Running through the sands, a young boy is fleeing for his life—out of breath, thirsty, and covered in wounds. He trips over his own leg, falling into the sand before scrambling to get back up. He takes a quick look behind him—bad idea. He's immediately met with a punch to the jaw.
"You little shit!" the attacker shouts, kicking the boy back to the ground and beating him into the desert sand.
"What gives you the right to steal from me? I raised you, so I decide when you get to eat, you little shit!"
Curling into a ball, the boy cries softly as blow after blow lands—surely causing more bruising, if there's anywhere left to bruise at all. After what feels like an eternity, the man finally stops kicking him.
"Either die out here, or find a new family to burden, you little shit," the man says, before walking away.
The boy doesn't move. He doesn't have the strength. Even if he did—sometimes it's just better to give up and die. It's far better than living another second out here in the frontier. So, the boy closes his eyes and waits.
After a few minutes, there's a shuffling in the sand a few feet away. Must be a beast coming to eat me, the boy thinks, waiting for his death. But as the shuffling gets closer, there's no pain—no teeth tearing into skin—only a low, gravelly hum.
Then the humming stops, and a gruff old voice follows.
"Kid, have you already decided to lie down and die?" The man pauses a minute looking over the battered child before continuing. "You're not even ten… and the world's already chewed you up and spit you out. Damn."
"Leave me alone," the boy mutters, barely above a whisper. "I don't want your pity. I just… want it to end."
"This isn't pity, kid. It's a debt I'm paying—to someone who mattered. So tell me straight… are you done?"
"Isn't it obvious?" the boy snaps, tears slipping down his dirt-caked cheeks. "Yes. I'm done. I give up. Death has to be better than living another second in this hell."
He chokes back a sob, his voice cracking—not from weakness, but from a soul too tired to keep screaming.
"Like hell it is," the man growls. "I've met death, kid—and it ain't peace. It's just more pain with the lights turned off. So I'll ask one last time…"
A beat of silence.
"Are you giving up?"
The boy trembles, shaking under the weight of it all. Then, slowly, he looks up at the shadow looming above him. His voice is raw. Honest.
"No. I don't want to die… I just don't want to hurt anymore."
The figure studies him for a moment, then lets out a quiet grunt—a sound somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. He places a rough, calloused hand on the boy's head.
"Then get stronger, Bakma. Build a world where you don't have to hurt anymore."
With those words echoing in his mind, Bakma finally lets go, his battered body giving in as the darkness takes him.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
On the other end of the frontier, a town is burning. Corpses litter the streets, and people run for their lives. Yet among the chaos, one boy runs farther into it.
"FATHER! FATHER, WHERE ARE YOU?" the kid screams, eyes scanning the crowd of people rushing past him, searching desperately.
Farther into the chaos, we see the cause—a group of outlaws locked in combat with a single man. With each swing of the man's sword, buildings collapse and the ground trembles. But the fight can't last much longer. The man is outnumbered, and he's burning through his qi too quickly. Though more and more outlaws fall with every strike, just as many surge forward to take their place.
As one outlaw crashes to the ground, another leaps over the corpse and fires a shot. The man reacts instantly, slashing upward and slicing the bullet in half, sending the shrapnel whizzing past on either side. But in that moment, his relentless assault falters—and the outlaws don't waste it.
Still pushing through the sea of panicked civilians, the boy hears a gunshot and breaks into a sprint. He shoves his way through the crowd, knocking people aside as he charges ahead. When the last person runs past him, he finally sees the battle clearly.
His father stands bloodied, riddled with bullet holes and torn by slashes. The boy screams. His father turns at the sound—just long enough to let his guard down.
Another shot rings out.
With a heavy thud, the body hits the ground. The outlaws cheer.
The boy rushes past them to the fallen corpse, collapsing to his knees, sobbing over his father's body. One outlaw watches, a look of remorse shadowing his face.
"He left me with no choice, Jaeho... I didn't want to do this," the Captain says softly, looking down at the crying boy.
"SHUT UP!" the boy screams, his voice cracking with rage and grief.
"I should've known you were just another filthy outlaw like the rest of them!" the boy growls. He slowly rises, weakly lifting his father's sword—barely able to get it off the ground.
"Don't do this, kid," the Captain says, quickly wiping the remorse from his face.
The boy tries to swing the sword, but stumbles, falls, and slams his head against the ground. The crowd of outlaws bursts into laughter as the boy's fury boils over. He pushes himself up again, only to be struck down by a swift whip from the outlaw's pistol.
Turning to his gang, the Captain shouts, "Take whatever isn't nailed down—and bring the kid home. If I see any of you disrespect him, or his father I swear I'll put a bullet in you myself!"
Jaeho looks up at the Captain one last time, his face twisted in pure rage—before finally losing consciousness, just a few feet from the bloodied corpse of his father.