131 Scarlett

"Hah... is this the place?"

The raggedly dressed young man braced his hands on his knees, gasping for air.

He stood in the middle of an abandoned Hellhound camp. Rusted barbed wire gave off a faint whine in the night wind, while the scar running from the corner of his right eye to the corner of his mouth stood out sharply beneath the moonlight on his still-youthful face.

"Scar"—that imposing nickname was one he had bestowed upon himself on the night of his sixteenth birthday.

Whenever the tribe's bonfires were lit and cheap liquor had gone down their throats, he would slap the table and spray spit as he told the "legend" of that scar: it was a badge left from a bloody battle with Maelstrom, an "honor mark" carved into his face when an enemy made a last desperate counterattack after he drove a knife through the third man's throat.

But every time, the elders of the tribe would snort in unison.

Who did not know the truth? He had been fourteen when he stole his uncle's knife to show off. While imitating a throwing motion, the blade had traced a ridiculous arc through the air, bounced off the nearby wall, and lodged itself neatly in the right side of his face.

Five years had passed, yet the "Scar" he so dearly wished to be called had never caught on. Instead, the mocking nickname "Scarlett" had spread farther and farther. Whenever someone called it out during target practice, the finger on the trigger would tremble uncontrollably, and the recoil would leave his shoulder throbbing.

But now, everything was about to change.

Sweat slid from his brow into his eyes. He roughly wiped his face with his sleeve, while an empty can kicked away by the tip of his worn