"So what's next? Do you know any magic or wallah halla rituals or whatever?" Max asked, glancing sideways at the boy with mop-like hair held back by a ragged headband. His finger jabbed subtly toward the mustached man, a silent question in his eyes: You got a plan or do we just run?
"Wallah rituals? What's that?"
"And magic? Nah, not that impressive. But my best? I've got curse that walk on two legs."
The black-haired guy said
"…What does that even mean?" Max squinted at him like the guy had just spoken ancient goblin tongue.
But the boy didn't explain. He was already elbow-deep inside his tattered brown backpack, unzipping it with a vibe so casual it could've healed arthritis. He rummaged through it like he was just looking for a lighter, not a lifeline.
Curses that walk on two legs? Max's eyes narrowed. Is he about to summon a demon?
Unable to keep it in, Max asked, "What are you even looking for Hairnest?"
Yup. Hairnest. That's what his brain gave him. Naming people was never Max's strength, and the guy's head did look like it had been attacked by a sentient nest.
The boy froze. Just for a second. "Hairnest? Me?" He repeated slowly, glancing up like he needed to double-check the insult. But then he saw the mustached man still watching eyes narrowed, wand still hot and decided to let it go.
Back to digging.
Then Clunk.
"Ahh, finally out," the boy said, straightening his back and swinging out his weapon like it was Excalibur from a sock drawer.
Max blinked.
Stared.
Then blinked again.
It was a steel rod.
Like an actual steel rod. Three feet long. Two fingers thick. No carvings. No glow. Just raw, unapologetic metal.
"…So you don't know magic either, huh," Max muttered, defeated. He sighed like a man who just realized the parachute he grabbed was actually a backpack full of potatoes.
And then realization struck.
Wait.
How the actual fuck did he just pull that out of a bag that's clearly shorter than the rod?!
Max turned back toward the mustached man, ready to see mockery incarnate. And he wasn't disappointed.
The man's lips twitched. His brows arched. Then he burst out laughing.
The laughter wasn't polite. It was full on villain who just won the lottery level cackling.
"Seriously?" the man wheezed, doubling over. "That's what you pulled out? A stick? You're gonna save that brat with a damn pipe?"
He gasped between laughs. "And here I was thinking you were someone big. The audacity. Saving a kid during my attack, pulling that thing out like you're about to duel me. What're you gonna do, huh? Beat me with plumbing equipment? Street rats these days don't even carry wands!"
That did it.
The boy who had, until now, been cool, smug, and slightly chaotic snapped like someone had pressed his sencitive nerve.
"A stick?" he barked, stepping forward and jabbing his finger in the air like a middle schooler ready to fight over cafeteria pizza. "You motherfucker! From what angle does this look like a stick?!"
His other hand raised the rod high. "This is my wand! You blind or just stupid?! I made this myself! Blood, sweat, and metal! What do you know, huh?!"
The crowd, who had been chuckling quietly, froze for a heartbeat.
Dead silence.
Then
WHEEZING.
SCREAM-LAUGHING.
"Wand?!"
"That?!"
"Three-foot steel wand?!"
"Made it himself, he says! I can't"
Even the fruit seller dropped an apple from laughing too hard.
Max wanted to melt into the stone road. The secondhand embarrassment was physical.
whats wand? He Doesn't know but from everyone laughing he was feeling his face heating.
And yet… a part of him was deeply, weirdly impressed.
Because no one screamed that confidently unless they meant it.
This guy? This guy was either insane… or something way worse:
Unpredictable.
"So what are you gonna do?" the mustached man asked, his voice dripping with mockery as he gestured toward the steel rod. "Fight me with that thing? Or wait sorry, was it a 'wand'?"
"That thing?" The black-eyed boy smirked, rolling his shoulders and gripping his rod like it was Excalibur blessed by street smarts. "Oh, don't worry about this…"
He raised it casually, then stabbed the air with it in one… very suggestive motion.
"If it doesn't cast magic," he said, tone turning razor sharp, "I'll take this and shove it so far up your—"
He didn't finish.
Didn't have to.
The way he held the rod and stabbed upward made his intent crystal-clear.
"Ayyyoooo!" Max let out a loud, impressed whistle, practically vibrating with secondhand chaos. He didn't know why he was enjoying this so much, but oh boy, he was.
"You dare?!" The mustached man's face flushed deep red, rage boiling over. He didn't waste breath anymore. With a furious flick of his wand, he shouted:
"Leg Break!"
A red-yellow lightbfast and furious, the size of a clenched fist burst from the tip of his wand and hurtled toward the black-eyed boy like a bullet made of fire and hate.
"HAIRNEST!" Max's warning barely left his mouth before instinct made him move, trying to lunge forward and push the guy out of the way.
But the boy didn't flinch.
He smiled.
"Let me show you," the boy said, voice calm but burning, "the specialty of wands invented by me."
He grabbed his steel rod no, his wand with both hands from one end, his stance wide, braced like a batter at home plate.
"Let me prove to you why I named this: Super Deluxe Supreme Close-Range Dragon Steel Wand."
And with all the drama of a stadium final, he swung.
CRACK!
The rod connected with the speeding spell like a cricket bat hitting a perfect delivery. The light ball soared, flying high into the air, vanishing somewhere into the heavens like a firework that never got the memo to explode.
"AND THAT'S A PERFECT SIX!" Max shouted with starry eyes, borderline cheering as if he was suddenly at a sports game.
The crowd?
Dead silent for one, two, three full beats.
Then
"Wait did he just?!"
"He HIT it?! With the wand??"
"Is that legal?!"
"I thought wands were supposed to, y'know… cast?"
"Bro used it like a damn cricket bat!"
"And did you hear the name?! Super—super deluxe supreme what was it?!"
"I'm honestly more worried about what he'd name his future kids."
The market square exploded into chaos and cackling. Onlookers were pointing, laughing, gasping, some even clapping. The sheer absurdity of what had just happened was too much for the laws of magic or physics.
Max, meanwhile, was still watching the boy like he'd just seen his new hero. "Daaamn. Can wands also do that?" he muttered, in absolute awe.
The black-eyed boy stood firm in the middle of the chaos, chin raised, soaking in the shock and disbelief like sunlight. He didn't say a word. Didn't need to. His face said it all:
You thought I was a joke. But jokes don't hit spells for six.
And the mustached man?
He stood frozen, eyes glued to the sky, watching his attack disappear into nothingness his pride going with it.
"Umm… alright," the mustached man finally said, unimpressed. He gave a lazy shrug, his wand still pointed forward. "Where's the magic in that? Wands aren't supposed to do that. You're just swinging around some enhanced steel pipe. Nothing more."
He flicked his robe like it was lint-dusted silk, twirling his wand again with smug precision.
"Let's see how many spells you can stop, with that twang of yours then."
But as he readied his next move, he paused, eyebrows lifting in mock disgust. "You brown-skinned moogly street rat… what are you even—?"
The boy froze.
"What the hell did you just say?"
The boy's tone dropped flat and sharp like the silence before an explosion.
"Brown skin? Bruh. My skin's healthier than your whole bloodline's family tree. I eat sunshine for breakfast. You want a lesson in genetics or justice?"
His fingers adjusted on the rod.
"Let me teach you why racism comes with a receipt."
Max blinked. That escalated quick. But for some reason, he felt… ?
"And you asked what kind of wand this is?" the boy continued. "Let me show you."
Without another word, he shifted stance. One leg slid back, and he hoisted his wand up like a sniper rear end touching his shoulder, front end supported by his other hand. The three-foot rod gleamed in the market sun. His black hair fluttered as he closed one eye, perfectly aligned.
"This is the future," he said, voice calm but iron-clad. "The difference between your crusty spellstick and my Super Deluxe Supreme Close-Range Dragon Steel Wand, made by none other than the greatest wand maker the future world of Eldarado will ever know—ME."
The charisma in his voice had the crowd actually listening. Even the mustached man stopped mid-cast for a beat.
Then his rage snapped.
"You cocky little rat!" he growled and swished his wand.
"Ball Explosion!" he yelled.
A red orb, twice the size of the last, launched forward angry, hot, pulsing like it wanted to destroy everything in its path.
Max's heart sank.
The black-haired boy couldn't swing this time not in that stance. And dodging? No chance. That spell was flying too fast, too close.
"Hey bro, can you…" Max started to step forward, fists clenched, voice cracking, "Will you be? I mean—"
He couldn't finish.
He couldn't do anything.
Someone was fighting for him again. Twice now. In his entire life, only two people had ever stepped up to stand between him and a world that didn't want him to exist. That didn't see him just his cursed eye. This boy? He looked at him like he was just another kid.
Max wished... really wished that he could protect himself. Or at the very least, protect the people who stood up for him. This was only the second time in his life anyone had ever done that. And he hated it.
He hated that feeling of being small, useless and can just watch from side.
He would rather take the hit himself than stand there, knowing someone else was bleeding on his behalf.
He glanced around. The crowd? They were still just… standing there. Watching. Like it was some midday drama in the middle of the market. Just imagine if it were a regular kid someone without his eye. Would they still be standing around like it was entertainment?
Would they still be silent?
Max bit down on the anger swelling in his chest.
But the boy didn't look back. He didn't speak. He just grinned.
He shifted the rod forward, eye still closed, like a sniper lining up the perfect shot.
His lips moved.
"Air Bullet."
A whisper of energy pulsed out of the wand's tip. No one saw it at first just a pearl-sized flicker of nearly invisible light.
Small. Silent.
Then gone.
At the same time, the mustached man's red orb came screaming forward, blazing toward the boy like wrath incarnate.
And then impact.
Flick.
The crowd leaned in.
The small, nearly transparent bullet of air pierced the red orb like a hot needle through paper.
BOOM!
No.
Not a boom.
Just silence… then a hiss of wind, and a scream.
"AGHHHH!"
The mustached man stumbled backward, eyes wide as a gaping hole appeared in his right shoulder. Clean. Crisp. Like something had just punched through flesh and pride alike.
He fell to one knee, clutching the wound.
"J-just… how…? This is impossible! I'm a Three-Star Mage! There's no way a kid" he groaned, pain twisting his features.
But it wasn't just the pain it was the shock. The disbelief.
His dignity? Shattered.
His reputation? Bleeding from his shoulder.
"I wasn't gonna kill you…" he snarled, voice trembling now with fury, "but now you've insulted my dignity."
He rose, blood dripping from his arm. His eyes glowed like coals in a collapsing furnace.
"You'll die for this, street rat."
The boy's cocky smirk vanished. "Oh no," he muttered, under his breath.
---