The old man always said the world was once woven from light — pure, flawless light, poured by the Sun God and gathered by the Moon Goddess, stretching from one horizon to the other like a sea of stars at the edge of time.
The boy had never really believed it. But mornings like this made it harder to hold onto doubt.
They stood together on a rocky ridge overlooking what remained of the valley — a rust-colored desert where trees once grew. The violet light of the night sky cast harsh shadows across the stones. The wind cut through their coats, dry and cold, and the air carried a faint smell of burnt salt.
They'd been hunting in the heights for several days, sleeping on bare stone, eating cold, and talking little. The old man walked without complaint, the boy followed without questions. They hadn't found anything useful in two days — no fresh tracks, no prey, just bones, wind, and silence.
"Look," the old man murmured.
The boy followed his gaze. There, piercing the thick quilt of ash-colored clouds, something shimmered — a bird, bright orange, its feathers catching the light like embers.
A Flame Barranquero, soaring through the air with a grace that seemed not of this world.
"A Barranquero," the old man said, eyes squinting into the wind.
He stayed silent for a moment, watching the bird until it disappeared into the clouds.
"Don't hunt them," he added.
"They're sacred. Too ancient. Killing one draws the wrath of the Gods, they say…"
He spat on the ground, as if to ward off a bad spirit.
"Even the starving don't touch them. It's bad luck."
Then, far off, beyond the mountain peaks — the sky cracked open.
A thin blue slit tore through the clouds like a blade. It widened fast, massive, until it split a good portion of the sky. The violet heights lit up all at once, struck by a light too white, almost divine.
And then it happened.
An explosion, distant but clear, somewhere in the deadlands. Strands of light burst from the rift, twisting in all directions like living wires. They glowed for barely a second — just enough to flood the valley in a blinding flash — then vanished.
The sky slowly closed back up, leaving behind a pale scar.
The boy didn't move. And the bird was gone.
The old man said nothing more.
He simply turned away, murmuring the phrase he always repeated whenever the world reminded him it was still alive:
"The light never forgets where it once shone."
**************************************
I still believe that.
I have to.
Stories like that… they're the only things that still make sense to me.
But here, in the Dump?
It's harder.
Hope doesn't disappear. It… leaks. A little more each day, beneath all the rot.
I pushed open the West maintenance door of Block 10 and stepped into the corridor. The smell hit me first — that good old mix of boiled plastic, wet concrete, and burnt oil.
Familiar.
The hallway was half-lit by flickering bulbs dangling from frayed wires. The tiles under my boots made a squishy sound.
I didn't want to know why.
I walked fast, shoulders relaxed but alert. Moving slow around here meant getting noticed. And getting noticed meant trouble — especially for me.
Children's screams echoed through the gray morning like interference.
They were running — bare feet slapping cracked concrete, mismatched boots kicking up dust. Their patched clothes streamed behind them like torn flags, all color long washed out by sun and soot.
Their cries woke the lonely souls of Block 10's square.
One of them jumped high, almost floating, boosted by some kind of mutation. Another formed a frozen rock in his hand like a weapon.
And they all shouted the same thing:
— "Catch the rat!"
— "We'll save the city from the monster, like the Rankers!"
Their target stumbled ahead — a little kid with a rat-like appearance, maybe eight or nine, with a twitching nose and trembling hands. His eyes were wide and wet. His fur was matted. His tail dragged behind him.
I watched, unmoving. Nothing new. Scenes like this? I saw them every day.
A different kid. A pack of power-hungry brats. And no one saying stop.
I should've just walked past, like everyone else.
But I didn't.
Because no matter how ordinary it's become — it still makes me sick.
"Please…" he said, voice broken. "Leave me alone…"
He fell. The others slowed down, smiling.
One of them — a boy with cracked glasses and frost on his fingers — stepped forward with a satisfied laugh.
— "I'm Ivan, protector of the North Sector!"
— "Time to purify the vermin!"
He threw the ice shard, and it shattered against the wall just above the rat-kid's head.
The boy screamed, shielding his face.
I watched from afar at first. Just another face in the crowd.
Mutations have always existed.
Since the first humans rose from the dust, the world has been shaped by what lives inside us.
Mutations come from anima, the ever-present energy source that fuels all life.
The power they give… is limitless.
But so is what people do with it.
People love talking about fairness — power, merit, potential. But the truth?
Nothing's fair. It's just the draw of the lot.
Sometimes you're born with a mutation that makes you stand out.
Sometimes you're born in a place that ensures no one ever will.
One decides what you can do.
The other, if anyone will ever care.
And if both go wrong?
Welcome to the Dump.
A few men laughed nearby. Older workers.
One of them looked normal, but his movements gave him away — too sharp, too smooth. A clear sign of Consolidation — when anima strengthens your body from the inside, making you stronger, faster, more precise.
He slapped his buddy's back. The ground vibrated from the impact.
— "All the kids wanna be Rankers now, huh?"
— "Hah! No more farmers in ten years," groaned the other, rubbing his aching back.
— "We need protectors against the cursed, anyway!"
I exhaled. Not loud. Just enough.
This place never changes.
I stepped in.
The kids saw me and scattered like rats.
— "Run! It's him!"
The rat-kid was curled up by a wall, sniffling, arms raised like they'd protect him.
— "Hey, you okay?" I asked, crouching.
He stared at me with red-glowing eyes.
Didn't answer. Just shook.
I smiled a little.
— "Next time, fight back, alright? Gotta be tough in the slums."
Behind me, the sun was just barely piercing the haze.
A hard light. Sharp.
But still light.
He nodded. Wiped his face on a grimy sleeve.
I stood and stretched my back.
— "Forget those idiots. They don't know shit.
Rat-Taste, huh? Strong legs. Swimmer. Fast reflexes."
The boy blinked. Looked lost. I smiled.
— "That's way more useful than throwing ice rocks, don't you think?
You've got something to be proud of."
I glanced back, then returned my gaze to him.
— "What's your name?"
He wiped his eyes one last time.
— "Sanimo."
I nodded, patted his head gently.
— "Alright, Sanimo. You should show them.
Show them you can be a Ranker too.
Later."
I brushed dust off my tank top and tightened the strap on my loose pants. Always breathable. Always wide.
Can't fight in tight clothes.
A woman at a nearby stall waved with a crooked grin.
— "Saw you help that kid. That kind of heart won't keep you alive long."
— "Probably," I muttered.
She tossed me a dented tin box.
— "Leftovers. Take it. For what you did."
Inside: a blob of something. Sticky rice, some vague veggies, a brownish sauce mashed into the corners. Something that was once warm.
— "Looks like you already chewed this," I said with a smirk.
— "Spit in it too. Bonus flavor."
I gave her a half-smile and kept walking.
My feet carried me past a broken Anima Dispenser — a scuffed cube with cracked, flickering runes. Nearby, a rust-stained basin caught dripping water.
A cracked mirror was nailed to the wall, barely hanging.
I looked at myself.
Mid-length black hair tied back, still messy.
Blonde streaks near the temples — natural.
Pale skin under flickering light. Sharp cheekbones.
Brown eyes, dry and tired.
That damn glove on my left hand.
Bandages tight underneath, stretching to my elbow like a secret I'd never erase.
I was tall. Lean. Muscles shaped by labor, not bulk.
People underestimated me — I liked that.
I stared a moment longer than I should've.
Then — a sharp whistle from the docks.
Someone was calling.
Damn.
I tightened the strap on my bag and walked off.
The peace I'd hoped for this morning?
Already gone.