The Name I Was Reborn to Bury

Upon entering the village of Brumaria, Elian's first impressions were only confirmed.

The houses were all made of mud and old wood, with crooked structures, misaligned roofs, and warped windows. The smell of manure dominated the streets, which were covered with marks left by horses, carts, and accumulated garbage. There was no trace of hygiene — but here, no one seemed to care about that.

The streets had no organization. They wound in a disorderly fashion, as if they had been born from the weariness of human footsteps, not from any planning. In the center, a worn stone church stood, more out of stubbornness than strength. Everything seemed to have been built around it — as if, once, this place had held hope… and now it was nothing more than a shadow of what it once was.

Elian didn't know exactly how many people lived here, but by the constant flow of people, he guessed there were around a thousand inhabitants. Maybe more. Maybe less. But one thing was clear from just looking: everyone here was poor. Poor in a way that even he, coming from the favela in his past life, wouldn't dare compare.

What stood out most in the streets were people begging for alms, mostly children. Some were poorly dressed in rags that barely covered their knees, others lay on the ground, motionless, as if they had given up on asking. Their clothes were in deplorable condition — torn, soiled, covered in mud and dust — and yet they seemed like everyday wear.

Elian looked from side to side, observing faces, eyes, the silent coming and going of those passing by. Apathetic adults, vendors shouting prices and lies, and children... many children. Some playing with stones, others fighting over food scraps on the ground.

"How poor these people are...," Elian thought. "We live like kings compared to them..."

And it was true. Even with all the scarcity in his family, even with thin soup and hardened bread, there was still dignity in the house where he lived. There was still warmth, laughter, love.

"Dad... what are those children doing?" asked Emanuelle, pointing to two girls who, squatting, were shaping little mud cakes with their small, dirty hands.

Arthur looked in the indicated direction and sighed, continuing to guide the cart.

"They're making little cakes… pretending they're eating," he answered dryly, but not with coldness. Just resigned.

"They... don't have food?" the girl continued, eyes wide. "Is that how mom's bread is made?"

Emanuelle's curiosity was innocent, genuine. Even in their poverty, Arthur and Maria had always made sure their children had something to eat. Even if it was just a hard bread or a bowl of potatoes boiled in water and salt. Emanuelle had never felt true hunger — the kind that gnaws from within, that dulls the senses and turns even mud into hope.

"No, dear... I'll explain it better at home," Arthur replied, changing the subject. "And remember: don't leave the cart. We'll reach the merchant soon."

They continued for a few more minutes, the creaking of the cart muffling the sound of Elian's whispers and the clattering of the donkey's hooves on the dry clay ground. The village began to open up a little more — the buildings clustered, creating alleys and shadows, while the smells mingled in a mist of sweat, smoke, and rotting food.

It was then that they reached what resembled a market.

Makeshift stalls, made from torn sheets and crooked pieces of wood, spread across the main square. Some sold wilted fruit, others sold fish with a strong stench, which should have been thrown away by now. There were merchants shouting offers, mothers trying to haggle for a handful of flour, and old men sitting on the ground selling nails, cracked pots, and old clothes, as if any of that still had value.

Elian watched everything with serious eyes, the grimoire still hidden between the cart's blankets. He remained silent. Everything around him screamed poverty, abandonment, pain — and there was something inside him that screamed along.

But he had to be strong. For Emanuelle. For his new family. For himself.

And, amidst the chaos, the misery, and the market cries, Elian silently got down from the cart.

Little did he know... that the real test of that day was still to come.

As they walked through the market, Arthur's steps led them to one of the more organized stalls — a sturdy wooden structure covered by a thick, clean cloth compared to the others around. It was there that merchant Roque conducted his business. A short man, plump, with a shrewd expression, looking a little over forty. His brown eyes and hair matched the earthy tone of the stall he ran with practical hands.

Arthur greeted him politely.

"Brought your children today, Arthur?" Roque hissed with a crooked smile, casting a curious glance at Elian and Emanuelle.

"Good morning, Mr. Roque. How's everything going?" Arthur extended his hand naturally, and the merchant shook it firmly. "Brought the two to see the village. They've never left the farm... but I'm starting to think it was a bad idea."

"Yeah... things aren't easy," Roque replied, casting a distant look at two children and a woman lying a few meters away. The three looked exhausted, their eyes sunken and their bodies sprawled on the dirt ground, as if they no longer expected anything from the world.

"The crisis seems to be spreading more each week," Arthur commented, his voice choked with a mix of concern and helplessness. Then, looking at his cart, he returned to the main subject. "Brought some sacks from the last harvest. They're good. Strong grains. Good for flour, beer, whatever."

Roque walked over to the cart, examining the six sacks with experience. He untied one and sunk his hand into the wheat, rubbing the grains between his fingers with an approving expression.

"They look good. Was it you and Anthony?"

"Yes. The boy's got a talent for the land. He'll be a better farmer than I ever was," Arthur smiled with pride, his eyes shining. There was a father who believed in his son.

Roque also smiled — but it was an empty smile, purely commercial.

"And how much are you asking?"

"Two Coronas per sack. Twelve in total," Arthur answered directly, firmly.

Roque raised his eyebrows.

"Two? That's a bit much... I'll give you 1.6 and take them now."

"No. 1.8. That's the fair price for this harvest. It's clean, no mold, and well-dried," Arthur's voice now carried the tone of a man who knew his worth.

Roque hesitated. He assessed the sacks again, scratched his chin.

"Alright. Deal. 1.8 per sack."

Arthur nodded.

"You made a good deal."

He then began unloading the cart. Elian watched in silence, wishing he could help, but his infant body still couldn't carry weight. He remained there, motionless, observing the people around him, the sound of voices, the bittersweet smell of overripe fruit. He was so immersed in his thoughts — calculating, trying to understand what that amount represented in real money — that he didn't even notice the sudden silence beside him.

It wasn't until Arthur returned, wiping his hands and adjusting his shirt, that he noticed.

"Where's Emanuelle?" the father asked, his eyes scanning the surroundings urgently.

Elian looked around. The little girl wasn't there.

"Here…" he murmured, but the word died on his lips as he realized she had disappeared.

Despair immediately took hold of him.

"How could I let this happen? I knew! I knew she was just a child, she could get lost in a place like this...!"

Guilt hit him like a punch to the stomach. His mind returned to the past, to the pain of losing Luciana. The image of his dead sister pierced through him with brutal violence.

Arthur didn't hesitate for a second.

"Stay here. I'll go find her."

"Okay." Elian replied with a rushed lie, suffocated by guilt.

As soon as Arthur disappeared between the stalls, Elian jumped out of the cart and ran in the opposite direction. He wouldn't wait. He couldn't. Not after what happened in his past life. Not after the promise he made.

Emanuelle was somewhere in that miserable market, and he would find her.

Even if he had to kill again to do it.

As he desperately searched for his sister, Elian felt his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. Every step through the fetid village, every strange face that passed by him, everything was a blur. The anguish squeezed his stomach like an invisible claw.

And then he heard it.

Voices, coming from a narrow alley shrouded in shadows. Three — two male, one female. The boys were about ten, maybe eleven years old. The girl… eight, maybe nine.

With each step he took toward the alley, the voices became clearer. Until he recognized them.

"Stop, let me go. Please, let me go!"

The voice was Emanuelle's.

Scared. Desperate.

"No!" one of the boys responded, with a cruel tone. "We'll play with you for a while. Then… maybe you'll go back to your family."

"That's right!" said the other, laughing in a way that sounded more like the growls of hyenas.

Elian stopped for a second. The world seemed to spin. The air disappeared.

"No, no, no!" Emanuelle screamed. Her voice broke. She cried. She begged. "Elian! Help! Help me!"

It was as if hell itself had opened within him.

Without thinking, without hesitation, Elian ran. Every muscle in his body was on fire with adrenaline. The uneven ground of the village shook beneath his feet, but he didn't notice.

Ten seconds.

That was the time between the scream and the arrival.

When he turned the corner of the alley, what he saw ignited an old fire — a hatred he had buried, but never forgotten.

The two boys were dragging Emanuelle by the arms. One was covering her mouth, the other was pulling her roughly. She was struggling, tears streaming down her face, her eyes wide with pure terror. On the right side of her face, a red mark was starting to swell — a slap? A punch?

The alley was damp and stank, the smell of sewage and feces filling the air. Mold covered the walls like decaying skin. Light didn't reach there. It was a place where evil hid easily.

Emanuelle saw him.

And her eyes changed. Despair gave way to relief. When she saw Elian, she cried even more — but now, there was hope in her crying.

Elian paused for a second. He felt an old pain explode in his chest.

Luciana.

Another little girl. Another dark alley. Another scream he couldn't reach in time.

But this time... he was there.

"Let go of my sister!" he roared with a fury that couldn't fit in his small body.

The two boys turned.

And they saw only a small, skinny boy, barefoot, covered in dust and sweat.

And they laughed.

They laughed as if they were watching a rat trying to face wolves.

But they didn't know.

They didn't know that this small body housed a wounded soul, forged in hatred and honed in blood. That this boy had spent five years absorbing everything he could — magic, discipline, pain.

They didn't know that by touching Emanuelle, they had signed their own sentence.

Elian clenched his fists. He felt the heat rise from his sternum — that sensation his mother had taught him. The energy began to move, instinctive. Hot. Fierce.

The boys dropped Emanuelle and came toward him, thinking they could scare him.

They didn't know...

But they were about to find out.

How could they scare someone who, in another life, would have been known as a serial killer?

Of course, they didn't know that.

No one knew.

Not even the sister he loved.