The time before sunrise was a frozen void, and the cold air filled the atmosphere with a biting cruelty. The houses were asleep, not a single light from a torch flickered outside. In the center of the village stood a boy with black hair, wearing thick but old and tattered clothes. His breath froze the moment it escaped his mouth. In his scarred hand, he gripped a piece of paper tightly, staring at a tall man before him who bore the marks of old age. White hair invaded his beard and head, with some black patches waiting to turn gray.
The man swayed violently, clutching a bottle of liquor, his scent suffocating from excessive drinking—as if he were a dead corpse. But John's features remained frozen; the strong stench did not affect him, for he had spent his days cleaning stables where the smell choked everyone who passed by. He didn't care. The drunkard raised his hand, scratched his beard, sighed, and took a sip from his bottle, letting out a sound full of satisfaction. He threw the bottle away and looked at John with eyes that were losing consciousness from the drink.
"What are you saying? Get lost, kid," he slurred, sounding annoyed, as if he had no time to talk to a child. Who would listen to a boy claiming he wanted to work? Of course, he would refuse.
But John grabbed his arm with a force he hadn't shown before. He didn't say a word, but his sharp gaze—if it were a knife, it would have cut through iron—promised he would never let go, even if he were beaten again just as the stable master had beaten him.
The man snorted coldly. "Scram... I don't know what you're saying. Leave me alone." He turned to walk away, seeing John as nothing more than a drunken hallucination.
But John was more determined. He stepped in front of the man and shouted, "I will work with you! I will perform every exhausting task you want!" He said it with a sharp tone. The man looked at him in surprise, but he was truly irritated. He raised his hand to grab John's collar to push him away with force, for he had no energy for a child. He gripped his collar and tried to shove him, but John remained steady in his place like a fixed stone that wouldn't budge.
The old man tried harder and harder, but because of his intoxication and lack of focus, he wasn't in full consciousness or strength. He let out an angry sound: "Oh, damn it! Get lost, kid, or else—"
Slowly, he reached into his coat and pulled out a blue dagger with streaks of black, a blend between ice and metal. "If you don't move," he said with a voice devoid of kindness, "I will put this knife in your head."
The man expected this threat to make any child cry, scream, or at least show a tremor of fear. But what stood before him was a boy fixed like a nail. John stepped toward him and said, "Go ahead. Do it." He moved his head right against the knife, until only a hair separated his skin from the blade. "Go on, what are you waiting for? Do it!"
The air was harsh; the breath froze, and whoever spat would see their saliva freeze before hitting the ground. But John's heart was colder and harder than anything. He accepted the idea of death, but he could not accept returning empty-handed.
The man lurched and sighed. "Are you mad, boy? You might die." But one look from John's eyes was enough for the man to understand that this boy did not fear death.
The man sighed and sat on the snowy ground, and John sat too as the atmosphere grew quieter. "Do you know my line of work?" the man asked, his voice half-sober. John shook his head, indicating he didn't.
"I hunt fish," the man said. "Specifically, the Ice-Blade Fish. Do you know what an Ice-Blade means, kid?"
John replied, "Aren't those the huge fish with fins like transparent glass, sky-blue in color?"
The man nodded. "Yes. That's why I don't hire people, especially children. Do you think it's simple? I've refused strong men because they were terrified of these fish." He spoke firmly. The Ice-Blade Fish were a meter long, but their danger lay in their sky-blue fins. They were predators that craved human blood.
After explaining the danger, the man rose slowly, nearly falling. He thought the boy would regain his senses and leave. But John stood up and said in a steady, calm voice, "I don't care. I will work with you."
The man sighed. Still a child who doesn't understand, he thought. But John's next sentence stopped him in his tracks. "I'm not asking you to hire me immediately. I'm asking for one chance. Let me work with you for one day only, and then you decide if I'm good or not."
The scene froze in silence. The man kept his back to John, then turned around, wondering Who is this child? He decided to leave him, but he felt a hand grab his clothes with strength. John's eyes showed his powerful soul. "Listen to me! Even if you go to the end of the earth, I will follow you and I won't stop until you hire me, even if it costs my life."
The man looked at John with steady eyes. Internally, he thought, Where did I hear these words? They seem familiar.
"What is your name, boy?" he asked coldly.
"John. My name is John."
"Your family?"
"Just me," John replied. He didn't mention his mother because he was worried that if people knew she was sick and he was alone with her, they might hurt them. So he lied and said his father was away on a hunting trip, though he never knew his father.
"I don't mean your name," the man said. "I mean your family title." Titles were for noble and elite families; the poor like John were nothing more than laboring creatures. John hesitated. "I don't have one. My name is just John."
The man narrowed his eyes. "I see. Alone, with no family or title. Why do you want this work so badly? There are other jobs suitable for your age."
John interrupted him firmly. "No. Your work has good profits, and that is what I need." He handed him the paper where he had written: Large Fish, Tears of Elixir. John had refused other safer jobs because they wouldn't provide the food and medicine his mother needed.
Time passed, and the first ray of sunlight appeared. With it, the man noticed the features of cruelty and coldness on John's face—as if he were a statue made of endurance. He sighed. "Are you sure? You might die. Hunting the Ice-Blade isn't a joke."
John nodded. He knew the rule: higher risks mean higher rewards.
"Fine, kid. You'll get your chance. Come here tomorrow before sunrise. We'll go to work. Oh, and don't bring anything. Just don't be late."
A spark of hope and happiness flooded John. He had his chance. He clenched his fist tightly, and as his fingertips turned white, a smile appeared on his face. Yes, finally. This is what I need. No matter the hardships, I will survive.
The man interrupted his thoughts. "By the way, my name is Vlad. But you can call me Captain."
Vlad walked away, singing in a half-drunken voice. John stood in his place, and despite the cold, he was happy. The sun's rays hit his face, reflecting the blue of his eyes against the golden light. "It seems my luck isn't so bad after all," he whispered, watching the dawn.