The alley reeked of piss, sweat, and desperation. Poru crouched low, his bare feet planted in the dirt, his feral eyes locked onto the half-eaten loaf of bread lying between him and the other boy. His stomach howled in protest, twisting itself into knots. He hadn't eaten in two days.
The other orphans circled around them, their gaunt faces expectant, their hollow eyes void of sympathy. This wasn't a game. This was survival. The winner ate. The loser starved.
The other boy, Keda, licked his cracked lips and clenched his fists. He was bigger than Poru, stronger too, but Poru had something else. He had hunger. And hunger made him mean.
Keda moved first, a wild swing aimed at Poru's temple. Poru ducked, his instincts sharper than thought. He bared his teeth in a grin and lunged, fingers curled like claws. He didn't fight like the bigger kids, with clean punches and proper form. Poru fought like a starving animal dirty, unpredictable, ruthless.
His nails raked across Keda's face, drawing blood. Keda roared, blinded for a second. That second was all Poru needed. He drove his knee into the boy's stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. Keda staggered, choking on his own breath.
Poru didn't stop. He never stopped. He leaped onto Keda's back, biting into his ear like a rabid dog. The taste of iron flooded his mouth, and Keda screamed. The crowd gasped. A few laughed.
"Crazy little bastard," someone muttered.
Keda slammed backward, pinning Poru against the hard stone wall. Pain exploded through his ribs, but he refused to let go. His teeth clamped down harder until he felt flesh tear.
Keda howled, shaking Poru off. Poru hit the ground, panting, his small body trembling from exhaustion. Keda stumbled away, clutching his bleeding ear. He wouldn't fight anymore. He was done.
Poru wiped his mouth and scrambled to the loaf of bread. He grabbed it and bolted before anyone else decided they were hungrier.
That night, Poru curled up in the ruins of an abandoned shop, gnawing on his stolen prize. His ribs ached, his lip was split, and his hands throbbed, but none of it mattered. He had food. He had won.
The city loomed beyond the alley, cold and indifferent. He didn't belong there. He never would.
Then he heard footsteps.
Poru's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. The figure that emerged from the darkness wasn't another starving orphan or some drunk looking for a place to piss. This man moved differently calm, sure, like he owned the very air around him. He wore a long, dark coat, one hand tucked into his pockets the other idly brushing dust off his shoulders . His face was shadowed, but his eyes his eyes were watching. Studying.
"You fight like a wild dog," the man said. His voice was smooth, deliberate. "No fear. No hesitation."
Poru said nothing. His fingers curled around a sharp piece of broken glass beside him.
The man chuckled. "Good. Stay sharp." He reached into his coat and tossed something onto the ground.
Meat. Real, cooked meat wrapped in old paper.
Poru's stomach clenched painfully. His fingers twitched. It could be a trick. A trap. But gods, the smell his mouth filled with saliva.
"I want you to fight for me," the man said. "Not for scraps. But for survival. And something bigger."
Poru grabbed the meat, eyes darting up at the man, wary like a beaten animal. He shoved the food into his mouth, chewing fast, barely breathing.
The man watched in silence, waiting.
Poru's chewing slowed. He swallowed hard, licking his lips. His eyes flicked from the man to the dark streets beyond. He didn't understand everything the man said. Too many words. Too complicated. But he understood food. He understood power.
"More?" Poru's voice was hoarse, rough from disuse.
The man smiled, tilting his head. "Yes. If you come."
Poru hesitated. Suspicion was second nature to him relying on others had never filled his belly.
He stood, swaying slightly. "Fight?"
The man nodded. "Yes. Fight."
Poru stared for a long moment, then wiped the blood from his chin. He had nothing. No family. No future. Only his fists and his hunger.
Maybe it was time to stop fighting just to live and start fighting for something more.
The man turned, walking back into the night.
Poru followed, stepping into the shadows. He didn't know it yet, but this was the night everything changed.
The night swallowed them whole.
Poru followed the man through winding streets, his bare feet slapping against the cold, wet stone. The city's filth clung to his skin, but he didn't care. He had food in his belly, and now, he was moving toward something unknown. Something bigger than fighting for scraps.
The man silent, purposeful never once looked back. His long coat drifted behind him like a phantom's shroud, his boots striking the ground with a calm authority. Poru didn't trust him. But trust had never kept him alive. Only instincts did, and his instincts told him to follow.
They passed through narrow alleys, past drunks slumped against walls, past whores whispering empty promises to hollow-eyed men. The air was thick with rot and smoke. Poru had walked these streets his whole life, yet something about this night felt different. The shadows felt heavier. The silence, deeper.
Then they stopped.
A rusted grate sat at their feet, hidden between crumbling buildings. The man crouched, gripping an iron ring, and with a grunt, he heaved it open. A foul, damp stench rose from below a mix of mold, blood, and something worse.
Poru hesitated. His stomach clenched. He'd crawled through filth before, scurried through gutters like a rat, but this place... this place felt wrong.
"Go," the man ordered.
Poru narrowed his eyes. He didn't like being told what to do. But then the man reached into his coat and pulled out another wrapped bundle more food. He dangled it just out of reach, smirking.
Poru lunged forward, snatched the meat, and dropped into the pit.
Darkness swallowed him. His feet hit stone, wet and uneven. His nose wrinkled at the overpowering stench. Something dripped in the distance slow, rhythmic. Water? No. It was too thick, too heavy.
Boots struck the ground behind him. The man had followed. Without a word, he pushed past, leading the way through a low tunnel. Poru followed, chewing the last of his meat, eyes darting to the slick walls. His fingers brushed against them sticky. Warm.
Blood.
Then came the door.
Massive, iron, reinforced with thick bolts. The man knocked once, and with a groan, it creaked open.
The moment Poru stepped inside, he felt it. The weight. The quiet terror in the air.
The underground chamber stretched wide, torches flickering along the stone walls. Dozens of kids stood huddled in clusters, their faces half-lit by the flames. Boys and girls, all young, all like him thin, scarred, feral. Survivors. But none of them spoke. They just watched as the new arrival stepped in.
Poru's muscles tensed. He wasn't the only predator in this room.
The door slammed shut behind him.
The man strode forward, his presence alone commanding silence. He removed his coat, revealing lean muscle beneath a dark, sleeveless tunic. A blade rested at his hip, casual, familiar like it belonged there more than he did.
"My name is Veyne," he announced, his voice carrying through the chamber. "You are all here because you were nothing."
No one moved. No one breathed.
"You stole. You fought. You crawled through the shit of this world just to wake up hungry the next day. Out there, you are rats. Here, you have a chance to be something more."
He paced slowly, letting the silence stretch.
"Training begins tomorrow. You will break, bleed, and crawl until you are strong. Until you are useful. But only the strongest will remain."
A smirk curled his lips, but there was nothing kind about it.
"The weak will die."
The words hung in the air, final. Unapologetic. The torches crackled, and for the first time, some of the kids shifted, glancing at one another.
Poru didn't move. He didn't flinch. He didn't care about the others. He had a bed now. A place to sleep. And he wasn't about to give it up.
Veyne gestured, and one of the older boys stepped forward. "Take them to their rooms."
Poru was shoved forward, led down another corridor. Doors lined the walls, heavy and iron-barred like cages. The boy stopped at one and yanked it open.
"Four to a room," he muttered. "Figure it out."
Poru stepped inside.
The room was small just stone walls, a single torch, and two bunk beds covered in rough, moth-eaten blankets. Three other boys were already inside, watching him like wolves sizing up fresh meat.
The door slammed shut behind him.
No one spoke.
Poru just grinned, baring his teeth. He'd fought for scraps before. He'd fight for his place here, too.
The moment Poru stepped inside, a boy stormed toward him, eyes sharp with authority. His clothes were tattered, his face smudged with dirt, but his stance was unwavering.
"This is my shelter," the boy declared, voice low and dangerous. "If you want to stay, you better follow my rules."
Poru, exhausted beyond measure, barely registered the words. His limbs ached, his mind was foggy, and the boy's voice felt distant just another noise in the background of his suffering. Without a word, he turned his head away, uninterested.
The boy's expression darkened. In an instant, his fist was flying straight for Poru's face.
Before the blow could land, two other children stepped in, grabbing the attacker by the arm.
"Let it go," one of them urged, his voice calm but firm. "He's new. He doesn't know how things work yet."
The bully held his glare for a long moment, tension crackling in the stale air. Then, with a scoff, he yanked his arm free and took a step back. "Fine," he muttered. "But if he tries that again, I won't let it slide."
Poru barely reacted. His hollow eyes flickered between the children, but there was no understanding in them only the raw instincts of a cornered animal.
The two who had intervened turned to him, their expressions softer.
"I'm Jinn," the first one said, his voice carrying a mix of caution and kindness. "And this is Eri."
Eri offered a small nod. "We just wanted to help. You okay?"
Poru didn't answer. He simply stared, body tense, fingers twitching as if expecting another attack. Words meant nothing to him right now. People meant nothing.
He had to survive.
And in this cold, unforgiving place, he had no reason to trust anyone yet.