Salvation of the Spirit

Yelps of pain bellowed from a figure nearby the bunk bed, but Damon paid no mind; he had anticipated trouble.

He rose from his dormant position on a rustic tatami mat.

The missing-nin wasn’t looking for retribution after being "fooled twice"; even a single attempt was more than enough to justify his wrath.

The silver-haired prodigy pushed his dark-tinted spectacles up from the tip of his nose, burrowing his hazel gaze beneath them. Then, he tugged at the near-transparent steel wire flashing ever so slightly in the dim light of the shared sleeping quarters.

More agonizing shrieks came from the man entangled in his trap.

There was little to no honor between criminals, and even less among thieves. But Damon had been forewarned.

It had been almost half a year since the adolescent had been forcefully recruited into service to the Golden Tempest, and it had shaped him like few things in his life had before.

By now, he was renowned as one of the few chakra-wielding members of the crew, which had raised his infamy among the many criminals harbored inside the crumbling barracks. But it had also placed a target on his back for a select few who sought to outmaneuver and profit from his steady rise in rank at such a tender age.

Payday had come, and on Kante's orders, Damon had spent a good portion of his spoils on equipment.

New gear, to increase his lethality. On his most recent escapade outside the walls, he'd come under scrutiny for his lack of blade work, and he wasn’t going to give Abu another reason to threaten him with the isolation cell or the dreaded sky-high plank walk.

But spending ryo at the smithies—or any establishment outside the fort—meant he had coin to spare, and that attracted vermin like flies to rot.

And so these two shady figures found themselves in this predicament: Damon and a lowly pirate, whom he didn’t recognize. The man was ensnared in a web of wire strings carefully spun for anyone foolish enough to try his hand at Damon’s belongings.

It was the middle of the night. Most men were still out rummaging through the ruins, rum in hand, seeking company or a game of cards. But for those who had called it an early night, the painful screams rattled them awake, and more and more bed lamps flickered to life, increasing the visibility of the scene unfolding.

“Damon… Damon, what are you doing?! I was just heading to my bunk, for god's sake… arghh!”

Damon yanked harder on the thread wrapped around his finger, the steel wire sinking deeper into his victim's arm, drawing blood.

“Don’t utter the lord's name in vain.” he barked back almost instantly.

“You... I’ll tell Abu, you amateur! I’ll have your damn head for this, kid! Now let me go!”

It didn’t matter who was right or wrong. There was no one dictated entity to police them here; no one would intervene to save either of them unless under the most dire of circumstances. This was a lawless place, ruled by fear and steel.

Some of the onlookers laughed at the empty threats, while others turned away, deciding it wasn’t worth losing sleep over.

But Damon knew even those who hid their gaze away would bear witness to the outcome and share what they witnessed by morning. He couldn’t definitively prove the man had attempted burglary—but he knew what he saw. And this wasn’t just about one potential threat; it was about ensuring no one else dared to cross him.

And for that message to sink in among these hardened criminals, it had to be written in blood.

“No... no, you won’t. In fact, you should pray I don’t take yours instead.” He left a purposeful, tantalizing pause before deliberating in a much more soothing tone, “But worry not, friend, for my deities preach merciful judgment, and so I will mercifully deliver unto you their justice.”

“What are you…”

The trapped thief struggled in vain to free himself, his panic deepening as he realized the thin lines of cold steel were burrowing deeper into his wrist, locked tight by the missing-nin’s flick of a wrist.

“No... no... auaaaa... no, kid! Stop!”

The threads tore into muscle and sinew, coiling tighter and tighter around the pirate’s wrist. Crimson red dripped faster onto the cobblestone floor beneath.

“Arghhh, please stop! Ahh, my hand!”

Damon tilted his head slightly, as if puzzled by the pain he was inflicting. When had everything become so blurred to him? He could reason his way through this; he could explain why this display of power was necessary here and now. Why his victim’s circumstances were trivial at best.

So why... did it feel... wrong?

He tilted his head to the other side, taking but one more deliberate moment to consider his actions.

Then, with a rugged clench of his fist, the steel wire tore through flesh with an agonising, gut-wrenching hiss.

A thud echoed as the severed hand hit the ground, followed by a cascade of crimson splashing onto the floor. Bone-chilling screams reverberated through the hall and out into the corridor.

Damon approached the scrawny, panic-stricken man who had collapsed to his knees, frantically wrapping his now-stump-ridden arm with ragged cloth to stem the bleeding.

Gazing down at the fear-stricken visage, Damon spoke even more softly than before.

“You are now blessed, my friend. The great spirits have brought us together and granted you a chance to atone. Know that you are forgiven.”

His eyes shifted to the next closest onlooker, an older, even skinnier man, frozen with fear, unable to turn away from the brutal scene unfolding before him.

“Good man, can you lend a hand to this pain-ridden soul and assist him to the infirmary?”

Damon’s eyes narrowed to slits as he called out with an angelic voice.

The man quickly obliged, hurrying the victim of Damon’s wrath out of the room.

Without another word, Damon reeled in his wire spool and hung it by his bedside, before lying back down in his bunk, knowing full well he would be free of any further distractions tonight—and, with a bit of luck, for many nights to come.

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