I used to be an honorable man in my days of glory, when I served the Regis family. A "captain," that's how they called me. I led the Regis troops to countless victories. A loyal dog, you could say. I watched others praise me and, even more, envy me. But never had I seen such innocence in one's eyes as yours, Vlad. How I wish you had never joined the Regis troops.
From the great terrace of the Regis fort, I watched a kid grow in the palms of adversity and the gratuitous wickedness of the privileged. Even among the underdogs, he was prey to misfortune. The young lad had unique hair — split green and gray on each side, a rare genetic condition associated with poor vision. At Regis, such a characteristic was an unfounded omen.
I learned his parents had abandoned him when he turned five. I guess his condition was the reason. With all this, he became a regular target of harassment. Each incident was as violent as the other.
I don't recall ever having seen him sad, though. Despite these obstacles, his smile always beamed as though everything was alright, even though the used rugs that served as clothes belied his expression.
I must admit, sometimes I wished for him to never wake up. Maybe death would be more clement with him. Then the opportunity presented itself. My troop patrolled down a street where crimes frequently lurked. The silvery moon lit up a silhouette. A man pulled a seven-year-old child. His screams and calls for distress indicated a boy being kidnapped.
The voice was familiar. His shiny eyes — emerald green — reflected the stars, bathed in tears. It was him, the pariah. I could've let him go. Death surely awaited him. I thought, this could be his deliverance.
But then it hit me. It was the first time I had seen tears on him. Besides, he didn't utter any words of distress. Rather, he pointed at a breached wall carved into a hidden entrance and whispered,
"Please, help."
There in the entrance, a younger boy with black hair was hidden, his eyes closed in terror.
I realized he wasn't asking to be saved. The omen had accepted his fate. Even in what were supposed to be his last moments, he didn't want his brother to suffer the same.
What was I thinking? Abandoning an innocent child to the mercy of evil. If I hadn't helped him, today I would be dead of guilt.
That evening, after the guards returned, I learned the reason he stayed back. Why he confronted injustice with a smile. Pale, always dressed in rugs, a seven-year-old boy abandoned with a brother four years younger than him. His words filled the cavity glory had dug in my heart:
"If I cry, I can't comfort little brother. See? He likes it when I smile."
The young boy hoped to be a soldier. His voice, when I asked the reason, still echoes in my mind:
"…so my little brother doesn't have to live like I did."
He was younger back then, but at the age of only fourteen, he joined the third rank of the Regis troop — the third best. He had dyed his hair green to match his eyes.
His prowess was remarkable, and his conviction solid. Years passed, yet his smile remained unshaken.
Then came the day he finally joined the Regis Silver Troop — the second rank and second most reputed troop. My troop.
I was glad. For the first time, I saw a genuine smile on his face — one that belonged to him. I trained him to be fit. I was far from thinking he would one day be better than me.
My heart drowns in its tears whenever I witness such a ray in this broken world.
The Old World might be no more. Still, its influence lingers within the Great Walls, with BLOOM at its center.
Today, we are divided and compensated with egocentric leaders in a power system that favors a new human characteristic BLOOM coined "accommodation."
In this New World, wealth is measured in silver, beauty, and genetic quality. I feel sorry for the children of Nu, who might never know such privileges.
Perhaps I shouldn't complain myself, as a proud member of the Regis family. Though, I must admit, it hurts even more to watch our sector succumb to darkness.
If only the master of the Regis sector — Igor Regis — would listen to his people.
Instead, he rallied his troops down the streets of the underdogs, capturing residents for some madness he called experiments. The smirk on his face irritates my nerves when I recall what he said:
"For the good of our people."
How could I fight crime when I knew the Regis family — the order I served — were the maestros behind the obscenities?
I was powerless, struck between honor and righteousness. But not Vlad. The night I received the instructions, Vlad overheard me venting my frustration.
He raced under the pouring rain, trying to warn the citizens. However, nobody listened. Some even reported his "profanities" to the order. He wondered why, but the rain had washed away his dye. The omen was back, and his title became meaningless.
His expression was one of profound loneliness and confusion.
Then the chaos began.
The Silver Troop stormed down from the camp to the underdogs, their swords and guns leaving traces of blood on walls and dread in the air. The citizens rapidly realized Vlad's intent, yet blamed it all on him — just like they always did.
Ashamed of myself, I abstained from the massacre, leaving my troop under the lead of my most trusted lieutenant — Eyes.
From the fort, I saw the yellow and orange flames consuming the sector. The cries of the underdogs were more piercing than the finesse of my sword. Then I made a choice — to walk the path of righteousness over honor. However, the wrong was already done. The citizens had crossed the Great Gates to the wastelands, and with them, Vlad's sibling.
But just as the battle was about to begin — just Vlad and I against the Regis — Igor showed up. It was all a setup. They sold the land to BLOOM, and with it, Vlad.
For some reason, BLOOM had taken an interest in Vlad's condition. Negotiations were rapid, as they threatened Manson's life. And I… I couldn't say a word.
Surrounded by odds, Vlad made a choice. I still feel the heat from the blaze born of chaos, and hear his voice when he said:
"Hey. I know you meant no harm, and I'm grateful for your help."
"Please, take good care of Manson and yourself."
That was the last time I saw his smile. Not the genuine one, but the forced one — as though I were Manson. That's a wound I was never meant to heal from. I hope I keep my promise.
~ Captain Reynolds