To Tempt A Saint

"Nine!"

Her voice—soft yet urgent—cut through the restless murmur of the slums.

Nine froze. His heart, steady even in the face of violence, lurched as though yanked by an invisible thread. He turned, and there she was—Aya. A fragile bloom thriving against the merciless frost of winter.

The flickering lanterns cast long, wavering shadows against the crumbling brick walls. Her dark hair, unkempt yet still carrying the sheen of youth, framed a face too gentle for a place like this. Wide, expressive eyes that once held nothing but quiet wonder now brimmed with something heavier—concern.

Nine swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. Aya had always been his anchor, the one constant in a world that showed no mercy. Like him, she was an orphan. But unlike him, she had never hardened. In a place where kindness was a liability, she had remained soft. And despite everything, she had never let go of him.

He had learned young that survival meant severing anything that could be used against him—pain, loss, hope. But Aya had been the exception. She softened his edges, tethering him to a part of himself he was beginning to forget.

Memories flickered like dying embers.

The slums had never been kind. The bullies had always come for him, drawn to his sharp tongue and small frame like wolves scenting weakness. Beatings were routine, their laughter a cruel chorus in his ears. But Aya never let them have the satisfaction of seeing him broken. She was too small to fight them off, but she was clever. A well-timed distraction, a sudden commotion—and before they knew it, she'd be gripping Nine's wrist with surprising strength, breathless as she whispered—

"Run."

And he always did.

Together, they had carved out a fragile sanctuary: a hidden alcove behind a crumbling wall they had spent days prying open. Small, barely enough for the two of them to sit shoulder to shoulder, but it was theirs. A place where the world couldn't touch them.

There, they shared stolen bread, curled up for warmth on bitter nights, and marveled at the discarded picture books Aya found.

Aya couldn't read, but Nine could. He had taught himself, unraveling the mystery of symbols that danced across yellowed pages. And when he learned, he taught her.

She had watched him with wide, unblinking eyes, tracing the letters with the tip of her finger.

"You're smart, Nine," she would whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile world they had built.

In those moments, it didn't matter that they had nothing. They had each other.

But time was cruel.

The boy who once laughed with Aya over silly drawings became someone else. The softness in his eyes dulled, replaced by something sharper—colder. His cleverness turned to cunning, his quick hands no longer used for stealing food but for brewing and selling a potent drug that kept the slums in his grasp. The same streets that once tormented him now bowed to his rule.

Aya felt the shift before she could name it. She wanted to ask him, to beg him to stop, but the words never left her lips. Fear held her tongue—not of Nine, never of Nine—but of losing him. He was all she had.

By the time she was fifteen and he seventeen, the world beyond their hidden sanctuary fell into chaos.

Wars erupted across the realm, martial arts factions clashing in desperate bids for dominance. Greed and ambition devoured what little peace remained. But worse than war was the silence that followed.

The gods, disillusioned by mortals, turned their backs on the realm.

And in their absence, something else took their place.

The Seven Deadly Sins—Greed, Lust, Sloth, Pride, Envy, Wrath, and Gluttony—descended like whispers in the dark, offering power to the desperate and the ambitious. Their allure was intoxicating, their promises irresistible.

Nine, ever ambitious, couldn't resist.

When the Arena of Lords was announced—a deadly tournament where the victor would claim the title of one of the Seven Sins—he made his decision.

He would fight.

He would win.

Aya tried to stop him.

"You will gain nothing from it." She stood in his path, her voice trembling but resolute.

Nine sighed, his expression unreadable as he leaned down to meet her gaze. For a fleeting moment, something softened in his eyes, but the fire of determination never dimmed.

"I'll create a world for us, Aya," he murmured, his hand brushing over her head before stepping past her.

"We have each other. That's enough!" Aya's voice cracked, her fingers tightening into fists.

Nine halted. Slowly, he turned her to face the world around them.

Dark smoke curled into the sky from distant fires. The scent of blood and rot clung to the air. Shadows moved in the streets—hungry, desperate, their gazes hollow. Even the guards and martial artists attempting to restore order carried the same resignation in their eyes.

"This place will burn soon," Nine said quietly, his voice unyielding.

Aya shivered, but when he took her hand, she let him. Questions swirled in her mind, fear coiling in her chest, but his touch grounded her.

"What are you planning?" she whispered.

Nine turned to her, his expression impossible to decipher. Then, with a small, knowing smile, he said—

"I told you, Aya. I'll create a world for us."

She frowned. "How? You're just a kid."

Nine chuckled, the sound warm, almost teasing. It caught her off guard.

"A kid, huh?" He tilted his head, amusement glinting in his dark eyes. "Maybe for now. But that won't last long."

The dirt on his face only made his features sharper, more striking. There was something about the way he looked at her that sent an unfamiliar warmth curling in her chest.

Aya's heart stuttered. She hated how easily he could unnerve her.

"Are you sick?" Nine's grin faded into a frown as he reached out to feel her forehead.

Aya recoiled, heat rushing to her cheeks as she batted his hand away. "I—I'm fine!"

Nine blinked, then laughed—a low, soft sound that sent shivers down her spine.

"You want me to carry you?" His tone was playful.

Aya shot him a glare. "I'm not a kid anymore!"

"Right, right." Nine held up his hands in mock surrender, his smirk never fading. "But we are kids, aren't we?"

Aya huffed, snatching her scarf from his hand and marching ahead with a pout. Nine followed, watching her with quiet amusement.

For a moment, it felt like old times—the teasing, the warmth, the illusion that they were just two children against the world.

But the weight in Aya's chest never lifted.

Nine's path was leading him into darkness.

And she wasn't sure if she could follow.