A loud crash

I crept around to the base of the fence separating our places. After stepping back a few paces, I crouched down, gathered my strength, and leaped onto the top of the fence. I easily slipped through the gaps in the fence, peeked inside, and called out softly, "Spotty? Hey, spots!"

Spotty lay with its back to me, only his ears twitched slightly at the sound of my voice. He looked sluggish, exhausted even. When he finally reacted to my voice, he raised his head slightly and put his dry, hot nose onto my palm, his eyes still closed. 

I glanced at the empty food bowl next to his doghouse. Spotty usually roamed free, but my neighbor, Mrs. Harper, fed him daily, so he shouldn't have been hungry. Was he thirsty? Was it the heat? 

I hopped down from the fence, gave my knees a quick pat, and slipped through my front gate. I grabbed a metal bottle from the bottom of the rain pipe placed there to gather rainwater, turned back toward the fence, and pushed the bottle through the hole in the large net, pouring it into Spotty's bowl. "Here, this should help."

The dog opened his eyes but still refused to move. Dropping his head heavily on the ground, he whined again and let out a short sigh. 

I felt a twinge of worry and nudged his head with my finger. To my surprise, Spotty growled and bared his teeth menacingly as if to warn me to back off. 

Startled, I recoiled from the fence and watched him in astonishment. Spotty closed his mouth with a loud sound and dropped his head back on the ground, though the quiet growls still seeped through his gritted teeth. Disheartened, I gave up and turned back toward my house.

Once inside, I eagerly unwrapped the object I brought with me, setting it on the table. As I opened it, a long, gleaming object emerged—an ancient battle sword from the old civilization, a chilling and fierce weapon.

I stared in awe, running my fingers along the hilt, reluctant to let go. After admiring it, I pulled out a thick notebook from under the table and began meticulously copying the details. Whenever I found a weapon I liked, I'd draw it carefully, preserving it for future reference. My collection of sketches had grown thick over the years, filled with swords, knives, and blades from the past.

In this new era, most cold weapons had lost their practical use, relegated to relics and museum displays.

But I wasn't interested in the modern weapons the Union had been pushing for years. I was fascinated by the ancient blades, the ones from the old world. This sword was my teacher's recent acquisition, and after winning a match against my fellow students, he'd allowed me to borrow it. 

As for my teacher, he was the reason I commuted twenty kilometers each day, traveling back and forth before dawn and well into the dark hours.

It was all because I had a rare talent. Since I was young, my strength and destructive power were undeniable, and my grandfather had decided I should train in martial arts.

We traveled for years until we found a centuries-old training hall in Whale Mountain at the border of District Athena which was ranked E. That's where I met my teacher, Mr. Tyler Stone, who later became my mentor. It was rumored that he was a descendant of an ancient martial lineage going way back to the old world mastery, giving him immense prestige.

Whale Mountain was an ecological zone, not meant for living, so my grandfather settled me in District Apollo, a notorious area known for its "dirty and disorderly" reputation. We never moved again after that.

After about thirty minutes of detailed drawing, I stretched lazily and stood up from the floor.

I walked into the kitchen and made myself a big bowl of plain noodles, topping them with fresh green onions and even frying two eggs which I had stolen from the kitchen in Mr. Stone's academy.

Once my meal was ready, I carried the bowl—larger than my face—back into the living room. Taking a bite of noodles, I glanced at the battle sword on the table, took another big bite, and then reluctantly looked back at my sketchbook. It was definitely an appetite enhancer.

I was an orphan, taken in by my grandfather when I was little. No parents, no siblings—just me. A few years ago, my grandfather, the only family I had, passed away. Since then, I'd learned to live on my own. I wasn't great at socializing, so I ended up with only one companion: the dog from the neighbor's house.

I didn't mind that no one spoke to me; I wasn't much of a talker myself. The truth was, I had a stutter—something I was born with—and it made conversation a lot more effort than it was worth.

After finishing my noodles and cleaning up the dishes, I settled back down on the floor and pulled out the old hologram screen my grandfather had left me. It was a task he'd set for me before he passed. I was supposed to study for at least an hour a day.

I couldn't go to school because there were no such establishments in District Apollo.

The closest school was in District Athena, but with the weather conditions and the danger of rogue animals, walking twenty-five kilometers each way was not an option.

Still, in this fast-paced world, things were changing so quickly, and my grandfather worried that I'd fall behind. He made sure I had a strict study routine to keep my mind sharp and my education from falling too far behind. It wasn't much, but it was something.

I started scrolling through the downloaded books on the cracked screen, but, perhaps due to the heavy rain applied by the Weather Matrix, the signal was distorted and no matter how hard I tried to open the books, they refused to load. 

With a heavy sigh, I leaned back against the wall and looked at the old painting on the opposite wall. Today, I felt unusually sleepy. My eyelids felt as though they were glued shut, and they started fighting each other, refusing to stay open.

Maybe it was from eating too much, but I felt weak and sluggish, like my limbs had turned to lead. Every muscle in my body screamed for rest.

Then, suddenly, a loud crash shattered the silence.

I jumped, startled by the noise. My head hit the floor as I tumbled over, and it took me a few moments to sit up, rubbing my aching head.

Something felt off. I touched my head, confused. It wasn't made of iron—how could it have made such a loud sound?

I blinked, slowly lifting my eyelids and scanning the room. My eyes landed on the broken window, a large hole in the glass, and shards scattered across the floor. A chill from the outside air rushed in, making me shiver involuntarily.

Was it hail?

I didn't bother with the light screen, now dormant, and rushed to my feet to investigate.

There, rolling on the windowsill, was a blurry black figure. It was twitching and convulsing uncontrollably.

I tensed up, instinctively raising my guard as I approached.

It was Spotty.

The dog was trembling violently, its limbs jerking in spasms. Most of its fur had fallen out, exposing mottled, sickly skin underneath. Its small black eyes had a grayish-white film over them, and it stared ahead with a haunting, vacant gaze.

It opened its mouth, emitting a low, hoarse cry that sounded like a mixture of desperation and menace. And then I saw it—two rows of jagged, uneven teeth, stained with thick, black blood.

My grip on the windowsill tightened.

Before I could process what I was seeing, the dog convulsed one last time. Its head drooped, and it became completely still.