[Mad Hat Island, 1507]
That morning began with aches coursing through Bastien's entire body. His muscles screamed after a night spent sleeping on the hard floor of Lazhar's weapon workshop. But it wasn't the floor that made him sore—it was the brutal training from the scarred old man who had become the only adult figure in Bastien's life.
"Get up. The world's not gonna wait for you to be ready," Lazhar grumbled, tossing a water bottle toward Bastien.
Bastien rose with a stumble. There was no time to complain. Today was the first day of training that would decide whether he was strong enough to survive in Mad Hat—a lawless island that showed no mercy to weak children.
Physical training began at dawn. Push-ups, sit-ups, laps around the port, and shadow boxing against a sandbag. Lazhar didn't care that Bastien was exhausted. In fact, he grinned every time the boy collapsed, only to force him to rise again.
"I don't need a weak brat in my shop," Lazhar said, eyes sharp. "If you wanna live, you need to become someone even pirates don't wanna mess with."
Bastien just nodded. No complaints. His body was aching, but his mind was sharp. Every movement was a step toward the strength he needed. He didn't want to be a victim. He wanted to be a threat.
After training, they went inside the workshop. Lazhar pointed to a long table covered in dismantled rifles and broken pistols.
"You ever made a weapon?" Lazhar asked, already knowing the answer.
"Plenty," Bastien replied briefly, sitting down to start assembling one of the light rifles.
His hands moved automatically, as if his body remembered things from a different life. A life where he'd been just a corporate worker. A life that now felt like a fading dream. This world was his home now—and weapons were his new language.
Lazhar watched from the corner of the room. "You've got a brain—that's a good start. But here in Mad Hat, brains alone won't save you. You need to kill before you get killed."
Bastien didn't respond. He focused on tightening a small bolt between two metal plates. Every second spent building gave him a sense of control. In this chaotic world, assembling weapons gave him the illusion of stability.
But that peace didn't last long.
A loud commotion outside the workshop made Bastien pause. The sound of quick, confident footsteps approached from the narrow alley.
The door creaked open slowly, and a boy stepped inside. He had dark yellow eyes that seemed to assess the room sharply, and pale blond hair that fell in messy strands.
His demeanor was cheerful, often accompanied by a foolish smile that bordered on reckless. He looked about Bastien's age—but his presence... was far wilder.
"Hey!" the boy called, eyes full of curiosity. "You're the new kid, huh?"
Bastien stood cautiously. "Who are you?"
"Arthur," he said casually, grinning. "I see a lot of new kids around. But you're different. You look… tough."
Bastien frowned. This kid was confident, but there was a hidden wound in his eyes. A pain not visible, but unmistakably there.
"What are you doing here?" Bastien asked, wary.
Arthur shrugged. "Curious. And… I want to challenge you."
Before Bastien could refuse, Arthur dashed forward—throwing a punch toward his face. Bastien blocked it reflexively. They clashed briefly, fast and chaotic. But it only took a few moves before Arthur hit the ground.
"Still want more?" Bastien asked, confused but alert.
Arthur laughed lightly as he got up. "Never met anyone who could drop me that fast. You're strong… I want to learn from you."
Bastien stared at the boy. Something kept him from turning Arthur away. Maybe because the kid reminded him of himself—a castaway who wanted more than just survival.
"If you're serious," Bastien said at last, "I won't go easy on you."
Arthur grinned wide. "That's exactly what I want."
And from that day on, those two outcasts—Bastien the transmigrator, and Arthur the wild one—began a bond forged in blood and steel.
A friendship that would one day reshape both their destinies.