Scar walked alone through the streets of Darenz.
The midday sun should have been at its fiercest, most capable of dispelling shadows.At this hour on ordinary days, the streets should have been crowded and noisy, filled with the smell of sweat, hawkers' cries, the constant hum of haggling, and the vivid, living faces of people who would argue until red-faced for half a "chip."
Right now, however, it was quiet.
Or rather—along his entire walk, Scar had hardly seen any "people."The kind he recognized as people.
The talking kind.The kind who would react when kicked or shouted at—either baring their teeth in anger or shrinking back with obsequious smiles.Living, breathing "people," with clear emotional responses.
None.
There were only those lying motionless on the ground,or those that scurried swiftly on all fours.
They seemed utterly unaffected by this eerie silence.Still moving on four limbs, heads lowered, at a pace so steady it was deeply unsettling, they slipped in and out of streets, alley mouths, even the shadows of buildings—silent, focused, completely ignoring the upright-walking Scar, as if he were nothing more than another moving pillar.
These two kinds of "existence" made Scar's skin crawl.
A vague irritation rose in his chest.
He spat on the ground.
The thick phlegm landed on the dry flagstones with a soft plop.
Then he watched.
Not far away, a swiftly crawling dark shape skimmed along the base of a wall, moving in a straight line.It showed no reaction at all—not to the spit, not to him, not even the slightest disruption in its crawling rhythm—before vanishing into the shadows of another narrow alley.
"Tch."
Scar snorted through his nose, carrying both disdain and a trace of irritation at being ignored.
"Can't even tell what's good from bad. Useless things."
Boring.Couldn't even recognize the "sanctity" of spit.
Losing interest, Scar withdrew his attention and shifted his gaze to the striking red handprints smeared across the walls beside the road.
The dark red color was painfully conspicuous against the gray, dusty walls.They varied in size—some with five fingers clearly defined, others nothing more than blurred stains, as if blood-soaked hands had been slapped there in haste.
They spread and connected, forming a continuous trail,like silent, creeping crimson moss,or like a newly erupted ominous rash on the town's skin.
Scar stopped in front of an earthen wall marked with several large handprints.
He stared at the biggest, clearest one for a few seconds.
Then he raised his right hand.
That hand—thick-knuckled, rough with calluses and small scars, the same hand that had been soaked in his own blood and dust just yesterday.
He pressed it lightly, tentatively, against the red handprint on the wall.
Fingertips aligned.Palm to palm.
"Hiss…"
Scar sucked in a sharp breath.
It was a full handspan larger than his.
More than that.The fingers were thicker, longer, the palm broader.Even the intangible sense of strength embedded in the print seemed to seep through the wall itself, making his own hand feel pitifully small—like that of an undergrown child.
"What do they eat to grow this big…" he muttered.
He pulled his hand back, staring at the oppressive mark that did not belong to him, then glanced down at his own hands—hands that had weathered hardship, that had done their share of hard labor.
A subtle, indescribable emotion slipped through his chest.
He stood before the wall of red handprints, the midday sun casting his lonely shadow across the street.
All around was silence.
Only the wind wailed softly through the ruins, and from far away came the occasional rustling sound—impossible to tell whether it came from people or from things.
The once lively, living Darenz seemed to have had its soul drained overnight, leaving behind nothing but wreckage, crawling shadows, and these silent, massive blood-red marks on the walls.
Scar suddenly felt that the ill-fitting woman's clothing on his body was a little cold.
He rested his hand against the rough wall, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing against the raised grains and uneven scratches, walking as he traced the coarse texture—as if doing so could help him feel more solidly anchored to this land that had suddenly become unfamiliar and hollow.
His footsteps echoed through the silent street, sounding especially lonely.
Soon, he reached the end of the side road.
Ahead lay a T-junction.
Scar stopped, calculating.
To the right, the street was noticeably cleaner and wider.In the distance stood taller, better-maintained buildings—one of Darenz's few areas that could be called presentable, a place ruled by "different rules," likely home to so-called respectable locals or minor bosses.
A place he usually avoided.
He turned and looked left.
Three figures were strolling lazily in his direction.
They walked shoulder to shoulder, movements loose, carrying that particular mix of swagger and false bravado unique to low-level thugs.They looked no different from the sort of people Scar dealt with on a daily basis.
But as they drew closer, the afternoon sunlight fell clearly on their faces.
Scar's gaze froze.
By sheer coincidence, all three bore fresh, vivid red handprints on their faces—five fingers clearly defined, glaringly bright against their filthy skin, as if someone had just slapped them with full force.
Yet their expressions showed no humiliation or anger.
Instead, there was a kind of twisted excitement, even a savage pride, as if they were showing something off.
As Scar examined them, the tall, skinny man leading the group noticed Scar standing in the middle of the road—dressed in an ill-fitting woman's robe, blood on his temple, looking thoroughly strange.
The skinny man's eyes locked onto him, sweeping him up and down, his mouth curling into a malicious grin.
"Hey!"
He shouted loudly, his voice painfully sharp in the empty street.
"Look! There's a funny-looking clown here!"
His two companions burst into laughter, their gazes raking over Scar like he was merchandise.
"Hey, clown."The skinny man tilted his head, pointing his chin at Scar, his tone light and dripping with insult.
"Dance for us. Make us laugh.""Maybe we'll toss you half a 'chip'—buy some medicine for that busted head of yours. Hahaha!"
Dance?
Scar's mind buzzed.
Blood rushed to his head, hotter than the wound at his temple.
Anger.A violent, eruptive fury born of humiliation, contempt, and total disregard, exploded in his chest like magma.
Who was he?
He was the "great hero" who had made half the street scream in madness last night.The "savior" women fought to cling to—some even scrambling to lick his spit.The source of the red handprints covering the walls.The newly risen boss of this patch of Darenz's darkness, reeking of blood and power.
And these pieces of trash—faces still stamped with handprints, crawling out of some gutter—
Dared to call him a clown?
Dared to tell him to dance?
Hadn't they recognized him?Hadn't they seen the scar on his face?Hadn't they sensed that something about him was… different?
Scar was extremely pissed.Violently, thoroughly pissed.
This fury even overwhelmed the instinctive caution brought on by the fact that the others outnumbered him.
His face darkened, the old scar on his twitching temple twisting into something even more vicious.He stepped forward, his voice hoarse and low with rage.
"Blind or what? Can't recognize who I am?"
He wanted to see their expressions instantly twist into terror and fear the moment they recognized him—like the women in the shack.
But the fear he expected never came.
The tall, skinny man froze for a moment, exchanged a glance with his two companions, and then burst into even louder, mocking laughter.
"Hahahaha! 'Who I am'? Oh wow, you scared me!""Who the hell do you think you are? Wearing women's clothes and you think you're somebody?"
"This handprint on my face!"Another shorter, stockier thug slapped his swollen, reddened cheek and shouted smugly."Glory! Get it? Way more impressive than your lousy scar!"
"Enough talking."The third spat impatiently."Not dancing? Then strip. Anything valuable—and that weird outfit too. Might as well get some drink money!"
They didn't take Scar seriously at all.
They hadn't even looked closely at his face.Their attention was entirely on his ill-fitting clothes and the wound on his temple, treating him like a lonely freak they could bully at will.
"You're asking to die!!"
Scar's last shred of reason snapped.
Rage swallowed thought.
He let out a low roar and, without caring about anything else, swung a fist straight at the lead thug!He'd make these pieces of trash kneel—right now!
But he overestimated his current condition.
A night of madness.Blood loss.Excess.And rage rushing straight to his head.
The punch was soft, sloppy, completely unstructured.
The tall thug sidestepped it easily, a cruel grin spreading across his face.
"You dare fight?""Beat him!"
Fists and feet rained down like a storm.
Scar was instantly surrounded by all three.
He flailed uselessly, trying to block, but that little strength was nothing against three street thugs seasoned in brawls.
"Ugh!""Ah!"
Pain exploded from all directions.
He staggered, lost his footing, and a kick slammed into the back of his knee.
Thud.
He crashed to his knees.
The rough stone ground sent jolts of pain through them.
"That all you've got? Huh?!"
"Cross-dressing freak! Pah!"
The insults and blows kept coming.
Scar curled inward, arms shielding his head and face, but he couldn't block everything.
Then he felt it—
Yesterday's temple wound, barely scabbed over, was torn open again under a heavy blow or violent movement.
Warm, familiar liquid surged out.
It ran along his brow ridge, slid past the corner of his eye, flooded one side of his vision, and dripped onto the cold stone below—blooming into small, dark-red splashes of blood.
The smell of blood spread through the air.
The beating seemed to pause for a brief moment.
Then Scar heard a low exclamation—filled with shock, even a trace of fear.
"Damn it… this blood… this scar…""It's—it's him?!"
"What? Who?" another voice asked, confused.
"Who else?!"The tall thug's voice trembled, his earlier swagger completely gone.
"What do we do?! We hit him…"The third voice was thick with panic.
A brief, deathlike silence followed.
Only Scar's ragged, painful breathing remained, and the soft drip… drip… of blood hitting the ground.
Then the tall thug hissed, his voice pressed low and warped by fear:
"Why are you still standing there?! Want to die?! Run!!!"
Chaotic footsteps erupted.
They fled—fast, desperate, as if some soul-reaping demon were right behind them.
Scar lay sprawled on the cold, filthy stone road.
Blood still poured from his temple, mixed with foamy red from his split lip.Every inch of his body screamed in pain.
He barely forced open the one eye not sealed shut by blood.
All he saw were the retreating backs of the three men who had been so arrogant moments ago—scrambling, tripping over each other, vanishing around the corner without looking back, as if terrified of being swallowed by something unseen.
The street fell silent again.
Only Scar remained.
Lying in the middle of the empty noon street.
His face smeared with fresh and dried blood intertwined.His awkward women's robe torn even worse.
Like a drowned dog, stripped back to his miserable true form.
The wind passed by, carrying with it the silent gaze of the massive red handprints on the walls.
They ran.
Because they recognized him?Because they were afraid?
Then why…
Why did his chest hold no sense of victory, only a deeper, colder weakness—and the burning humiliation of being slapped hard by reality?
This "boss" thing…wasn't so easy after all.
Still.
Alright.
Scar lay prone on the cold ground, hot blood winding down his cheekbone, dripping into the corner of his mouth—salty, metallic, burning.
Pain stabbed him like countless needles, every joint groaning.
Yet his mind was unnaturally clear.
Thank the scar.
Without it, those three pieces of trash wouldn't have spared him a second glance—let alone recognized him at the last moment.
Thank this wound for refusing to heal.
The fresh scab was fragile, easily torn when struck.It was this blood that extinguished their arrogance, bought that terrified "It's him?!", and sent them fleeing.
Thank that day.
Thank the fact that he made it.
Without all this—
Scar swallowed with difficulty, blood mixed in his saliva.
Perhaps today…he really would have ended here.
Killed by three nameless thugs with handprints on their faces,rotting like a wild dog in some forgotten corner of the street.
That would've been the biggest joke of all.Even funnier than making him dance.
But he didn't die.
Scar's bloodshot eye fixed on a stubborn tuft of dry grass forcing its way through the cracks between the stones.
This was heaven's will.
Heaven's will made him take this beating—to understand how scalding-hot this boss's seat really was,how many people didn't buy it,how much danger hid in the shadows.
Heaven's will let him live.Let him keep this life—to settle accounts.
Scar strained, trembling arms pushing against the ground.
He dragged legs that felt like they didn't belong to him and forced himself upright.
Every movement sent darkness flashing before his eyes,but he gritted his teeth and refused to fall again.
He couldn't fall here.
If he fell here, he'd truly become a joke.
He oriented himself, then staggered forward step by step, dragging his broken body toward his dwelling—that filthy shack that, for now, belonged to him and gave him some sense of territory.
His steps were unsteady, leaving behind a broken trail of blood mixed with dust.
Pain and humiliation worked like twin rasps, grinding away at the fragile relief of survival,until it hardened into something colder, sharper.
Those three men…
Scar licked the split corner of his mouth, tasting more rust.
They were finished.
Once he could stand steadily.Once he could clench his fists.Once these wounds healed enough—
He'd tear them apart.
No.
That wasn't enough.
A darker, more twisted thought surfaced, carrying the aftertaste of control he'd savored last night amid the crowd's cheers.
Just tearing them apart would be too merciful.
They had to understand the price.
Everyone who still harbored false confidence, who dared disrespect him—they all had to watch.And remember.
He kept moving, gasping for breath, vision swimming.
But that thought—can't let them off easy—drove into his mind like a red-hot nail, holding him upright.
On Darenz's empty midday streets,a blood-soaked figure in a torn woman's robe moved with slow, stubborn determination toward shadow and possible revenge.