Over the bustling streets, the rising sun shone down but there was little warmth in the air. Damien walked with measured steps, his sharp silver eyes scanning his surroundings.
The town was alive with activity—vendors hawked their goods, children played among the market stalls, and groups of mercenaries loitered near taverns and weapon shops.
Despite the liveliness, Damien couldn't ignore the unease lingering in the air. It was subtle, like a taut string ready to snap. Perhaps it was his heightened senses as a Terrace descendant, or perhaps it was the faint signs of desperation etched into the faces of the townsfolk. Or maybe it was even due to him being in danger in the past for more times than he could count.
People moved with an unspoken urgency, their actions quick and purposeful as if they were racing against time. Damien could feel it in the way they avoided eye contact and how their voices dipped into whispers when the topic of war surfaced. They were living each day as though it might be their last.
A commotion ahead drew Damien's attention. A crowd had gathered at a street corner, the sound of shouting and laughter punctuated by the occasional cry of pain.
Curious and wary, Damien approached the scene. At the center of the commotion, a young boy lay on the ground, shielding himself with his small arms as blows and kicks rained down on him. His clothes were torn and bloodstained, and his frail body trembled with every strike.
The men surrounding him hurled insults as they struck him.
"Little thief!" one cursed, kicking the boy's ribs.
Another sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Your mother was nothing but a filthy harlot. Jumping from one man to another and that's how you came to be around. She couldn't get rid of you so she gave you out before miserably ending her own life."
Damien didn't like the insults but he was in no place to ward off the men. This was all happening because the boy had stolen.
"I bet your father ran off because he couldn't stand the sight of you!"
Damien's brow twitched. The words stung in a way he hadn't expected, triggering memories he had long buried.
His father's abandonment, his uncle Osbourne's cold command to survive in the Forest of Twin Disasters—it all came rushing back.
He stepped closer, stopping a passerby, a middle-aged woman carrying a basket. "What's happening here?"
The woman sighed, her expression a mix of pity and resignation. "That boy stole some bread. He's just an orphan—his mother's dead, and his father's long gone. Poor thing."
Just as the woman finished explaining, one of the men delivered another kick to the boy, laughing cruelly as he called out, "You're just like your father anticipated—a failure and a disappointment! A little thief!"
The words hit Damien like a thunderclap, replaying in his mind. He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he fought to stay calm. He too had been looked upon by his father as a disappointment. The other family members might not have said it, but he knew they too were disappointed. Even Osbourne had failed to first hide the disappointment he felt.
"Let's just set him on fire to stop this from happening again. It'll be a warning to the others." When one man suggested burning the boy as punishment, Damien had heard enough.
With purposeful strides, Damien approached the group. His presence drew their attention, and they turned to face him, their expressions ranging from amusement to annoyance.
"That's enough," Damien said firmly, his voice low but commanding. "How much was the bread worth?"
One of the men, a burly figure with a smug grin, crossed his arms. "What's it to you, hero?"
Before he could say more, a glowing essence core sailed through the air, slamming into his face.
The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
The remaining men froze, their bravado faltering as Damien turned his cold gaze on them. He pointed to the essence core now lying on the ground.
"That's payment for the bread—and any other 'compensation' you think you're owed," he said, his tone icy. "Now back off."
The air grew heavy as Damien's aura spread, pressing down on the group like a suffocating weight. One by one, they began to back away, the hostility in their eyes replaced by fear.
With the crowd gone, Damien knelt beside the boy. The child's injuries were worse up close—his arms and legs were covered in cuts and bruises, and blood stained his tear-streaked face.
"What's your name?" Damien asked gently.
The boy sniffled, his voice barely audible. "M-Milo."
"Do you know where you live?"
Milo nodded weakly, but before he could respond, a soft voice spoke from behind Damien.
"I can take you to his orphanage," the voice said.
Damien turned, his breath hitching as he saw the speaker.
A young woman, perhaps his age, stood a few feet away. She wore a flowing blue and white gown, modest yet elegant, and her brown hair framed her delicate face. Her eyes, dark and piercing, seemed to hold a depth that made Damien feel momentarily exposed.
For a moment, he forgot to breathe. Her presence was disarming in a way he hadn't expected.
"You… can?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
The girl smiled, her lips curving in a way that made his chest tighten. "Yes. Follow me."
Damien picked Milo up carefully, cradling the boy in his arms. The child's small frame felt far too light, a stark reminder of the hardships he had endured.
As Damien followed the girl through the streets, he couldn't help but study her. She moved with an air of quiet confidence. Even her steps felt graceful and purposeful.
Something about her presence calmed him, easing the tension that had gripped him since he arrived in this unfamiliar town.
"Thank you," Damien said after a while.
The girl glanced over her shoulder, her smile gentle. "It's nothing."
He didn't know where she was leading him, but for the first time in a long while, Damien felt a faint glimmer of trust.