Samus kid of Assassination

Shadows of the Great Mountain: An Epic of Survival and Spirit Chapter One: Escape from the Ashes of Memory The village Marmo left was not merely a place; it was a gaping wound in the flank of the earth. That night, the air hung heavy with the scent of burning and despair. Screams no longer incited panic in the soul; they had become as familiar as the crowing of roosters, a sign that the "Law of the Jungle" had tightened its grip completely. The gangs, who called themselves "The Predators," had turned the alleyways into human slaughterhouses, where dignity was sold for a loaf of bread, and a lifespan was purchased with a moment of submission. Marmo watched his son, Samus—a child not yet ten—shrinking into the corner of the room while the clamor of swords battered their dilapidated wooden door. In that moment, Marmo realized that staying here was not just death for the body, but suicide for the soul. "I will not let them pollute your eyes with this ugliness," Marmo whispered to himself as he packed what remained of their memories into a rough cloth bundle. The family set off under the cover of darkness, treading paths untrodden by mercenaries. The "Emerald Forest" stretched before them like an endless green sea, swallowing the moonlight and exhaling a chill that gnawed at the bones. The journey was not merely a distance to be crossed, but a test of endurance. Samus had to learn how to walk without breaking a twig, how to hold his breath when a patrol of bandits passed, and how to read the language of the stars when they lost their way. Marmo carried an old axe, not so much for fighting as for carving a path through the dense bush. His wife, Elena, clutched her chest in fear for her little one, while Samus looked back toward the rising smoke of their village, as if bidding farewell to his childhood forever. The forest was desolate; the hooting of owls seemed like an omen of doom, and the rustling of trees under the weight of the wind resembled the whispering of ghosts. Yet, for Marmo, this natural terror was far lighter than the terror of men. After three days of exhausting marching, where feet cracked and provisions ran dry, the features of the "Great Mountain" began to loom on the horizon. It was no ordinary mountain; it was a cosmic rock that seemed to prop up the sky. There, somewhere between the clouds and the crag, lived Grandfather Elias. Elias was a legend in the village before he left; a former soldier who had seen enough war to fill history books with blood, and a man who decided that silence was the only truth worth living for. They finally reached the hut nestled by a waterfall flowing with water as cold as ice. Elias stood at the threshold. The years had not bent his back; rather, he appeared carved from solid beech wood. The wrinkles of his face told stories of battles untold, and his eyes... oh, those eyes held the gaze of a hawk spotting prey before it even thinks of fleeing. He did not say "Welcome." Instead, he looked at Samus and said in a voice resembling the rattling of weapons: "The forest does not accept the weak, Marmo. Why have you brought a child to die here?"