Chapter One: The Lost One
In a world with no rules, no trace of justice, life was split between those born under a faint light, and those who entered existence in utter darkness.
In this world, choice is an illusion. You are either born into the light, or you belong to the shadows—with no chance to change your fate.
On a barren land, in a forgotten village, stood a dilapidated shack. From inside came the sound of harsh shouting and the crack of something striking wood.
A towering, heavyset man—his body covered in coarse hair, his scalp patchy with falling black strands—gripped a worn leather strap in his hand. He swung it without hesitation, growling in a hoarse voice:
"I should've never bought you from those slave traders... I thought you'd at least be useful. Can't even carry a cup of water, useless rat!"
He grabbed the boy by his thin neck and flung him across the room like a rag doll, landing him in a heap beside some trash sacks.
"Get up. Take this filth and throw it out—before I lose my temper completely!"
The boy stood silently, as if pain no longer lived in his body. He didn't scream. He didn't cry.
Without a word, he lifted the bags and stepped out of the shack, never looking back.
Just before he disappeared into the dusty path, the man spat out after him:
"Freak of nature… you're not even human."
---
On his way to the village dump, a mocking voice called out:
"Hey, monster!"
He turned slowly. A group of children stood there, their eyes full of scorn.
"Why don't you answer, huh? Are you deaf—or just a rock?"
One of them laughed and said to his friend, "Don't bother, Akto. This kid isn't like us… he's a beast. Born to obey. No heart, no soul."
Another stepped forward, raising his hand to slap the boy—
But a large hand stopped him mid-air.
It belonged to a wandering old man. His face was etched with deep lines, as though time itself had written a thousand stories on his skin. Long, white hair flowed gently from his head, glowing despite his age. His eyes—bright and kind—were always smiling.
His smile wasn't just on his face. It lived in his voice, in his presence, in the way he waited.
He turned to the boy's attacker, sternly:
"That's enough. What joy is there in hurting someone who won't fight back?"
The child snapped, "Stay out of this, old man!"
And with a shove, he ran off with the others.
The old man knelt beside the boy and asked gently:
"Are you alright, child?"
The boy answered in a flat tone:
"I'm fine."
The man looked into his sad eyes and asked:
"Why don't you defend yourself? If you don't… they'll keep hurting you."
The boy replied, his voice hollow:
"What's the point? Nothing ever changes."
The old man sighed, then asked:
"What's your name?"
The boy shook his head.
"I don't have one."
Silence settled between them. Then the man whispered, almost to himself:
"Then… you're a lost one."
The boy tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"What does 'lost one' mean?"
The old man replied softly:
"It means someone who never had the chance to choose their own path."
He reached into his worn robe and pulled out a small, dusty book, offering it to the boy.
"What do you say—want to read this?"
The boy stared at it.
"I don't know how to read."
The old man blinked in surprise.
"At your age… and no one taught you to read? That's heartbreaking."
Then, smiling again, he said warmly:
"Well… how about I teach you?"
The boy didn't speak, but his eyes didn't say no.
"Good enough," the old man nodded. "Let's begin."
---
He brushed off a round stone and sat, patting the ground beside him.
He didn't push, didn't rush—just waited.
After a long pause, the boy sat down. Barefoot, in dirty clothes… but his eyes sharp, his mind awake. His curiosity wasn't like that of other children. His eyes hadn't learned to wonder—but inside them lived a quiet longing.
The old man slowly opened the book. Its pages were old, covered in dust, but the words seemed alive, pulsing with forgotten stories.
He pointed at the first line.
"This… is a word. It's made of letters, and it has meaning."
The boy said nothing, but his eyes locked onto the word like it was a puzzle from a distant past.
After a while, the old man whispered:
"Try it. Just try."
The boy hesitated. His lips moved, his voice weak and unfamiliar—like his throat had never spoken willingly before.
But the old man smiled and nodded:
"Well done. That's a beginning."
The words weren't easy. The sounds were strange. It was like learning the language of another species.
Every syllable carved a new path in the boy's mind.
He stumbled. He mumbled. He paused.
But he never gave up.
He just kept trying—as if each word unlocked a door to a place he'd never known.
The old man wasn't just a teacher.
He was a silent friend, correcting gently, encouraging with warm eyes, repeating the same word a dozen times without a hint of frustration.
Then, one moment, the boy looked at the word… and read it. Alone. Quietly.
He raised his head as if asking:
"Did I do it?"
The old man smiled that unforgettable, deep smile.
"Yes… you did."
What he was learning wasn't just letters.
He was learning something deeper—
He was learning that he could understand,
That he could think,
That he could choose.
The boy who had no name… was beginning to find something far more powerful.
He was finding a voice.
---
Hours passed like minutes.
When he finally stood, the sun had begun to set.
In his hands, he held the book like it was treasure.
He clutched it to his chest—not to protect it,
but to let it protect him.
In a quiet voice, he said:
"I'll come back."
The old man nodded, the same gentle smile still on his face.
"Until next time… lost one."
---
The boy returned to the shack, a little later than usual.
The book still in his hands.
The man was waiting, face twisted in his usual scowl.
"Why are you late, you little fool?!"