The antiseptic smell of the hospital hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the relentless drumming of rain against the windows. Eighteen-year-old Ashura Raven gripped the worn leather strap of his backpack, the familiar weight offering little comfort in this unfamiliar, sterile environment. He hadn't seen his father, Silas, in months—not since their last explosive argument, fueled by the reek of stale beer and the bitter taste of lost bets.
Silas lay in the hospital bed, gaunt and pale, a mere shadow of the boisterous man Ashura remembered. His breathing was shallow, each inhale a struggle. His eyes, usually twinkling with mischief, were now dull and listless, reflecting the emptiness Ashura felt gnawing at his own soul.
Silas's voice, when he spoke, was a mere rasp, barely audible above the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. "Ashura… my son…"
Ashura leaned closer, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"I… I was reckless," Silas wheezed, his words catching in his throat. "Drunken… a gambler… a fool…" He coughed, a harsh, rattling sound that sent shivers down Ashura's spine. "I… I don't want… you… to be… like me."
Tears welled in Ashura's eyes. He'd always known his father's life was a mess, but seeing him like this, broken and frail, brought a fresh wave of grief crashing over him. The weight of unspoken regrets and missed opportunities pressed down on him. The youthful bravado he'd usually carried felt flimsy and inadequate in the face of his father's mortality.
Silas reached out a trembling hand, his touch surprisingly weak. "Make me a vow, son. Swear to me… swear you won't be like me. Swear you'll be… better. The best version of yourself. Rich… happy… fulfilled…" His voice trailed off, his grip weakening.
Ashura choked back a sob. He took his father's hand, his own trembling, and spoke, his voice thick with emotion. "I vow it, Father. I will be better. I will be the richest, happiest, and most fulfilled person I can be. I swear it."
A single, weak tear rolled down Silas's cheek. Then, his grip loosened, his eyes fluttering closed. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor flatlined. Silence descended, heavy and suffocating.
The raw, gut-wrenching sobs finally escaped Ashura. He buried his face in the crumpled sheets, the reality of his father's death crashing down on him like a tidal wave. The weight of the vow, the sudden responsibility, and the crushing grief threatened to overwhelm him.
The funeral was a blur of somber faces, hushed condolences, and the damp chill of the earth settling over the freshly dug grave. Later, alone in his small apartment, the reality of the vow settled upon him. Silas was gone, but his words echoed in Ashura's ears. He was a man of his word. He never broke a promise.
He began the meticulous process of calculating his net worth. The dusty piggy bank yielding a modest sum; his collection of rare Pokémon cards, painstakingly cataloged and valued; the small savings account his father had unknowingly left behind—every asset was meticulously noted, every cent accounted for. He had to honor his father's final wish—he needed to understand the starting capital to build his future, a future far removed from the ruin of his father's life. He wasn't just building a business; he was building a legacy. The weight of that vow settled heavily on his shoulders, a promise he intended to keep, no matter the cost. The eighteen years he'd spent under his father's shadow suddenly felt like a lifetime of missed opportunities and a crucial lesson learned too late. Now, he would forge his own path.