Mornings in the village of Sivan were not like the noisy awakenings of the city. Here, the sun rose by licking the sharp lines of the mountains; the cold came with an honesty that penetrated to one's lungs. Roosters crowed, dogs barked, the sound of tractors heading to the fields echoed through the valley. In the foggy weeks following his mother's death, Sencer had to rejoin the relentless wheel of life. He woke up in the early morning twilight to the sound of his father's voice coming from the barn.
His father, Mahmut, was a man who carried the weight of a season in each deep line on his forehead, a man of few words but whose gaze could shake mountains and stones. He was approaching sixty, his hands calloused, his fingers crooked from poorly healed fractures. After his wife's death, his shoulders had stooped a little more, and his hair had turned white overnight, it seemed. But he tried to stand tall for his children. When Sencer got up and went to the kitchen, he saw his little sister Elif (4) sitting at the table with sleepy eyes, and 9-year-old Ömer trying to pack his school bag.
Elif, seeing Sencer, took her fingers out of her mouth and grinned. "Brother, did you cry yesterday? Your eyes are swollen."
Sencer stroked his sister's head. "No, Elif, it's from the wind."
Ömer looked at his brother out of the corner of his eye. Ömer was a child who imitated his father's silence and his brother's anger. Even though he was 9, his eyes were always searching for something. "Brother, I fought with Efe at school. He said, 'Your mother died, nobody cares about you.'"
Sencer's fists hit the table. Glasses shook. "What did he say?!"
Mahmut intervened immediately. "Sit down, son. He's just a child, he doesn't know what he's saying. Violence isn't the answer."
"Father, where did he hear that? He heard it from his mother's mouth! Then I'll tell his mother!"
"Sencer!" His father's voice was stern. "You're finishing high school. Finish school quickly and come help with the fields. You can't get anywhere with anger in this village. Learn to be calm."
Sencer gritted his teeth. He had a quick breakfast of olives and bread, took his bag. "Father, I'm leaving. I might have some business in the district after school, I might be late."
Mahmut put his tea glass on the table and looked at his son. He could see that unruly, unquenchable fire in Sencer's eyes. How much this child resembled his wife. The same stubbornness, the same ambition, the same determined look. "High school is ending, Sencer. Don't let your mind wander. This land won't be left without an owner, your place is here, by my side. Farming is hard, but it's honourable," he said in a deep voice.
Sencer nodded. He didn't really want to oppose his father; he loved this land. Like his father, he knew how to drive a tractor, plow the field, and make his living from the soil. But the restlessness caused by the sword inside him squeezed him like a tight shirt.
As he left the door, he paused for a moment and put his hand on his chest. That warmth was still there.
---
When Sencer got on the veteran village minibus that travelled the dusty roads of Sivan to the high school in the district, that strange warmth two finger-widths below his heart was still there. Were the events in the cave a dream or a hallucination? That thing called the "Sword of Justice" by Sari Saltuk was waiting under his skin like a sleeping lion. Sometimes, when he felt a twinge, there would be a tingling in his chest, and then it would pass.
He was sitting in the back seat of the minibus, looking out the window. Mountains, valleys, fields… Everything was the same, but he had changed. The day before, he had visited his mother's grave, recited the Fatiha, and said, "Mother, I want you to be proud of me." Now he was crushed under the weight of that promise.
Lessons passed at school. During lunch break, his friends called him over, but he didn't go. He ate a simit in the canteen alone, sipping his water. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He was tired of being the "boy whose mother died" in everyone's eyes.
---
It was around 16:00 when school ended. As he walked through the narrow streets of Genç district, the heavy smell that heralded rain was in the air. Sencer left Genç Anatolian High School and walked towards the minibus stop. His bag on his shoulder, hands in his pockets, head down.
Just then, harsh sounds from the nook of a side street scratched his ears.
"Come on, hand over the money! Your school allowance will work for us today. Or I'll make your face unrecognisable!"
Sencer slowed his pace. That voice was familiar. The habitual thugs of the district… They had been reported to the school administration many times, taken to the police station many times, but every time they found a way to come back. The state's justice didn't work on these types. But Sencer's justice would.
By the wall, he saw a younger, thin boy being cornered by three young men, clearly the district's troublemakers. The boy, maybe 14-15 years old, wearing glasses, a sweater over his uniform, books in his hands, was trembling. The biggest of the thugs had grabbed the boy by the collar, while the other two were laughing mockingly, keeping a lookout.
"Give the money, what are you looking at! You're obviously poor anyway… Give whatever your allowance is, don't look for trouble!"
Sencer's inner "repair" instinct, that unbearable urge to intervene when he saw a system broken, suddenly flared up. He wanted to fix a broken tractor engine and broken justice with the same harshness. If no one else would do it, he would. If no one else would speak, he would. If no one else was afraid, he wouldn't be.
He put his bag down. He stiffened his steps. He pitched his voice low and sharp.
"Leave the kid alone."
All three thugs turned to him. The leader of the group, a young man with an old knife scar on his face, grinned. Everyone knew his name: Cengiz. Around 21, maybe older, a primary school dropout with a long rap sheet. "What's it to you, Sivan boy? Mind your own business, don't look for trouble. Your mother died yesterday, now are you playing hero around here?"
Sencer's eyes narrowed. Those words… Those words were too heavy. He wouldn't let anyone speak of his mother. No one. "If you mention my mother again, I'll lay you out on this street," he said. His voice was so cold, so threatening, that the two thugs behind him took a step back.
But Cengiz didn't step back. "There are three of us! What are you going to do? Playing the hero?"
Sencer didn't reply. He just slowly rolled up his sleeves. This silence only angered the other side more. All three lunged at Sencer. Cengiz threw the first punch, aiming his right fist at Sencer's face. But Sencer, with the reflexes honed from years of fighting at village weddings, holidays, and on the streets, dodged the attack by slightly tilting his head to the side, and landed his right fist on the man's chin. Crack! The sound echoed down the street.
Cengiz was thrown back by the force of the punch, lost his balance, and fell to the ground. Blood gushed from his nose.
The other two attacked simultaneously. One grabbed Sencer from behind, wrapping his arms around his waist, while the other tried to punch him from the front. Sencer received a hard kick from one, the blow landing on his side. His lip split, he tasted blood on his tongue. But he didn't even feel the pain. It wasn't an immense anger working inside him, but a cold, calculating mechanism.
He grabbed the arm of the man holding him from behind, twisted it, and bent his wrist, making the man scream in pain. The other thug, now free, landed another punch to his head. Sencer didn't stagger. He sent a punch back, straight into the man's eye. The man cried out in pain and retreated.
Fighting three people was hard. Sencer was getting battered; his shirt was torn, his eyebrow was cut, blood splattered on his face. He was out of breath. But he didn't give up. That uncompromising look in his eyes instantly shattered the false courage of the thugs. They were used to cornering a scared child. But when they saw someone who wasn't afraid, they panicked.
"Enough, man! He'll kill us!" one of them shouted. Cengiz, getting up from the ground, wiped the blood from his nose and looked with hatred. "You'll pay for this, Sivan boy! We'll find you! This isn't over!" he said, and they fled into the side streets. Their footsteps faded, then disappeared.
---
The rescued boy straightened his clothes with trembling hands. His glasses had slipped, his cheek was red. "Brother… Thank you so much. I was so scared. They're here every day, no one dares to say anything," he said gratefully. His voice cracked, as if he might cry.
Sencer wiped his split lip with the back of his hand. He felt the blood; his lip was swollen, but it was fine. "What's your name?"
"Mehmet. Brother, Mehmet. I go to Science High School, I was passing through this side street as usual… They were angry about something today, and they took it out on me."
"If they corner you again, find me. Sencer, final year at Genç Anatolian High School. Ask around, everyone knows me." He patted the boy lightly on the shoulder. "Go home now, it's late."
Mehmet said, "God bless you, brother," and hurried away.
And just then…
Two finger-widths below Sencer's heart, a violent electric current spread as if a battery was connected directly to his nerve endings.
It wasn't painful, but his body shuddered. Such a tremor that for a moment he felt his teeth clench. His eyes went dark for an instant; in his mind, he saw the grey steel blade of the sword glow faintly. As if the sword had been "nourished" for the first time by Sencer's just intervention. The sword was converting the good deed he had done, the innocent he had protected, the tyrants he had defeated, into energy, charging itself.
"Brother? Are you okay?"
Mehmet had come back. The child's voice pulled Sencer out of that dark void he had drifted into. Sencer took a deep breath. The warmth in his chest had increased, almost burning. "I'm fine… Just a bit tired. Go home, I said."
Mehmet thanked him once more and left. This time, for good.
Sencer leaned against the wall. He put his hand on his chest. His heart was racing wildly. That electricity… That feeling… Sari Saltuk's words came to mind. "Sword of Justice… Justice energy…" The sword was no longer just a dream object; it was a living, reacting entity. And he was the owner of this entity. Or maybe the servant of the sword.
On the minibus, his hands were still trembling. The other passengers looked at him with his bloody lip and torn shirt, but no one asked anything. When he arrived at Sivan village, night had fallen. He entered the house, went to his room without telling anyone anything.