The first thing Derick felt was cold iron.
Not the soft warmth of a mother's arms. Not the safety of a cradle. Just the bite of chains around his ankles—from the moment of birth.
He cried, but no one came.
No loving voice. No lullaby. Just the distant clang of hammers and the growl of beastly voices speaking in a tongue not meant for human throats.
He had been born into the Outer Pits—one of the many breeding camps where humans were raised like livestock under the control of demon lords and beast clans.
To the overseers, he wasn't a child.
He was property.
First Sight
Derick's first memory wasn't of a face, but of a brand—the glowing mark of a wolf-headed beastman, seared into his chest at only a few days old. A rite. A claim.
The pain was unbearable, but no one comforted him.
"Cry louder, little whelp," sneered a horned guard. "Maybe your lungs will grow stronger than your spine."
The humans in the cages beside him didn't look up. They were too tired. Too broken.
Even the mothers had learned not to fight. Not to weep. Their pain was older than language.
The World of Chains
Years passed in hunger and dust.
Derick, like the others, was fed twice a day—rotten meat or moldy rice, tossed into the mud. Water came from a leaking pipe that smelled like blood and rust. Beatings were common. Kindness was treason.
The weak were whipped. The disobedient were devoured—sometimes publicly.
And every full moon, the demons would hold their feast. A "selection." Human children lined up like offerings. Those deemed strong enough were sent to the blood mines. The rest were sold to gladiator pits. Or worse.
Derick learned early:
You survive by watching. By obeying. By enduring.
But he never forgot the spark inside him. That flicker of something else. A voice that whispered:
"This is not your fate."
"Rise, when the time comes."
The Boy and the Chains
By the age of six, Derick had stopped crying. His bones ached constantly. His back bore scars from lashes. He wore rags. He learned to walk while shackled. Learned to eat with others staring, waiting to take what little he had.
He saw humans die from disease, cold, and hopelessness.
And yet—he watched. He remembered.
Every insult. Every monster's face. Every symbol carved into the slave walls.
And most of all, he listened.
Not to words—but to the flow of this brutal world. The way the demons drew power. The way the guards trained. The strange symbols they feared. The mysterious cultivators who passed by, cloaked in crimson, muttering about "bloodlines" and "potential."
Something inside him knew:
This world was made by strength.
If he could master it—he could shatter the chains of mankind.
The Broken Toy
One evening, a young human girl tried to escape. She had braided black hair and a broken wrist.
She didn't make it past the gates.
They brought her back in pieces. Threw her body into the pit like garbage.
The next morning, a guard caught Derick staring at the remains.
"You miss her?" he laughed, lifting his spiked club. "I can send you to join her."
Derick didn't speak.
He just looked up at the demon—into eyes that shimmered with arrogance—and whispered softly:
"One day… you'll kneel."
The guard laughed and struck him across the face.
But Derick didn't cry.
He never cried again.