Ever have one of those moments where the world decides you're the main character, but not in the cool, chosen-one kind of way? Nah. More like the "life just clicked the punch button on you for no reason" kind of way.
It was 6 PM, and the city of Graaswell was glowing with twilight. The streets buzzed with festival energy—lights flickering on, music rising, and the sweet aroma of grilled food everywhere. I'd just taken my first bite of takoyaki, finally feeling a sense of peace for the first time in… well, forever.
Then—BAM!—a fist came out of nowhere and crashed into my face.
No warning. No "hey, can we talk?" Just full-on sucker punch, like some NPC minding their business and suddenly the world pressed the punch button.
I stumbled back, takoyaki scattered across the cobblestones.
"What the hell?!" I snapped, clutching my cheek.
An old man stood there, glaring like I'd just kicked his cat. "You! You stole my coins!"
My brain took a second to catch up. "…What?"
Marco—the takoyaki vendor—looked up from behind his grill. "Wait, what's going on?"
"I saw her!" the old man shouted, jabbing a finger at me. "She took my money!"
"You've got the wrong person!" I shouted back, heart pounding more from the shock than the pain.
Before anything else could be said, something dark and sharp sliced through the air.
An obsidian blade.
It stopped inches from my shoulder—silent, steady, threatening.
And holding it? A young man who looked like he stepped out of a storybook. Brown hair, perfectly tousled, long cloak flowing with every step he took. His presence alone seemed to mute the noise of the street around us.
"That's enough," he said flatly.
His voice was calm, but you could feel the steel behind it. The old man flinched. "She—she robbed me!"
The stranger didn't blink. "You punched a civilian without proof. That's not justice."
His obsidian sword remained drawn, but steady. He looked the man over with eyes that missed nothing. "Where's your evidence? Or were you just… angry?"
The old man hesitated. "I—I must've dropped it somewhere, I don't know!"
Marco leaned forward. "He's been causing trouble like this all afternoon. Punches first, accuses later."
I gritted my teeth, pulling out my coin pouch. "Still full. Didn't steal a thing."
The stranger finally lowered his sword.
"I suggest you leave," he told the old man. His words weren't loud—but they carried weight.
The man muttered something and backed away, disappearing into the crowd.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Thanks," I said, turning to my unexpected savior.
He gave a faint nod. "You handled yourself."
"Not really. I just got decked in public for existing."
He almost smiled—almost—but instead turned and walked away, his obsidian blade returning to its sheath without a sound.
I watched him go, wondering who the hell he was.
That wasn't a regular traveler. And something told me he wasn't done showing up in my life.
Not in Graaswell.
Not yet.