Sunthia

The doors slam open with a crash.

A woman stumbles in—black hair disheveled, red eyes brimming with tears. It’s Sunthia. She looks terrified, scanning the hall with desperation.

“Beatrix!” she gasps. “Did you see Nine?”

Beatrix straightens. “He left not long ago.”

Sunthia’s face drains of color. “No… no! I need to warn him!”

She turns to bolt out the door.

Hanla steps forward, placing a firm hand on her shoulder.
“What happened?”

Sunthia stares at her, trembling. “Who—who are you? No, that doesn't matter now- N-NOTHING-”

She rips herself free, sprinting out into the street.

Hanla doesn’t hesitate. She snatches up the glowing brooch, pins it to the scarf on her pants, and runs after her.

She doesn’t look okay. Something’s wrong. Something horrible. I can’t let her go alone—not like that. Not when her pain cuts this deep.

Hanla pushes through the guild doors, chasing after Sunthia through the streets of Jarathia.

The streets twist and turn, but Hanla stubbornly keeps up. The further they go, the worse the city looks. The polished stone gives way to cracked marble, then to bare dirt and sagging beams. Houses lean against each other, their walls caved in, their drooping roofs the only part still holding.

This is no longer Jarathia’s bustling heart. This is its ghetto.

Children swarm the streets barefoot, their clothes nothing but rags. Their eyes are hollow—blue, green, brown, but each with a faint, unsettling sheen of red. The adults linger like shadows at broken walls: pale skin, red eyes, women draped in torn fabric, their stares emptied of hope.

In the middle of the street, three children kick a makeshift ball made of cotton between them. Laughter echoes, fragile, almost defiant.

Then Sunthia collapses.

Hanla rushes to her side, but the children reach her first.

A boy with black hair and brown eyes leans close, his small hands trembling. “Sister… you didn’t find him, did you?”

Sunthia shudders, silent, her hand pressed hard against her stomach.

A blonde girl crouches beside her, her long hair matted with dirt. Her shirt hangs in tatters, one pant leg ripped away. She clings to Sunthia’s hand with desperation.

The adults only watch, sorrow carved deep into their faces.

Hanla drops to one knee, gripping Sunthia’s shoulder firmly.

“I don’t know what’s going on yet,” she says, steady but low. “But I will act. I won’t just watch.”

Sunthia’s eyes flicker, wide with disbelief.

Hanla closes her own, and memories surge—smoldering ruins, children robbed of innocence, a war that left only suffering behind. She sees herself again, standing in dust and ash, writing truths no one wanted to hear. Truth that couldn’t bring back the dead.

She exhales slowly, forcing that weight into resolve.

“If good humans don’t push back…” Hanla opens her eyes, silver burning. “…then evil ones win. Every time.”

Her voice sharpens, cutting through the empty street.

“I’ve seen it before. And I’ll never just watch again.”

Sunthia’s lips tremble as she finally speaks. “Who… who are you?”

Hanla crouches closer. “Hey. Kids—do you have a quiet place for us? I think we adults need some time to talk.”

Faisc, Sunthia’s brother, nods silently.

Hanla stretches out her hand. Sunthia hesitates, then grabs it. Her fingers are icy cold. Hanla squeezes gently and smiles.

On the way, Hanla scoops up the makeshift cotton ball the kids had been playing with. Faisc leads them down the ruined street to a crooked wooden shack, its walls fractured, held together by little more than planks and hope.

Sunthia clings to Hanla’s hand all the while. The silence weighs heavy, broken only by their footsteps.

Hanla glances at the boy. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Faisc,” he replies, steady but shy.

“That’s a cool name,” Hanla says.

“And you?” His eyes flick to the red brooch pinned to Hanla’s waist.

“I’m Hanla,” she grins, “Hanla the Dragonfist.”

Sunthia lets out a weak chuckle at that.

“Dragonfist?” Faisc tilts his head. “Isn’t that… kinda childish?”

They stop before the shack. Hanla spins the cotton ball on her index finger like a basketball. Faisc’s eyes widen in awe.

“Being childish is fine,” Hanla says. “It’s one of the few things worth protecting. If you let go of it, the world will crush you under its weight.”

She whistles sharply, tosses the ball high, then kicks it with her full strength. The ball flies off down the street like a shooting star. A boy much further away tries to intercept it but fumbles—it slams past him into a makeshift goal.

“Goal!” Hanla laughs.

“Whoa!” Faisc’s eyes gleam. “That was sick!”

“I know,” Hanla teases. “Now go—play with your friends.”

Faisc bites his lip, glancing back at Sunthia. “Sunthia…”

Sunthia forces a smile, still pale. “I-it’s fine, Faisc. Go on.”

Relieved, the boy runs off. “Hanla the Dragonkick!” he shouts, already laughing with the others. “I’ll beat you one day!”

Hanla blinks. “…Did he just call me Dragonkick?”

Sunthia scratches her head faintly. “Yes…”

Before Hanla can continue, Sunthia bows suddenly, stiff with shame. “My apologies for his—”

“Don’t bow. Don’t apologize,” Hanla cuts her off gently.

Inside, the shack surprises Hanla. Flowers, mostly pink and red, decorate the floor, and children’s drawings are pinned along the walls. Despite the ruined outside, this place tries its best to look cozy.

The living area is simple: a low table covered in papers, several chairs carved from shimmering crystal. On the wall hangs a photo—Sunthia shaking her fist angrily at Nine, who leans against a wall, barely looking at the camera, completely detached.

Hanla studies the papers. Distributors, ledgers, transactions: fire-stones, water-stones, shipments of blackwood.

Sunthia lowers herself into a crystal chair, her lips trembling. “I’ve been… working. Every day. Sorry for the mess.”

Hanla waves it off. “It’s not messy. Just lived-in.”

“It’s still… not how I wanted you to see it.”

Hanla smiles faintly. “For the first day here, it’s already been one hell of an introduction.”

Sunthia exhales shakily, staring at the scattered papers. Her eyes glisten, and she bites her lip until it almost bleeds.

Hanla notices and softens her voice. “I’m here. You don’t have to say a word. But you’re not alone.”

Silence. Then, finally, Sunthia whispers one word, her voice breaking.

“…Nine…”

Hanla leans closer, her own words calm but sharp. “You like Nine, I get it. What are you so worried about?”

Sunthia trembles. Her hands claw at her own hair. She bites her lip until blood stains her mouth. Hanla doesn’t stop her—just waits.

Eventually, Sunthia draws a breath. “Nine… he’s a hero. The only reason we’re still alive. The only reason we can even dream of tomorrow. But now… they want to get rid of him—”

“Why now?” Hanla asks.

Sunthia presses her hand to her stomach. Her whole body is shaking. “He… he freed my brother. And—he killed the kidnappers. No, that’s not all—” Tears begin streaming down her face. “He killed them because of me. Because I was weak. Because I couldn’t—”

Her voice breaks. She sobs into her hands. “It’s my fault. I’m worthless… worthless… worthless—”

Hanla hardens her gaze. “No. I think you’re something special.”

Sunthia stares up at her in disbelief.

Hanla’s tone is sure and strong. “It only takes one bad day to shatter a person. One wound deep enough to break the gentlest soul. Don’t blame yourself for bleeding when you had to.”

She rises, pacing back and forth, then stops, thinking.

The clues are here. This girl’s endured hell. And Nine stood between her and destruction. But why risk so much, openly, if he’s hunted already? Why stay tied to a guild at all? The timing… none of it adds up.

Sunthia clutches at the table’s edge, whispering. “Because of his protection, we survive—the children, the medicine, the food. If he dies… all hope dies with him. I already gave up. I’m so useless…”

Hanla kneels in front of her, taking her trembling hand, and then she pulls her close. “Listen. You’re not worthless. You’re human. And he fought for you because you matter.”

Sunthia collapses into Hanla’s arms, sobbing. “It’s all over… we’re doomed…”

Hanla gently strokes her hair, letting her rest against her shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe not! But I’ll look for a way to make this mess turn out different. I promise.”

Her thoughts churn as she holds the broken girl.

Some things never change. Pain, despair—they echo across every world. But how do you change a system this rotten? With just one person? One fist?

Sunthia’s breathing slows. Exhaustion takes her and she curls up against Hanla like a child.

Hanla carefully lifts her and places her on a black couch in the shack. Then she leans back against the wall, closing her eyes, her mind still racing.

Still, everything’s off. There has to be something more that’s rotten here. I can only guess—and pray Nine doesn’t do anything reckless.

Her gaze softens as she opens her eyes to Sunthia’s sleeping form.

Poor thing. They call this place a hellhole. Maybe there’s more to that name than I thought.

Hanla sighs.