Walking back through the cracked and dust-choked paths of the village, the boy kept his guard up. Every footstep was measured, every glance calculated. In this place, one careless moment could cost him a tooth—or a life.
He knew some of the villagers hated him, not because of anything he'd done, but simply because he was tied to Stanley. Hurting him was the closest they could get to hurting the "Fat Rooster" without consequences. Ironically, despite the daily abuse, Stanley and Wayla were the only reasons he hadn't already been sold into slavery… or worse, harvested for parts by rogue to sell to mad scientist with a taste for rare components.
From the odd jobs he'd done for passing merchants, he'd picked up more than just coins. Between haggling and hauling, they'd chat about aura and mana—about gates and channels, runes and resonance. To them, he was just a sharp little beggar boy with big eyes. But to him, their stories were lifelines. Hints at something beyond this mud-stained corner of the world.
What he didn't yet understand was that in this kingdom, the presence of mana in a commoner wasn't seen as a miracle—it was seen as a threat. One that needed to be purged.
When he reached Stanley's house, the sounds from inside stopped him cold. Wet, slapping skin. Groans. Laughter.
Disgust twisted his face.
He turned on his heel and marched straight toward his shack, muttering through gritted teeth, "Disgusting pigs. Fucking animals. How do they live like that while others out here starve?"
Inside the house, behind warped wooden walls, a grotesque dance unfolded—two naked, sweaty bodies grinding on soiled sheets, moaning and laughing between bites of cheap bread and curses. The stench was suffocating.
Back in the abandoned shack, the boy exhaled and lay down on the pile of rags he called a bed. His muscles ached, his mind spun, but his stomach was satisfied—for now. The dried meat from Pit had done its job.
His thoughts drifted to the watcher. The silent presence in the woods.
Was it real? Was it an imagination? Or had he simply gone too long without sleep?
Before he could dwell on it, exhaustion claimed him.
In the half-light of sleep, the dream returned.
A woman's voice—soft, melodic, familiar—hummed a lullaby that reached deeper than any words ever had. The haze was warm, and for once, the nightmares stayed away. He didn't know her name. He couldn't see her face. But her presence made the darkness bearable.
He'd had this dream before. Once, maybe twice a week. Always the same. A gentle tune. A comforting warmth. Then fading silence.
By the time he stirred again, the sun had dipped past the rooftops. Evening shadows stretched long over the village. He ate the rest of the meat, dusted himself off, and set off toward home, hoping the beasts had finished their mating ritual.
He didn't get far before trouble found him.
Three unfamiliar men stood near the village center, their eyes landing on him the moment he came into view. Their clothes were better than most—still worn, but cleaner than the average thug's. That alone made them stand out.
They were new.
The tallest of the trio stood at around 180 centimeters, lean and wiry with a jagged scar slicing from temple to jaw. His eyes were sharp and cruel. The second was thickset, with meaty arms and a nose broken so many times it looked like a smashed potato. The last was shorter, twitchy, with sunken cheeks and darting eyes that never stayed still.
Predators. And they had just noticed prey.
"Well, well," said the tall one, smirking. "What kind of idiot raises a kid in this dump?"
"Yeah," the stocky one grunted. "Should've dumped you in an orphanage, kid."
The boy didn't even know what an orphanage was, but he held his ground.
"They're not my real parents," he said flatly. "I tried to run once. They dragged me back. I don't know why they keep me around."
The scarred man blinked, caught off guard by the blunt answer. "Huh. That so?"
The three exchanged glances. Then the tall one said, "Well, we're new around here—nineteen of us in total. Layin' low for a while. You help us figure out who's who in this trash heap, and maybe we do you a favor."
"What kind of favor?" the boy asked cautiously.
The scarred man grinned. "Rough up your parents, for starters. I'm guessing you hate them, right?"
The boy narrowed his eyes. "You think you can do that? Stanley's connected. Most of the criminals here owe him favors."
"Stanley?" the shortest one laughed. "You mean the fat bastard that screams like a dying rooster every morning?"
The boy nodded.
All three burst into laughter.
"Perfect," the leader said. "That guy's wake-up calls have been driving us nuts. I'm sure our boss would love to shut him up."
The boy hesitated for only a second before nodding.
"Alright," he said. "Meet me here tomorrow. I'll tell you everything."
"Deal."
When he walked back through the door, Stanley sneered without even looking up.
"Well, well. Look who came crawling back. Our little parasite."
Wayla didn't speak. She just tossed him a piece of stale bread and kept chewing her own food.
He took the bread without a word. He never showed weakness in front of them.
They ignored him after that.
But he didn't ignore them.
He watched them—filthy, smug, bloated with their own sense of safety—and made a silent vow.
Soon.
That night, curled up in the far corner of the room, he forced himself to sleep. As he drifted off, the woman's voice returned, just as soft, just as clear.
But tonight, something changed.
This time the song continued to the end and as the song faded, a whisper followed it, as soft as breath against skin.
"Ethan… my lovely child."
His eyes fluttered open.
Ethan.
His name.
Someone had called him by a name for the first time in his life—and it hadn't come from hate.