"How much for this?" A boy in a loose, flowing white robe crouched in front of the vendor, his slender finger tracing the edge of an intricately carved flute. His white hair, bound back into a simple ponytail, shimmered under the afternoon sun. Despite his youth, his features were striking—sharp, almost ethereal—and his dark, piercing eyes locked onto the vendor's face with quiet intensity.

"One hundred thousand low-grade crystals," the vendor replied, his voice rough but steady. He gave the boy a long, appraising look. From the cut of his clothes and the confident way he carried himself, the vendor suspected the youth was a young master from one of the city's more powerful families.

The boy raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a playful, yet calculating smile. "Ten thousand," he countered, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather. He nodded to himself as though his offer were already accepted.

The vendor's face stiffened. "Ninety thousand," he said, his tone now less cordial, though still controlled. He had the sense the boy was toying with him, perhaps testing his limits, but he wasn't going to give in that easily.

"Ten thousand," the boy repeated, his gaze unwavering, the smile on his face widening with a glimmer of mischief.

The vendor's eyes narrowed, his patience starting to fray. "Eighty thousand," he barked, clenching his fists behind the counter. It was clear the boy was enjoying the haggle far too much, and the vendor could feel his temper simmering.

The boy remained unfazed. "Ten thousand," he said again, as though the vendor hadn't spoken at all, his grin only deepening.

The vendor's face darkened, his frustration bubbling over. "Boy, the lowest I can go is seventy thousand!" His voice cracked with a mix of anger and disbelief. He had a nagging suspicion the boy wasn't bargaining in good faith, but he didn't dare escalate things too quickly. "If you can't afford it, then leave."

The boy leaned in slightly, as if considering the offer, but his grin didn't falter. "Ten thousand."

The vendor's patience shattered. His fists slammed onto the counter with a deafening crack. "Then steal it!" he spat, his face flushed red with rage. "Get out of here before I—!"

Before he could finish his threat, the boy straightened, still wearing that maddeningly calm smile. He turned on his heel, the rhythmic tap of his sandals fading as he walked away, leaving the vendor standing there, fuming.

"Damn kid... always trying to get things for nothing," the vendor muttered under his breath, his hands trembling slightly as he began to rearrange his goods. But then, his fingers froze mid-motion. His heart skipped a beat, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

The flute—the one the boy had been eyeing—was gone.

His eyes darted across the stall, panic setting in. There was no sign of the boy, but there was no doubt in his mind. The flute had vanished in the time it took for the boy to walk away.

"Thief!" The vendor's voice cracked, rising to a shout as he scanned the crowd. His hands shook, his mind racing. How had it happened? When had the boy taken it? He hadn't even seen the boy's hand move.

But the more he thought about it, the more certain he became. The boy hadn't just haggled for sport. He had planned this all along.

The vendor's stomach churned with a sick realization. In a city like this, a missing item could mean a lifetime of trouble. He could scream and shout all he wanted, but it wouldn't change a thing. In the underbelly of the city, if you weren't strong enough, you didn't chase thieves. You either let it go, or you risked your life.

Blaze's footsteps echoed lightly down a narrow alley, his fingers lightly running over the flute in his hands, the cool wood smooth under his touch. A satisfied grin spread across his face as he hummed to himself, enjoying the simple pleasure of his latest acquisition.

In a city where survival was the only rule, it wasn't enough to be clever—you had to be quick, ruthless even. And Blaze had learned how to take what he needed, even if it meant pushing the limits.

He wasn't proud of it, but it was the way things worked. If you wanted something, you had to claim it for yourself. The Obsidian Keepers certainly weren't about to help him with anything, least of all a flute worth far more than he could afford.

Blaze smirked, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. The Obsidian Keepers, the clan that had once held so much promise, had given him little more than the harsh truth of his own inadequacy. Years of training, all to find himself still powerless. Still a nobody.

The others? They had awakened their powers. They had purpose. He? Still waiting.

But at least they hadn't kicked him out, not yet. That was something, even if it wasn't much. The roof over his head, the bed made of sawdust—soft enough to keep him from feeling like he was sleeping on a rock, though that was the extent of the comfort he had. No one else in the clan would offer him a hand. He had to survive on his own.

As Blaze approached the compound, the sign above the gate glinted in the dimming light. The Obsidian Keepers. The name was a reminder of all the promises that had never materialized, a constant, weighty presence that pressed against him. Still, there was a part of him that held onto a shred of hope that, one day, he'd awaken his power and prove he belonged.

For now, though, there was only the flute. And the question that lingered in his mind: This flute should work if the requirement is met.

He paused, as he remembered he was supposed to meet 'her' in a bar that night, Blaze sighed, he'd almost forgotten about her. he turned back and headed to the bar, where they planned to meet.

...

The bar was alive with a cacophony of sounds—laughter, clinking glasses, the hum of conversation layered over the thumping bass of an old jukebox. The air was thick with the scent of spilled ale and cigarette smoke, mingling with the tang of sweat from bodies pressed together on the crowded dance floor. A mix of patrons swayed to the music: some in sharp black suits, others in casual shirts, and a few draped in medieval robes that caught the dim, flickering light from overhead lanterns. It was a melting pot of eras, styles, and personalities, where the past and present collided in a haze of alcohol and neon.

Janet sat at the bar counter, fingers drumming impatiently on the polished wood. The bartender, a burly man with a grizzled beard, slid her drink across the bar with a practiced ease. She barely acknowledged it, her eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. Half an hour had passed, and Blaze was still nowhere to be seen. Her jaw tightened, frustration building as each second ticked by.

Just as she was about to lose her patience entirely, a figure slipped into the seat beside her. The movement was quiet, almost ghostly, but the stark white robe and shock of white hair drew her gaze like a magnet.

"Always late, brother," Janet said, her voice edged with annoyance. "Did you forget about our meeting here?"

It was more of a statement than a question, her tone sharp enough to cut through the din of the bar. Blaze turned to face her, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on his lips, as if he was savoring some private joke.