There is one truth in this world: "All men are not born equal."Some are born with intellect.Some, with strength.And the ones from the Upperyard—those celestials—they are born with wealth. Everything in the realm belongs to them.
And me?I was born with nothing.Just a speck of dust in the endless hell called Sethfar.
"Remy, wake up! It's time to go to work!"A weary, feminine voice echoed through the three-roomed shack. Calling it a house was far too generous—it was falling apart, rotting in corners, with the damp stench of moss and mold woven into its every plank.
"Yes, Mother, I'm getting up," replied Remy, a sixteen-year-old boy with soft, rosy cheeks and long brown hair tied into a neat bun. He was slight, almost fragile looking, but years of hard labor had carved surprising strength into his small frame.
Remy had been born into a peasant family—or a "Dowdily," as the people from Upperyard called anyone who was not them. Despite his status, his looks surpassed even those of noble blood, though it mattered little in a world built on power, not beauty.
His morning routine was unchanging: splash cold water on his face, chew the hardened crust leftover from cooking rye, and head to the Middle Realm—Sair—to tend the fields that fed the Celestials.
"Don't forget your mask," his mother called, handing him the itchy straw covering. Though uncomfortable, he had no choice. It hid his face and, in doing so, his pride.
"Huuu... Don't worry, Remy. Just a few more weeks and we'll be free from all the debt. A new dawn will shine upon us—you'll see."
Remy had heard those words before. All his life.
"A new dawn will shine upon us..." Ha!
He stepped out of the shaking shack and into the muddy streets. Around him, death walked with open eyes. People moved, breathed, even spoke—but their souls had long since been crushed. What remained were hollow shells, laboring for the rich.
Some smoked from chipped pipes. Others stabbed their arms with dull needles.
"Opium," muttered a voice beside him. "It's ruined more lives than it's numbed."
It was Louis, Remy's only real friend—not that he'd admit it. Louis was one of the few Dowdies actively fighting for a way out.
When you're born in the Lower Realm, you're born into debt. Your crime? Simply existing. Nothing—no land, no coin, no name—belongs to you until your family's debt is repaid to your regional lord. The interest? Unpayable. The sentence? Generational.
Remy, despite everything, remained cheerful. So much so that others had taken to calling him "The Fool." But he didn't mind. Let them laugh.
His and Louis's fathers had once volunteered to become slaves to the lords for a steep reduction in family debt. It was because of that sacrifice, and every coin he and his mother scraped together, that Remy now stood just months away from freedom.
They traveled for two hours aboard a Zigord—one of the expensive transports run by nobles. It was costly, but arriving early meant extra shifts. And extra pay.
The fields they reached were lush, sprawling... and poisonous.They were growing opium—the same drug draining the soul from their streets.
"You know, this would be way easier if they let us learn the Mystic like they do," a voice grumbled beside Remy as he pulled leaves.
"Hah. And they call me the fool?" Louis replied. "You know full well they'd never let us touch the Mystic. People would run."
The Mystic—a supernatural force allowing feats of wonder. Create fire from nothing. Float stones. Heal wounds. It was said the Celestials had schools dedicated to it.
By noon, the sun blazed mercilessly. Sweat rolled down their backs, watering the cursed crops.
Most workers broke for lunch. Not Remy and Louis. They worked straight through—until the clock struck two.
As they finally rested, gulping water in the shade, something unusual happened.
A group of Celestials approached.
They never entered these fields.
Leading them was a wide, gold-draped man: Saint Roseline. Remy knew him well—he was the very man his family owed money to, and his current employer. Despite everything, Remy didn't hate him. It was Roseline who had offered a job. A path to freedom.
"Don't bother bowing," the Saint said, waving a hand. "I'm here seeking volunteers. I need men to work in the factory. I'll pay double your weekly wage for a single day's work."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
Double pay? In one day?
Unthinkable.
Ten men volunteered on the spot. Louis turned to Remy.
"Are you really gonna pass this up?"
Remy hesitated. "It seems... too convenient. What do they want us to do for that kind of money?"
"Come on, mate," Louis pressed. "Think about your mother. Don't you want to give her a break? She's been working since—well, forever."
The words hit harder than Louis realized.
Remy stepped forward.
Saint Roseline smiled. "Brilliant. Follow me."
He turned and waddled back to his transport. Behind him, a tiny servant with sunken eyes scurried like a shadow.
They traveled only a short while before towering brick buildings came into view. Smoke belched from their chimneys. The factory buzzed with a wrongness that prickled the air—a presence unnatural and cold.
"Head inside. Someone will instruct you."
The moment they stepped in, the stench of chemicals slapped them in the face. Steel clanged. Waves of heat pulsed through the hallways.
But for the promise of shelins, it was worth it.
Remy's instincts screamed that things were too easy.
But the shift passed uneventfully.By 10 PM, it was over.
The small servant returned, handing each worker a pouch. They counted every coin.
Tears welled up in some eyes.
"We're truly grateful, sir," someone muttered, voice shaking.
Remy approached the servant. "Excuse me. Can I pay my family's debt now?"
"S-so-sorry. The master... he's out right now. Come back tomorrow."
Still, they left happy—clutching the weight of their hope in cloth bags.
But hope is a fragile thing.
Halfway through their journey home, the cart jolted to a stop.
"INSPECTION! INSPECTION!"A voice boomed from outside."There's been a robbery at Saint Roseline's manor!"
Remy's blood turned to ice.
Too convenient... I knew it was too convenient...
Should he run? Hide? Surrender?
Flashlights burst through the canvas walls.
"You there—with the straw mask. You look suspicious. Come here."