The pale light of a reluctant dawn struggled to penetrate the grimy window of the dilapidated room, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with the dust motes suspended in the stagnant air. Within this oppressive space, a boy, barely a man at the tender age of sixteen, hung suspended from a rusted steel chain that bit cruelly into his wrists. His auburn hair, usually vibrant with youthful energy, now clung to his sweat-soaked temples, matted and dull. His body, thin and fragile from what was clearly a prolonged period of malnourishment, bore the angry welts and bruises of recent violence. Each shallow breath he drew was a testament to the agonizing pain that coursed through him, yet a stubborn spark of life flickered within his weary eyes. To surrender now, to succumb to the overwhelming despair that threatened to engulf him, was an unthinkable betrayal – a shattering of the silent promise he had made to the figures who haunted his memories, the ones he loved, cherished, and missed with an ache that resonated deep within his bones.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, its hinges groaning in protest as a hulking figure filled the frame, momentarily eclipsing the meager light. The man, whose considerable girth strained the fabric of his ill-fitting shirt, stood a solid 170 centimeters, his presence radiating an air of crude authority. His gaze, heavy-lidded and smug, fell upon the suspended boy, and a cruel smirk twisted his lips. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a grating rasp, laced with a perverse satisfaction.
"Well, well, well," he began, the sound echoing in the confined space, "look what the cat dragged in. Kane, wasn't it? Your luck, boy, truly operates in the most baffling of ways. Fancy you, trying to pilfer the diary from my very own abode, only to be apprehended with such… remarkable ease." He paused, a flicker of something akin to contemplation crossing his features. "It did strike me as odd, your ineptitude. A thief of your supposed caliber… to be caught so readily? Then, the pieces began to fall into place, didn't they? The pallor of your skin, the tremor in your hands… the whispers I've overheard in the taverns. The Nightmare Spell. You're afflicted, aren't you?"
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. "That persistent fatigue, the sleepless that can be seen… it all makes sense now. The insidious symptoms of the Nightmare Spell have dulled your senses, which ultimately led to your current… predicament."
The man's self-satisfied pronouncements hung in the air, thick and suffocating. A raw, guttural laugh erupted from Kane's throat, a sound laced with bitter irony and simmering rage. Despite the throbbing agony that wracked his body, despite the despair that clawed at the edges of his sanity, a fierce defiance burned within him.
"So what, you bloated bastard?" Kane spat, his voice hoarse and strained from disuse and pain. "Should I shower you with praise for finally managing to string a few coherent thoughts together? Yes, you're right. I've been battling the cursed Nightmare Spell for a week, each day a descent into deeper exhaustion. And yes, I tried to steal the diary. Because that diary belonged to my parents! And mark my words, you vile piece of filth, I will try again."
The grown man's face contorted in a mask of fury. His thick fingers, adorned with cheap, gaudy rings, clenched into a fist. With a swift, brutal motion, he snatched a heavy chain that lay coiled on a nearby table and brought it down twice upon Kane's already battered body. Each strike landed with a sickening thud, eliciting a strangled cry from the boy.
"You are destined to rot, you insignificant rat," the man snarled, his breath hot and fetid against Kane's face. "What sentimental value could a diary hold for the likes of you? A diary penned by the infamous Outskirts Killer, no less! A monster who terrorized these lands once upon a time. You won't get your grubby little hands on it again. I've already taken care of that… for your transgression." He punctuated his words with a cruel, self-satisfied grin. "I burned it. Reduced it to ashes. Consider it a lesson learned, boy. And now, I have a more pressing engagement for you."
With a callous disregard for Kane's obvious suffering, the man fumbled in his pocket and produced a pair of cold, steel handcuffs. He roughly unlocked the chain that suspended Kane, letting the boy's weakened body slump downwards with a jarring thud. Ignoring the groan of pain that escaped Kane's lips, he swiftly and efficiently secured the cuffs around his wrists.
"The police station's bunker will be the best suited for you," the man announced, dragging Kane towards the door with surprising strength. "Consider this your one-way ticket out of my life. From there, you can crawl into whatever festering hole you deem fit. Do whatever you want. Though, I highly doubt you'll survive the relentless grip of the Spell. A weakling like you? You're nothing but a stain on this world, a pathetic piece of… excrement."
He hauled Kane out of the room, through the dimly lit corridors of the dilapidated building, and out into the harsh glare of the morning sun. With a final, contemptuous shove, he sent Kane sprawling onto the dusty road in front of the local police station, the cold metal of the handcuffs biting into his skin. The heavy oak door of the station seemed to mock him with its silent indifference.
Lying there, bruised, battered, and abandoned, Kane slowly pushed himself up, his limbs trembling with exhaustion and pain. A wave of despair washed over him, cold and suffocating. "Shit," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I lost it. The only tangible link to them… the only thing my parents left me."
A hollow ache settled in his chest, a void where hope had once resided. Only a gnawing sadness and a burning, impotent rage remained. The cruel irony of his situation twisted in his gut. His parents, far from being the monstrous "Outskirts Killer" the man had claimed, had been innocent souls, brutally murdered when Kane was a mere four years old. He remembered fragments of that horrific night – the screams, the flashing steel, the crimson stain spreading across the floor. A particular Legacy Clan, shrouded in whispers and fear, had been responsible for their deaths.
For years, Kane had harbored a burning desire for revenge, a desperate yearning to expose the truth behind his parents' tragic demise. He had clung to the hope that the diary held the key, the evidence needed to clear their names and bring their killers to justice. But now… the diary was gone, reduced to ashes by a man steeped in ignorance and malice.
Even if the diary had survived, a chilling realization settled upon Kane. The Immortal Flame Clan, the very entity that had extinguished his parents' lives and shattered his own, had long since faded into the annals of history. Their once formidable power had waned, their lineage extinguished. Their legends, carefully crafted over generations, had effectively buried the bloody truth of their past deeds, ensuring that the spilled blood remained hidden beneath layers of fabricated glory. His quest for vengeance, his desperate fight to reclaim his parents' honor, seemed utterly futile, a solitary flame flickering against an overwhelming darkness. The weight of his loss, the injustice of it all, threatened to crush him entirely. Yet, even in the face of such profound despair, the embers of his promise, the unwavering memory of those he loved and missed, refused to be extinguished. He would endure. He had to. For them.