Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
A voice murmured within the confines of a confessional.
"It's been a while since my last confession... Actually—" he let out a dry breath, "This is my first one. Believe it or not."
"But last night, I…"
*CLANG!* *CLANG!*
The sound of distant metal clashing bled faintly into the silence.
The words stalled in his throat. He clicked his tongue, frustrated. "Sorry... I—give me a second."
Under the pale light of the three moons, screams pierced through the wind at the docks of Caldonia.
A nobleman in silks stepped forward, his voice sharp and mocking. "Hey! Hey! Settle down," he called. "You lot should be quite flattered. We're getting ten thousand Baras a head for each of you." He laughed, the sound cold as the frigid night wind.
"You know... my dad, he used to come to this church - when I was a kid. He'd bring me along with my mother, and after service, he'd always come here. Every time. Never missed a day."
"Keep your heads down and behave and I might even be tempted to buy one of you back. You'd belong to me, of course... but if you resist..." The nobleman at the docks sneered, drawing a sword and pressing it against the neck of a trembling woman. Blood welled instantly.
The other captives screamed out in fear
"Shut up! Shut your mouths! All of you!"
He shoved the woman down into the carriage violently. The other captors followed suit as the captives' cries tore into the night.
"I used to hate when he would walk towards the booth," the voice scoffed sarcastically. "He'd spend a long time in here, and I'd be forced to wait on him, wondering why the hell he's taking so long."
"Language," commanded another voice belonging to the priest.
"—Sorry, bad habit," he muttered.
"I remember always begging my mother, if we could leave and just meet him back home, you know? But every time... I got the same answer," he said as his words fell slowly, weighed down by memory.
"For a long time, I didn't get it. Didn't understand why this place mattered so much to him."
A breath.
"Until that day."
"The incident in DISTRICT 12, nine years ago."
Beyond the nobleman, a silhouette emerged from the shadows, perched above a nearby container. He was dressed in black and navy blue, wearing a blindfold that covered his eyes; his skin tanned like bronze, and his figure loomed over them like a vengeful spirit.
"My mother and I were there. When the explosion happened, she protected me. I remember that part clearly. Her arms wrapped around my head. Then everything went dark."
The captives noticed the strange figure and recoiled in shock, alerting the nobleman to turn around. However, the figure in black leaped. He struck the nobleman in a single, crushing blur, knocking him into the dirt before the man could even scream.
"When I woke up, I saw many people around us; some were dead... while others were trapped like us. My mother was okay, but she was unconscious beside me."
His voice thinned. "I yelled for help until my chest burned. Until I thought my lungs were going to give out."
"And then I saw people coming."
"I thought they were rescuers." A bitter laugh slipped out. "I really did. But they weren't there to save anyone."
At the docks, the other men lunged at the figure in black with drawn swords but he moved like liquid, catching the nobleman's fallen blade mid-air.
*CLANG!* CLANG!
Steel rang against steel, echoing off the containers.
"When I looked around, I saw a woman a few feet away. A mother. I remember her fingers-she was clawing through the rubble until her nails were gone. Frantically trying to free her son trapped under the rubble beside her—or what was left of him, anyway."
"When she saw the men, she screamed for help, begging them to help her son. I can still see the tears on her face."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "But they just laughed at her, Father. Treated her desperation as a joke."
"And I sat there, unable to move, forced to listen to that sound while I watched the light go out of her eyes."
Dust and the metallic tang of blood filled the air as the captives pressed their faces to the floor, trembling, while others watched on in awe and terror.
Despite being outnumbered, the figure cut the men down one by one, injuring them but not killing them. Yet his movements were elegant and filled with grace.
"I was eight at the time. And the strange thing is—I wasn't scared. Not at first. Dying was the last thing on my mind."
The voice hardened.
"Instead, I was angry. Angry that they could do that. Angry that a life could mean so little to them. Angry that I was too weak to stop it."
"When they noticed us, I screamed at them. Told them she hadn't done anything wrong. That they were monsters."
His voice wavered, then steadied.
"I told them God was watching."
"Thought it would mean something but-"
The last of the men fell, groaning in the dirt. But then—
TSCHIK
The click. The metallic click of a gun. The nobleman had recovered, aiming his weapon at the figure's back.
"They just stared at me. Like I was speaking gibberish," the voice whispered. "One of them bent down until we were eye to eye. He smiled… and said, 'Then let Him watch harder.'"
"I couldn't move after that. Couldn't breathe. All I could hear..."
"...was my fear."
"The man drew his sword, aiming it at my mother's face while she lay unconscious." His voice strained. "I screamed as I tried to tear myself free. Tried to reach her. But I was stuck. Trapped and useless."
"He lifted the blade—"
BAM
The nobleman fired at the figure.
"Watch out!" shouted one of the captives.
"But then someone stopped it."
"An Imperial Knight."
"He came out of nowhere. I'd never seen one up close before, at least that's what I believed."
A bitter exhale.
"That's when I realized who he was."
"My father."
The figure twisted aside as the shot rang out—the blade grazing the bullet just enough to send it screaming into the steel containers before retreating into the maze of containers as the nobleman fired after him. One of the bullets grazed his left shoulder.
The nobleman got up and chased after him, moving slowly as he searched for him in the enclosed, tight spaces.
"Just who do you think you are!?" the nobleman sneered, "You think you can just lay a finger on me and walk away? You're a dead man!"
"Do you even have the slightest clue who I am!?"
"I never knew what my dad was. Whenever he'd leave home, they'd always tell me he was only going to the city for business. Yet, whenever he came back home, he seemed different... bitter..."
"I saw him fight nine men at once," the 'voice' chuckled. "It wasn't a clean battle, though. My dad got cut up pretty badly. But he'd keep going, keep fighting."
"I'd never seen that look in his eyes before. It was like he wasn't there, like he wasn't even fighting with the sword but rather as if..."
The nobleman searched slowly, he heard footsteps around him; spinning around in fright, he fired into the shadows. But his bullets pierced nothing but darkness.
The nobleman grew livid. Becoming more frantic as if being mocked by the figure in black.
"Where are you!?" he shouted into the dark.
"Here."
The nobleman spun around in desperation, firing at where he presumed the figure's head would be - only to be met with the emptiness of space. The figure had ducked under his arm before slashing to cut the nobleman's gun hand off in one clean arc.
...he became the sword itself."
"And the other guys," the 'voice' sighed.
"The other guys, they saw that look, and they tried to get away from him. But my dad...he chased them all and cornered them. Every single one of them - he cut them down."
The nobleman collapsed on the floor due to shock, falling unconscious from the blood loss. The figure made his way back to the carriage to cut off the chains and cuffs bound to the captives.
"After he got them. He came back to free us. And when I looked at his face, I saw something..."
"He was smiling."
"His face was torn open. His hands were soaked in blood, and his entire body was trembling from the pain."
"Yet, despite it all, he was smiling."
"I didn't understand it. Not back then."
"But now? Now you understand?" the priest asked.
"Yeah... Yeah, I do," the 'voice' replied with a sigh.
"If so, then what's the point of professing any of this?" the priest asked carefully.
"If anything, you were simply blind to your father's true identity, not knowing what he did isn't a sin of yours to bear."
"Blind, huh?" the 'voice' said with a smirk.
"No, no, Father, you misunderstand me. You see, I didn't just learn my father's true identity, but rather I see things from his path now."
The air in the room thickened, the atmosphere tense from the 'voice' in the dark.
"Tell me, what is it that you've done?" the priest asked, his voice tinged with concern.
"I'm not here to wash away my sins, Father. I'm here to sharpen them."
"That isn't how this works. Just what exactly are you going to do?"
The booth fell silent. The voice in the dark said nothing, and the priest's words hung in the air like a looming cloud.
"Become the sword."
SCHIK
The figure in black cut through the chains and restraints binding the captives in a single cut.
"Head East until you reach Charlotte Road. There are Enforcers on patrol. Call the first one you see and report everything you witnessed," he instructed.
Despite the fear still lingering within their bones, they all hurried out, scampering over the bodies of the unconscious men who put them in there.
Yet among them, a single boy lingered, staring at the figure in black.
"Jackson? Jackson, what are you doing? We have to go!" his mother urged as she turned around to get him.
"Who. Who are you, mister?" the boy whispered to the figure.
The figure stood there, as if encased in ice. The question puzzled him greatly. Indeed, he did have a name, given to him by those who birthed him, yet he didn't at the same time. For he who received that name and the one who stood before this young boy-they were connected, yet different. As if he were a shadow, a reflection of the one called...
"ENARK! ENARK ALASDAIR!"
A voice rang through the halls of a warm home.
He stirred, the syllables dragging him out of sleep like waves. He removed his blindfold, revealing his pale azure eyes.
"Who…?" His voice was thick with sleep.
The door bursts open, and an elderly woman hurries in.
"Enark, come on, it's time to get up. You don't wanna be late on your first day, do you?"
"I'm up, Grandma, I'm up," he mumbled, still half-asleep.
"I don't think so, young man. Come on," she said, tapping his shoulder lightly. "And… what's this big cut on your face?"
"It's nothing, don't worry about it," he said calmly, not wanting to worry her.
"Don't give me that, boy. Where could you even get hurt like this?"
"I just slipped on the stairs, Grandma. That's all," he replied.
She sighed, half-joking, half-concerned. "And I suppose you haven't been using the cane we gave you either."
"I told you many times that you shouldn't be running up and down the stairs. Even I have a hard time climbing it nowadays," she teased.
"Alright, up, up!" She helped pull him out of bed. "Once you're dressed, breakfast is downstairs."
"Is it toast and eggs?" Enark asked enthusiastically, his nose catching the smell.
"And sausage," she replied with a big smile.
"Oh! I should have some bandages in the drawers downstairs. Before you eat, let's cover up that cut on your face. We wouldn't want you scaring off potential friends on your first day looking like that." The woman winked as she walked out the door.
"Hey, wait! But what if they think it's cool?" he asked, hope threading his words as she descended the stairs.
"Wouldn't they?" Enark wondered, sitting quietly in his room, recalling the events of the night. He reached up and touched his face at the cut.
"Ow."
