C/W: Mentions of abuse and violence

Ghazzaland wasn't exactly the nicest place to live in the Empire.

The largest province in the Empire Of Jillius, it was mostly a desert environment with a mixture of rolling mountains and vast sand dunes. A few large settlements did exist at the coast and around natural springs, but other than that options for decent habitation were somewhat limited.

As a direct consequence, Ghazzaland was by far the poorest part of the empire, and yet was also the most populated, impoverished families often settling there with nowhere else to go. Some could adapt to the climate quite well, but the lack of readily available water and decent conditions for the majority of crops meant that the vast majority struggled, stuck in shanty towns which had slowly built up at the few pockets of sustainable living.

Still, life would be tough but manageable if this were the only problem, but then there was the issue with bandits.

The remoteness and low population of most of Ghazzaland meant it was a safe haven for outlaws and bandits to keep active with little fear of capture. Opportunistic and indiscriminate, many of them had formed roaming parties who would hold people up at gun and knifepoint and make off with anything of value not nailed down.

Their reasons for doing so varied quite a bit. Part of it was the unforgiving living conditions there, which meant that for some people the feeling was that they had no choice, and they had to steal to survive. A select few even took a noble edge, stealing food and supplies from visiting rich folk who weren't savvy enough to avoid the area, then redistributing it among their local community. Of course, many lacked any sort of redeeming quality and didn't care who they robbed, which meant another problem for the locals and left very few daring to venture out of their homes at night.

In one such roaming party of bandits was born a Ghazzaland local named Chipple. His parents had been outlaws most of their lives and had steadily built up a party of like-minded fugitives who were willing to steal either to survive, or just for the sake of it. He was born a number of years after his older sister Anemon, and although the two were the same species, they looked little alike, especially with his fur being brown and hers more dark pink.

Chipple's childhood was not pleasant in the slightest. From as long as he could remember, he and Anemon were moulded to continue their parent's work and eventually become bandits themselves. They were put through intensive fighting training, and had it hammered into their heads that it was every person for themselves in those lands, so going by a "survival of the fittest" mindset was the only way to be.

And Chipple hated every second of it.

He hated the training regiments, the remorselessness that persisted everywhere he looked, and how much his parents came down hard and belittled him when he faltered. Not helping matters was the fact that he wasn't really capable of being aggressive and sadistic like being an outlaw required. He could land a fierce punch which could knock someone down with ease, but his conscience meant he always struggled to cause harm to people, no matter how hard his parents yelled at him to do it.

Anemon was quite different. She specialised in using a scimitar, and by the time he was born she was already the most gifted at the blade of anyone in their encampment. She had much less trouble with getting into fights, took her parents' lessons and teachings about the world to heart, and happily engaged in raids with the other bandits without a care.

She was the living embodiment of what her parents wanted them to be. Uncaring, keen with a blade, and ready to do what it took to survive. Meanwhile, Chipple was the unfavourite, never reaching the same lofty expectations, his conscience always holding him back, and having abuse hurled at him about how much of a disappointment he was, and at the rate he was going he would never shape up and would be a failure for the rest of his days.

At first his sister would try and defend him best that she could, and they were both quite close in his early childhood, but as she grew older she slowly became more distant and began to side with their parents more and more. She was never as outright abusive as their parents, but eventually it no longer felt like he really had a sister anymore. It was especially bad when the two were pit against each other during training and she ended up winning every time, which of course just led to further derision.

That cycle would continue until he was around 12 years old, at which point he finally had enough. Following an especially heated argument with his parents that resulted in him being sent to bed with a black eye, he knew he could not stay there any longer. He waited until everyone at the camp had fallen asleep, packed a few of his belongings, then ran off into the night.

He didn't know how long he ran, but he kept going until he couldn't see it anymore, and finally stopped at the foot of a mountain to sleep, spending the next several days continuing to put distance between himself and the camp.

At first it seemed like he wasn't being followed, until one night when he was suddenly awoken by Anemon standing over him. She addressed him coldly, telling him she had been training him for over a day, and had been told by her parents to return him by any means necessary. She gave him a choice; either come back by his own volition or she would have to take him by force.

He refused, yelling about how he was sick of it all and wanted nothing to do with them. She yelled back, calling him a worthless coward, and soon it devolved into a fight.

Chipple fought desperately, trying to hit his sister enough that she would eventually get discouraged and leave him alone. Anemon wasn't giving up, however. She effortlessly dodged his swings and returned with a few of her without breaking a sweat, but largely kept her scimitar away aside from using it to warn him to stop fighting her.

In truth, as much as her words may have been intended to be painful, she didn't really want to hurt him. He was still her brother, after all. Even in their bouts during training, she had tried to hold back so he wouldn't be too badly hurt. She just could not understand why he wouldn't do what it took to survive in these lawless lands and felt betrayed that he had seemingly abandoned them without even saying goodbye.

Eventually, though, she got sick of him fighting her and finally slashed his arm in frustration to end it, leaving a nasty gash, and he fell to the ground in a crying heap.

She could have easily returned him to the camp then and there but seeing him in that state of backing away from her in a panic made her stop. Realising what she had done to him filled her with remorse, which she had never felt during a fight before, and in that moment she realised just how badly the treatment he had been subjected to had scarred him. She couldn't bring herself to put her feelings aside.

After wresting with her emotions for a moment she stopped, sheathed her sword and stood silently before him, unable to proceed. While she remained stoic on the outside, inside her mind was a flurry of conflicting thoughts, feeling both awful for hurting him so badly, as well as feeling like a fool for backing out and not focusing on the task she had been given. In the same breath she resented him deserting them but didn't want to subject him to the almost definite wrath of their parents if he made him come back with her.

After a long silence, she said to him; "Very well. If leaving is really what you wish, I will allow it. Goodbye, brother." With that, she turned and walked away without another word, leaving him in a state of shock.

When she returned to the camp she informed her parents that she had tracked him for some time, but ultimately found nothing, believing him to have died of exposure. Barely even reacting to the news, they broke off any further attempts to find him and the party of bandits continued on its way. Anemon felt conflicted about lying to them but their apathy to his apparent death only strengthened her conviction that she could not make him return.

The two would not meet again for a long time.

His wound bandaged with some of his clothes, Chipple continued to make his way through Ghazzaland, spending the next month or so without a roof over his head, surviving either off of scraps or whatever he could get through begging. All he had to his name were the tattered clothes he had left wearing, and the small handful of personal items he had thought to bring. His drive to keep going was slowly sapped, and it got to the point that he began to wonder if he would die on the streets, wanted by no one.

All that changed, however, when he happened upon an underground boxing tournament that had open participation to willing contestants and cash prizes to those who managed to win. Desperate, and working with the few skills he could offer, he successfully managed to sign up, but soon found himself in the ring against a veteran fighter, and realised he was only there as fresh meat that would entertain the punters through his humiliating defeat before being thrown battered and bruised back onto the streets.

As the crowd watched, however, they were impressed to see him hold his own in the bout. His fighting style was sloppy, but his skills at punching had not diminished, and he landed a few good blows on his opponent throughout, which caused those who expected it to be totally one-sided raise their eyebrows.

Even so, there was no way he could win against such an experienced opponent, and he was ultimately knocked out in the third round. One of the trainers there happened to watch the fight and saw something in the young contestant that made him want to give them a chance to improve. After giving Chipple some medical aid after the fight the trainer offered him the opportunity to train there, which would provide both food and a place to sleep. As much as it was to bring out his potential, the trainer figured that the kid could use a good turn after clearly being homeless for some time. Naturally, Chipple accepted immediately.

Life at the ring was tough, but a massive improvement over what he was used to. He trained each day, being shown techniques to improve his stance, land his blows easier, and slowly become a better fighter. And all the while he was encouraged to keep improving and reach the heights that were within his reach. Not only that, but his reluctance to cause pain was helped with the advice to treat the boxing ring as a stage, and his opponent as a fellow actor putting on a good show for the crowd. The day he won his first match fair and square was the happiest day of his life, and from that point on he remained a regular fixture at the tournament, winning some bouts, losing others, but regardless gaining the respect and adoration of the crowds.

But he could never shake the feeling that he wasn't good enough, that he never won fair and square, that people kept throwing the fights he won to make him feel better, and the internalised feeling that he would always be a worthless failure lingered on as he grew older.

That is, until a throwaway dream about reaching his full potential as a fighter led to him meeting a cabbit named Klonoa, and everything began to change. Amazed by Klonoa's bravery, he quickly became his biggest fan, following him around and eventually becoming his friend. Soon, through the influence of both Klonoa and the cabbit's other friends, his self-loathing slowly began to heal, and he started to allow himself to believe that he really did have what it took. That he could be more than what he had always been told.

All through this time, he made no attempt to contact his family, even as his friends inquired about them. He didn't want to think about those days. As far as he was concerned, Klonoa and his friends were his family now.

Still, he sometimes wondered whether his sister was still out there, and whether their paths would cross again someday.

One day, Chipple was training at the boxing ring when the door suddenly opened, and a figure stepped through the doors, catching his attention.

She was much older and taller than he remembered, but her fur colour and clothing made it clear who it was.

"Hello, brother." Anemon said…