The city of Varna was like a giant staircase.
At the very top, golden towers shone under the sun. That was the Upper Ashlon, where only 5% of people lived. They were dressed in silks, ate food made by machines, and everyone said their karma was so pure it glowed.
In the middle sat the Mid Ashlon, where 15% of the people lived. They worked hard, traded goods, trained their skills, and dreamed of climbing higher.
And then… came the Lower Ashlon. Eight out of ten people lived here. The houses were small, the streets were noisy, and food was never enough. People laughed, shouted, and survived however they could. But still, it was fair. Everyone said the same thing:
"Your karma decides your place. Good deeds lift you, bad deeds drop you. Simple."
The Dogs
In the middle of this crowded Lower Town were three boys who called themselves Dogs.
No one gave them this name; they gave it to themselves. Why?
Because they were homeless, loyal only to each other, and always chasing after scraps of luck like street dogs.
Husky – Tall, loud, and full of crazy ideas. His mouth always moved faster than his brain.
Bulldog – Strong and serious-looking, but his so-called "wisdom" usually ended in disaster.
Pug – Short, soft-hearted, and hopelessly romantic. He cried at sunsets and blushed if a girl so much as looked his way.
They had no family, no home. They slept in alleys, stole food when hungry, and laughed at each other's failures. Everyone in Lower Town knew them—not because they were respected, but because they were so annoying.
Karma in Action
Karma here was not some invisible thing. It was alive.
When you did something good, a faint golden glow shined on your chest.
When you did something bad, the glow turned dark for a while.
The Dogs' problem?
Their karma glowed like a broken lantern. Sometimes golden, sometimes black, sometimes both at once. Even they didn't understand why.
That morning, Husky stood on a fruit cart, holding up a stolen apple like it was a king's crown.
"Brothers!" he shouted. "Today we eat like kings!"
The shopkeeper shouted back, throwing a sandal at him.
"You little mutts again!? Give that back before karma bites you!"
Bulldog sighed and grabbed Husky by the collar. "Every time you steal, something worse happens. Remember last week? You stole bread, and the whole street was flooded with bread loaves."
"That was not my fault," Husky argued, chomping on the apple. "That was karma overreacting."
Just then, the sky rumbled. Clouds swirled.
And a single apple—then two, then twenty—started falling from the sky.
Pug screamed, covering his head. "It's raining fruit again!"
Husky spat out the bite in his mouth. "…Okay, maybe my fault this time."
The three ran through the street, chased by rolling apples, shopkeepers, and laughing children.
A Lonely Truth
Later, when the chaos calmed, the three sat on the broken steps of an old orphanage. It was where they once lived, before it shut down.
They were covered in dirt, stomachs aching with half-eaten apples, but still laughing.
"You know," Pug said softly, "no matter how much trouble we get into… at least we have each other."
Bulldog nodded, pretending not to smile. Husky raised his half-eaten apple like a toast.
"To us—the Dogs of Lower Town! May karma never figure out what to do with us!"
The three howled like wolves, their voices echoing in the Lower Ashlon night.