The blazing orange globe of the sun barely peeked over the horizon. A young woman, still in bed, let out a lazy groan and blinked open her sky-blue eyes.
“Nn.”
Unlike her older brother and sister—both with low blood pressure—she didn’t require a wake-up call in the morning. Instead, she jumped out of bed to shake the sleepiness out of her, plopped down on the stool in front of her sister’s hand-me-down vanity, and snatched up a comb. Still yawning, she brushed out her long blonde hair and started braiding it in a careful, practiced manner.
The girl was in her early teens, with a pretty face and a developing but graceful figure. Although there was something endearing and almost kitten-esque about her appearance, her mannerisms suggested a catlike daring and slyness. Everyone had seemingly contradictory qualities; in her case, the contradictions appeared just a little sharper. Almost to prove this point, she daintily stroked her braids, then changed from her nightgown into brown work-clothes that looked about as feminine as an anvil.
She smiled at herself in the mirror and slapped both palms against her cheeks. “Right!” she cried, dropping to the floor. She began some sort of bizarre stretching routine in a slow awkward manner, like someone imitating a dance they’d seen. She continued until she cried out in pain and grabbed her cramped leg.
Hobbling slightly as she got to her feet, she puffed up her cheeks and exhaled sharply. She curled up one side of her mouth (to her it was a tough-looking grin) and sneered, “Desert Eagle, say your prayers.”
And with that, Pacifica Casull, the youngest daughter in the Casull family, strode out of her room.
The walled city of Manurhin hemmed the western frontier of the Linevan Kingdom, a monarchal nation in the Dustbin Continent. While Manurhin was officially considered a city, in reality it was little more than a small country town with a barricade and a man named Luigis Franki serving as the duke of the city.
Thanks to the benevolent rule of Duke Franki, living standards in Manurhin were high (despite the backwater nature of the city), but Manurhin was best known as a stopover spot for self-proclaimed adventurers—rogues and scoundrels hoping to strike it rich in the vast expanse of unexplored territory beyond the city. Manurhin had the same sorts of things found everywhere, but, unbeknownst to most, it did have something unique.
At the far edge of Manurhin’s commercial district stood a simple two-story brick building, uncommon for a city where exceptionally cheap land had pushed multiple-story homes out of style. The building, labeled with a crudely chiseled sign that read: Casull Weapons Shop, served as store, warehouse, and home to Yuma Casull and his three children. Behind the building lay a huge yard, complete with garden and small pond; Yuma Casull believed in self-sufficiency, and thus grew vegetables in his garden, raised fish in his pond, and had a dozen or so chickens running around in his yard.
As the early morning sun bathed the town in its soft light, a young man looked around the store and sleepily scratched his head. His handsome face, featuring an elegantly shaped nose, was offset by a constant, grumpy squint that hid his black eyes. That and his stooped posture combined to create a world-weary look that somehow suited him more than the youthful vibrancy normally expected of a twenty-year-old. Straightening the collar of his nightshirt, he walked through the dimly lit shop.
“Pacifica!” he called, brushing hair off his shoulder. His long, disheveled mane had been hastily tied into a ponytail. “Hey, Pacifica!”
The room the young man searched contained a wide variety of merchandise in addition to the advertised weapons: hunting gear, carpentry tools, household goods, and a rack of vegetables stocked by the family’s personal garden. Above the vegetables hung a message board used by adventurers. It bore notes ranging from the generic “Companion Wanted!” to the somewhat shady “Treasure Map for Sale!” (Either because of the owner’s broad interests or simple good policy, the store sold any merchandise that would fit through its doors.)
The vegetables on display, however, had all wilted, and the most recent message on the board was more than ten days old. The stale air inside the store suggested that the place hadn’t been open for business in several days.
“Pacifica!” the young man shouted again, to no reply. He was Shannon Casull, eldest son of the Casull family, and he made no attempt to hide his annoyance. Changing his strategy, he began looking in closets and under counters.
“Where are you?” he murmured as he peered into some boxes. He tentatively opened a drawer.
“I don’t see how she could be hiding in there,” came a voice from the back of the store. “Maybe she’s in the garden?”
Shannon glanced up. His older sister, Raquel, descended the stairs in a pink nightgown.
She resembled Shannon in looks and general physique, but she emanated a youthful and infectious happiness. Her nightgown had an embroidered cat on one lapel, and she wore a nightcap with a furry white ball on top—uncommon attire for someone her age, but it somehow suited her. Her pretty features were soft and relaxed, and unlike Shannon, her calm wasn’t restricted to the short moments after waking up in the morning.
“In the garden?” Shannon repeated. “This early?”
“The matches. You know.”
“She’s been fighting with Desert Eagle?”
The two paused to yawn. Neither of them was a morning person.
Shannon rubbed his eyes. “She never learns,” he snapped as he swept past Raquel. “Fine. I’ll go get her.”
Raquel gave a floppy wave. “Be careful,” she warned halfheartedly as he disappeared out the back door.
All living things fought for survival. Every creature took life; it was an unavoidable sin. A struggle simply for power, rather than survival, might have been ultimately meaningless, but only a fool who didn’t see the world as it truly was sought to avoid all battles. The strong lived on—to be alive was to already be at war.
Now my brain’s ready, Pacifica thought as she spread her feet. Time for battle.
Pacifica’s father had taught her the art of mentally preparing for combat. As she summoned her courage for the fight, she bent her legs and balled her fists under her chin.
The girl was nearly equal in ability to her opponent, but she’d suffered the humiliation of seven consecutive defeats due to her impatient and unsuccessful first strikes. She knew that the battle wouldn’t last more than an instant—it never did—and that whoever struck first would lose. The enemy, perhaps sensing the intensity of Pacifica’s fighting spirit, made no unnecessary movement and merely fixed cold eyes on her.
Just then, Shannon’s sleepy voice rang through the yard. “Pacifica!”
His voice shattered the tension. Pacifica attacked.
“Aaaiiiyaaaa!”
“Grrraawww!”
Pacifica explosively launched her secret attack technique: the Killer Hurricane Special Number Two. (She’d come up with the name herself, but hadn’t yet decided what it meant.) The enemy responded with a brutal jumping kick, also meant to end the brawl immediately. The combatants collided with a violent impact.
For an instant, the two warriors stood back to back, frozen in the last stances of their respective attacks… and then Pacifica made a low, pained groan and fell over with a thud. She writhed on the ground, a distinct red mark on her cheek branding her with defeat.