing like a predator stalking its prey. “The girl has a noble lineage. Her organs are flawless—she could save your beloved.”

  Fitran turned, his face tense. “You have no right to treat her life like a commodity. She is not a tool for your gain,” he said with burning conviction, his clenched fists mirroring the fury within him.

  “Oh, but I do have that right,” Salvador retorted, his fingers gripping his cigarette, inhaling deeply. “This world is harsh and merciless, Fitran. It’s all a trade. Her heart for your beloved, or if you prefer, I could sell her to a collector. The choice is yours.”

  Fitran pressed his head with both hands, his face drawn tight as Salvador’s voice began to fade from his ears. “You could take her heart for Aveline,” Salvador continued with a chilling laugh, “or if you wish, we might sell this girl to a collector. She has her... appeal.” His tone was firm, with not a trace of empathy remaining.

  The girl—Rinoa—lifted her face, and their gazes met in a chilling silence. The distance between them felt as if the world had split apart; in an instant, Fitran felt himself ensnared in a chasm of memory, trapped by the shadows of the past: flashes of recollection, a soft smile beneath a tree, a soothing voice: “Don't go too far, Fitran…” Rinoa appeared like a beacon of hope shining amidst the darkness of the world he faced.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Fitran shouted, the accusation tearing through the shadows in his heart, “Silence! Don't touch her!” His emotions boiled over, beyond his control; his body moved before his mind could process—instinct honed on the battlefield guided his steps. With a swift motion, he drove his head into the nose of one guard, snatching the outstretched magic pistol, and shot two of Salvador's men without hesitation. Their bodies arched backward, scorched by the lethal magic of electricity. The thunder of spells exploded in the air, amplifying the smoldering tension.

  Salvador recoiled, his face growing paler, “Fitran! Don’t be a fool—she’s just a child! Do you want your girl to die?!” His voice now laced with panic, underscoring that this situation had spiraled beyond any semblance of control.

  Fitran, under the blaze of his fury, hurled a knife at Salvador’s shoulder. “If Aveline must take her last breath because of this cruel world,” he gasped, breath coming in harsh bursts, “then let me shatter this world before she leaves!” His voice quaked, unyielding, painting an indelible picture of his burning resolve.

  The remnants of the guards, taken aback by Fitran's bravery, attempted to fire upon him; however, he darted like a shadow, unpredictable and unattainable. One by one, they fell—throats constricted, chests pierced by glowing magical bullets, their blood staining the floor in a tragic pattern, marking a battle that seemed endless. Fitran stepped firmly towards the bars, shattering the lock that barred his way with his iron staff, his sharp gaze fixed on Rinoa who trembled in fear. He could not allow the girl to suffer any longer.

  Rinoa, her gaze filled with doubt, croaked her question, “Who… are you…?” Her eyes shimmered with confusion and hope, trapped within bitterness and sorrow.

  Fitran gazed deep into the girl's two eyes—his headache surged like waves crashing against stone, yet behind that pain, something far stronger lay: an unbreakable bond. “I am... Fitran,” he spoke softly, yet with certainty. “And you... Rinoa. I do not know why your name is etched in my memory, but this world will never corrupt your life.” Fitran's voice held firmness, a promise entwined in his desperation to protect Rinoa.

  Salvador groaned, pulling the trigger of his gun and aiming it at them. “Fitran—stop! Or I shall kill you both!” His voice echoed, filled with threats that resonated ominously in the chest.

  Fitran, feeling the tension hanging in the air, shielded Rinoa with his trembling body. “No! I will not allow you to harm anyone again!” he yelled, with a fire burning in every word. In a swift motion, he launched his last dagger with deadly precision into Salvador's throat. Blood sprayed, splattering the walls in a horrific crimson. The mafia boss's body collapsed to the floor, his eyes wide and empty, trapped in disbelief.

  The atmosphere in the room fell silent all at once. The scent of blood and magic smoke mingled with the metallic tang that filled the air. Each heart felt as though the world had come to a standstill. Aveline rushed into the cellar, breathless, her eyes a striking red filled with anxiety. “Fitran! What have you done?” Her voice echoed, trembling with the fear that enveloped her.

  She saw Fitran embracing the strange girl, their bodies smeared with blood and wounds. Upon witnessing this scene, Aveline felt an empty void in her heart. “You... what happened?” she asked, her voice nearly drowned in the weight of the heavy air.

  Fitran looked at Aveline, his gaze shimmered with unshed tears that he fought to contain. “I’m sorry, Aveline. I… I cannot relinquish this child. She... she is innocent. This world is already cruel enough. I will not become the monster they want me to be.”

  Aveline stepped closer, examining Rinoa intently, as if trying to recognize the figure trembling before her. When her eyes met the depths of the girl's gaze, Aveline bowed her head, striving to suppress the sob that threatened to break free. “I understand, brother. This world has become rotted enough. Let there be no more victims. We must protect her,” she said softly, her voice trembling against the creeping fear that slithered into her heart.

  Rinoa, with a gaze filled with curiosity tinged by fear, shifted her stare from Aveline to Fitran. “Who are you…? Why are you fighting for me?” she asked, her voice barely audible as it slipped from her lips.

  Fitran closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a heavy sigh as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. “We… are merely two lost souls in a world that knows no mercy. We are all trapped in this cruel game, Rinoa. We will not allow you to fall into the madness that surrounds us,” he added, his head bowed as if carrying an unspoken burden upon his back.

  Aveline embraced Rinoa gently, a hug filled with empathy and understanding. “You are safe now. We may not be the best guardians, but we promise we will not let them take you,” she said softly, trying to offer comfort amidst the panic that threatened to engulf them. “If it is just the three of us, we will face whatever comes together.”

  On the floor, the bodies of the mafia lay sprawled, their faces reflecting the panic that had faded away. Blood pooled beneath their feet—a sign that tonight, the streets had been plunged into eternal darkness, transforming into a malevolent force that dwelled within the shadows. Each second of silence felt like a scream trapped within their souls.

  Fitran stood rigid, his body tense, as his eyes scoured the dark corridor that loomed menacingly before him. The faint sound of footsteps disturbed his sense of calm, stirring his instincts to act. “We have to leave immediately,” he said, his voice firm yet unable to hide the simmering anxiety within. “This city… it will never be safe again. I can feel it in my bones.”

  Rinoa grasped Fitran’s hand with desperate hope, her eyes shining with fear. “Please, don’t let go of me…” Her whisper seeped softly from her lips, as if tightening her resolve to avoid raising her voice, lest it draw disaster into their embrace. “I don’t want to be trapped alone in this darkness.”

  Fitran nodded, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. “I will not leave you again, not without your presence by my side.” His face was filled with a fiery determination, recalling all they had endured—the brutality that had forged an unexpected bond between them. “If we are separated, remember to never give up. We will find our way back to each other.”

  They stepped slowly outside together, leaving the threatening hell behind them. The night sky loomed dark, stretching vast with menacing shadows. Outside, the world awaited—cold, cruel, and drenched in blood. The wind whispered through the ruins, as if warning them of the dangers still lurking. Yet, between them, for the first time, something they had never possessed was present—a reason to survive, not merely to fight. Rinoa stole a glance at Fitran, feeling the warmth flowing from his fingertips. “Will we find a better place?” she asked, hope shining in her eyes.

  Fitran paused for a moment, uncertainty clouding his features. “I hope so. We shall seek a place we can call home… Just as you’ve always dreamed.” Memories of quiet moments surged in his mind, where they shared dreams—a world beyond the chaos, where no more blood would flow, and justice could conceivably manifest. “We cannot give up,” he continued, gazing into the hopeful expression brightening Rinoa’s face.

  That night, a new legend was born in the city. Fitran was no longer known merely as the king of the streets, but also as the angel of slaughter and the protector of the neglected girls lost in history. “They will remember us,” Rinoa said softly, a sense of belief beginning to blossom within them. “They will know that we endured. We are not mere fugitives.”

  Blood flowed, loss enveloped the soul, and names echoed through the night—all of it united in a fate that no one could escape, not even those who had lost faith in hope. In the thick darkness of the night, a flicker of small hope ignited within them, battling against the lurking threat of despair, with a vow to fight with all their strength for a brighter future.