A few years ago, Scaramouche wandered through the desolate streets of Inazuma, his spirit shattered by the aftermath of the great war. He stumbled upon an underground den, filled with the usual depraved filth—gambling, smoking, smuggling.

Bastards, all of them. Even after the war, they continued to flaunt their wealth without sparing a single thought for others.

Scaramouche glared at their insolent debauchery, his disdain palpable as he turned to leave. But then, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.

It was a child, dressed in tattered clothes and covered in grime. He looked as though he had been plucked straight from the streets. Yet, what truly seized Scaramouche's gaze was where the boy sat—perched atop a table where rich men played a game of poker, pushing chips around and throwing cards while leering at the frightened child with predatory intent.

"Hah...? A kid?" It wasn’t unexpected from such a filth ridden environment that these pathetic excuses for humans would stoop so low as to torture children too, but still, he had never seen a kid in such a place before.