[Year 1507, Mad Hat Island]
The air at Mad Hat's southern port was more salty than rotten, a stark contrast to the scent of blood and metal Bastien was used to inhaling in the central district. That evening, he sat atop a wooden crate, watching old ships lazily moored as if waiting for something that would never come.
His hands were still trembling. His handmade pistol was tucked into the inner pocket of his worn-out jacket. He didn't know where to go. Shelter home? Full. Back to the streets? Too risky. Bastien only knew one thing: he had to keep moving.
But fate sometimes comes in the form of an old man with a white beard and a scar over one eye.
"That weapon—did you make it?" the man's voice startled Bastien into standing.
The man before him wore a long black coat, his face marked by scars and a sharp gaze that judged, but did not condemn.
"Why do you ask?" Bastien replied, wary.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Because I saw you fire it. And the sound... unmistakably homemade. Not factory-made."
Bastien fell silent. No use lying.
"I built it myself," he said quietly.
The man stepped closer, inspecting Bastien's hands—covered in small cuts and burns from metalwork. He nodded slowly, as if a decision had already been made.
"My name's Gerald Lazhar. I run a little gun shop, down by the docks. If you're hungry... or need a place to stay, come with me."
Bastien eyed him suspiciously. "What's the catch?"
Lazhar chuckled, voice deep and hoarse. "You help out at the shop. Learn to build properly. Maybe learn to fight better too. The world's cruel, kid. But you've got a spark. Shame to let it burn out for nothing."
There was a long pause. Then, without a word, Bastien followed the man.
Lazhar's gun shop was wedged between two brothels and an illegal distillery. Yet within that chaos, the shop felt... different. Neat, sturdy, full of tools and metal—but without the foulness that stained the rest of Mad Hat.
Days passed. Lazhar taught him how to sharpen blades, how to read a weapon's structure from the sound of its shot, and how to see enemies not by form, but by intent. At night, they shared hard bread and salty soup. But to Bastien, it was far more luxurious than picking scraps from garbage bins.
One night, as Bastien was cleaning an old pistol, Lazhar spoke without looking at him:
"What's your full name?"
"Bastien."
"Bastien what?"
"I don't have one."
Lazhar paused a moment. Then said, "From now on, you're de Vill."
Bastien looked up, confused. "Why that?"
"I don't know, just feels right for you. It's your name now. Make it mean something."
That night, Bastien—now Bastien de Vill—stared at the name he engraved inside his pistol's plate.
Not as a legacy.
But as a declaration: I live because I choose to live.