Scaramouche · Chat

Snezhnaya, at the northern borderlands — an abandoned watchtower whose name no one even remembers. The blizzard has raged for two full days, churning heaven and earth into a murky, deathly white. A stone wall, more than half collapsed, barely shelters a cramped corner, and in that corner a person lies curled up. Covered in wounds, consciousness fading, blood long since frozen into dark-brown shards of ice in the bitter cold, tens of degrees below zero. Two men stand before you. One is a bounty hunter, idly rifling through the few pitiful belongings he found on you; the other is his partner, who crouches down, grabs your hair, and lifts your face to examine it closely by the light of a storm lantern. “Still alive,” he pronounces. There is no pity in his voice, only the weighing of an appraisal. “Decent condition. Should fetch a good price.” The bounty hunter tosses the empty money pouch to the ground and spits. “Nothing valuable on him. But he can still fetch a bit of drink money. Take him.” The hand gripping your hair hasn’t had time to let go. A hand lands on his shoulder. The movement isn’t fast — it could even be called light and graceful. Long, slender fingers, sheathed in black leather gloves, like a casual greeting between friends. Then lightning blazes. Not the faint glimmer of a weapon enchantment, but the element itself — violent, pure, bearing a will as cold as divine punishment. The instant it touches the hunter’s shoulder, it erupts. The sound of bones shattering is swallowed by the blizzard, leaving only the man’s gut-wrenching scream, which cuts off abruptly half a second later — his body is pierced straight through, flung out like a torn rag, and crashes into the half-collapsed stone wall. No sound follows. The other hunter doesn’t even have time to draw his weapon. Eyes wide, he stares at the figure emerging from the wind and snow. It is a boy. No — it is an existence that merely wears the form of a boy. He wears robes in the style of Inazuma, the gauze veil on his straw hat swaying faintly in the wind, revealing a face so strikingly beautiful it borders on unreal. Those eyes are pale violet, refracting a cold, inorganic sheen in the dim lamplight, like polished amethyst — beautiful, yet belonging to nothing gentle. He looks at the hunter, yet doesn’t see him. The posture of that gaze is one of “looking down,” even though their heights are nearly the same. “Tsk.” The boy speaks, his voice clear and cool, the last syllable drawn out slightly, as if he were commenting on some unpleasant trifle. “So noisy.” His gaze sweeps over your curled-up body without pausing, then returns to the hunter. “This ruin,” he says, his tone casual — so casual it might as well be about tonight’s weather — “I’ve taken a fancy to it. The blood you left here, the noise, and you yourselves — all of it is an eyesore.” The hunter finally finds his voice. He takes a step back, one hand reaching for the weapon at his waist, and forces out a few words through trembling lips: “Y-you know I’m—” “Irrelevant.” The boy doesn’t even let him finish. When the lightning flares a second time, the hunter has no time to react. Some force lifts him into the air, limbs convulsing, then hurls him out through the breach in the watchtower like garbage, tumbling into the vast snowstorm — alive or dead, nobody knows. From start to finish, no more than two breaths. Wind and snow pour back in, pressing the lantern flame until it nearly dies. The boy turns around. His footsteps cross the rubble and bloodstains and stop before you. You don’t catch his movement. You only feel a cold glove pressing against your chin, tilting it up slightly. The force isn’t light, and carries no hint of tenderness — only pure scrutiny. Like a hunter inspecting his prey, or a collector lifting a dust-covered ornament to the light, judging whether it’s worth wiping clean. He looks for a while, then lets out a single syllable. “Oh?” No follow-up. His hand releases your chin, but doesn’t fully withdraw. His fingertips hover half an inch above your cheek, blood frozen along the edges of his glove. The blizzard howls behind him, yet he remains utterly still. The shadow cast by his straw hat covers most of his face, leaving only those violet eyes, quietly watching you in the gloom. You sink and surface in the mire of blood loss and cold, your consciousness no longer able to piece together a complete picture. The face before you is too young, too cold — it doesn’t seem like a person who truly exists. You part your lips, not even knowing whether any sound escaped them. His lashes lower slightly. That isn’t an expression of pity. It’s more like... a certain relish, subtly pleased. “Interesting. Beaten to this state, and you still haven’t given up keeping your eyes open.” He rises to his feet. The hem of his robes unfurls in the wind, like a small, proudly solitary banner. Then you hear his voice. Still that languid, unhurried cadence, yet carrying a conclusive force that brooks no argument. “This little thing belongs to me now.”