A heavy silence pressed down on the abandoned building, broken only by the rasp of steel against leather as the man drew his sword. "They said just pour tons of aura into it, right?" His voice was calm, almost conversational, a stark contrast to the sudden, chilling transformation of his weapon. The silver blade began to glow with a faint, ethereal blue at the cutting edge, the icy luminescence spreading rapidly until the entire sword was encased in a shimmering sheath of frost. He raised the weapon, poised to strike the wall, then hesitated, the movement freezing mid-air. "Wait," he muttered, his voice laced with a sudden apprehension. "This is a bad idea. I'm just walking into enemy territory uninvited. Plus, we finally found the entrance—that's all I was ordered to do." Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the sword. The ice, melting with a soft sigh, dripped onto the rough, unforgiving floor, leaving glistening trails in its wake. With a practiced flick of the wrist, he sent the sword spinning through the air before it slid smoothly back into its sheath, the last vestiges of frost disappearing.
He then removed the sword and sheath from his back in one fluid motion, and with a flick of his wrist, tossed the sword into the air. It vanished.
He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, the worn material familiar and comforting against his skin. Turning, he walked out of the building through the gaping maw of the broken doorway. He adjusted his red scarf, pulling it higher to conceal his face, the fabric a dark mask against the fading light. As he walked away, a slight breeze stirred, momentarily revealing a number—a three, stylized as a sinuous dragon serpent—written in black ink on the inside of his jacket. "I wonder what they're going to do once they find the guy they're looking for," he mused, the question hanging unanswered in the twilight air. The sun dipped below the horizon as he passed a playground, the setting sun casting long shadows. Two boys, their faces etched with sadness and anger, argued fiercely over something, their words lost to him in the growing dusk.
“You didn’t even bring cold water! Do you know how hot it was today? This water is warm!” The boy in red shorts and a blue T-shirt complained, his voice tight with frustration.
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“I was in a hurry,” the second boy, in jeans and a white T-shirt, mumbled defensively. “I was already too far when I realized it wasn’t cold.”
“You should have taken the water from the fridge,” the first boy insisted.
“I did! Mom must have just put it in there,” the second boy said, scratching his head, clearly exasperated.
The man observing them from a distance pieced together the argument. "I’m not really great with kids," he thought, a sigh escaping his lips in a small, frosty plume of breath. "Here we go."
He walked toward the two boys, who fell silent at his approach. "Hey kids," he began, his voice a little hesitant, a touch nervous. "You... you want some cold water?"
"Do you sell cold water?" the second boy asked suspiciously.
The first boy whispered, "He must be one of those homeless people who go around selling cold water."
The man's eye twitched, but his voice remained calm. "Do I look like a homeless person to you?"
He quickly recovered, saying, "Um, I mean, no. I'm not selling anything. I'm just going to show you a little trick." With surprising speed, he snatched the bottle from the first boy's hand.
"Hey! Give that back!" the first kid protested.
"Is this homeless guy trying to steal our water?" the second boy muttered.
Before they could react, the man had slipped the bottle into his jacket and then swiftly produced it again. "Voilà..." he said, a slight smile playing on his lips.
The boys' eyes widened in surprise. The warm water was now filled with chunks of glistening ice.
"How did you do that?" the first boy asked, taking back the bottle. The sudden chill against his palm was a stark contrast to the warm water moments before.
"As I said, it's a trick," the man replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "It's magic."
"Wow, that's so cool! Can you teach us how to do that?" the second boy exclaimed, his eyes wide with fascination.
The first boy, however, remembered his mother's warnings. "Thank you, sir, but our mom told us not to talk to strangers."
"Right, you should listen to your mom," the man said, waving a hand dismissively. "I would have loved to stay and teach you, but I have to go. A magician never reveals his tricks. Bye now."
"Bye!" the second boy called out.
The man continued walking, a lightness in his step. The feeling was different, profoundly different from the satisfaction—or perhaps it was a different kind of emptiness—he got from ending people's lives. He smiled, the expression hidden beneath his scarf. "That wasn't so bad," he murmured to himself, a genuine warmth spreading through him.