Footsteps pattered against the rain-wet streets. The erratic descent of water droplets from roof tiles into well-traveled pools signified the end of another Summer storm. Hunger swam in a young boy's eyes from a nearby alleyway.

Quintin was a six-year-old orphan living a harsh fate. He shiver-sneezed, further promoting the ever-present hunger to arise. His ribs pressed against crying guts with every breath, which made him wince in pain.

Squinting upward, the parting clouds took on the shape of a fluffy-cream dragon. Heat from the sun baked his moist skin. A smile crept across his boyish features as the warmth of pure imagination played out in his mind.

Soon thereafter, a contrasting shadow overtook the moment, the escapist imagery was replaced by a frown. Reality stirred his mirthless eyes open. A man stood over him in the alleyway.

He shied away in shrill surprise, "Ah- I'm not hurting anyone by sitting here... am I?"

The man who stood before him wore a loose-fitting robe that was spotless and white. It seemed to draw all attention upwards to his bald head and then back down again in pursuit of a thin-wispy Fu Manchu beard that flowed to his waist. His brown, bespectacled eyes peered pensively down on Quintin before a wide, toothy smile shone with all the brightness in the world.

The man's mesmerizing smile reminded him of the way his parents used to be before he wound up destitute and alone. Even with the storm long over, new dampness fell from small places, in pockets of sorrow.

The jovial man spoke, "My name is Bilal Abbasi. Wandering by, I couldn't help but see- and hear- your current situation. So, I thought, why not make an offer? How about it; do you want to become my First Disciple, kid?"

His eyes widened as understanding dawned on him. With frantic energy, he tried to make himself look as presentable as possible. He didn't achieve much, before feeling Bilal's hand tousle his hair around.

Quintin looked up through those strong fingers of his Master and began to laugh for the first time in a long time.

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As the flashback departed, his one functional eye slowly opened. Over the past few months, these recollections were an intrusive guest of his waking hours. However, not unwelcome, he fondly remembered the Master who changed the course of his life.

His Master taught him how to read and write. To live again in the sun; to enjoy what accomplishments the future promised; to look ahead, instead of back at the phantom impersonation of his parents.

Additionally, Master Bilal allowed him to learn martial arts. He once called the arts manual 'The Nameless Sutra' with a melancholic overtone. In practice, the military aspect was on throws, grapples, and precision punches. Though, the focus of the Sutra weighed heavily on leveraging joints and disturbing the power rotations of an opponent.

Under his Master's dutiful guidance, he held his head high along the narrow walk of life.

But now, his Master, Bilal Abbasi, was gone. For all twenty-seven years of his life, there had never been a more pivotal person. Legacy might dictate that he take up the mantle of teacher and provider. Though for now, he mourned the passing of that jovial redeemer in his memory.

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A rustle of movement caught his attention, causing the idle thoughts to pass. Because of the mist, he couldn't see more than a few feet in any direction. Even if unseen, he could tell his Junior Brother's movements apart from the chaff. The name of this younger brother was Oltoi.

The teenager groaned, finally giving voice to mild irritation, "Ew- so moist, I don't like it up here. Big bro, where are you? Are ya' almost done?"

With each passing moment, it became more and more evident that no meditation would be taking place today. Quintin sighed, "Hmm- you don't like it, huh... What did Master always say again? Ah yes, to overcome our fears, we must confront them in reality. Should we go get the suspension harness again?"

Oltoi squeaked out a hasty reply, "Nonsense. No no. Where we are is fine. That won't be necessary today," he meekly added, "please?"

Quintin relented with a snort. He sighed once again, but a wan smile tugged on his lips, "Just hold tight, elephant boy. I'm coming over to you."

Ever since their Master passed on, it was just the two of them. Together, they took care of Bilal's old monastery in the Himalayas overlooking Dehra Dun. The baby-faced Oltoi still struggled with the grief. Most days, he was attached at Quintin's hip; the fourteen-year-old boy could only latch on for dear comfort.

Quintin found the boy a short distance from the meditation platform. The teenager blindly navigated forward with outstretched hands, as if the ground would suddenly fall out from under him.

Oltoi's relief manifested after getting hold of his black martial gi. "Phew- We look after this place better than we do ourselves, bro. Why not employ some of those old guys from down the mountain? Maybe then we could go into the city on the weekend, eh-eh?"

The brat nudged him in the ribs, sharply, "Hey! Are you a Termite or something? Do I look like a plank of wood, huh? Tell you what; if we get all the chores done by dinnertime, we can go down to the city tonight."

"Woah- Really, you mean it!?" Oltoi's excitement was contagious, "Leave it to me, bro. I already ate breakfast, so I'm ready to machinegun this cleaning!"

Quintin led the way back to the monastery. Their silhouettes receded through the morning mist. The two held on to each other even as the banter continued.

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The monastery was a well-maintained and deeply cherished place, with marble walls gleaming into a deep archway. Directly past that, an open martial field took up a large box of space. Walk paths trimmed the edges and went off to side rooms, a garden, and other less obvious places.

One such path led to an equipment lockup, where all of the monastery's surplus items and training gear were held. They both came up to the double doors and push-parted them.

Quintin felt more lighthearted today, so he posed a question, "How about we play a few rounds of Swordcrusher before the cleaning starts?"

"You wanna play Swordcrusher? We haven't done that since..." much of Oltoi's former excitement drained, but reemerged an instant later, "S-Sure! Lately, I've wanted to play, but never knew how to ask."

The 'Swordcrusher', as the pair dubbed the thing, was an odd piece of machinery. Master Bilal brought it back as a souvenir from one of his many adventures abroad. It was, for all intents and purposes, a pneumatic weapon-catch device. Once a weapon fell into the slot on either chain mesh glove, the blade would snap with a simple squeeze. Neither of them was an expert with the device. So, they only used dull blades and half-hearted attacks during the game.

Quintin put on a basket helmet. Along with the other padding, looking like a marshmallow man but far more deadly and determined.

"Ready when you are!" he motioned eagerly.

Oltoi swung the dull sword straight into the weapon catch with directed poise. The slash demanded to be caught. However, Quintin never got the chance to do so. A golden-flecked spiral fell over top of him through the mist. The surrounding space began to shimmer, as the grand order of time ceased operations.

Everything froze except for that descending spring of light. His body fell numb to the vibrational force of the imminent tendril. The pneumatic device began to superheat from the friction, fusing with his skin and even deeper inside the bone and tissue. He wanted to scream, but nothing came out. Before his eyes turned up and white, the tendril nipped into his sightless left eye. As it came, so too did it depart. Though, it brought along an unconscious guest for the return trip.