Aeron stepped out of the ramshackle excuse of a house, the warped door creaking behind him as the dim light spilled across the uneven ground. He paused at the threshold, his sharp eyes sweeping the streets ahead—crumbling structures leaning drunkenly against each other, crooked alleyways carved like scars through the sprawl, and the stench of rot clinging to the air like a curse.
Dust swirled in the wind, making each breath a struggle. The place looked less like a district and more like a graveyard for the living.
His brow furrowed. "Wait… is this really supposed to be a magical world? Because so far, all I've seen is misery."
The book shimmered into being at his side, its pages fluttering with a sound like dry whispers.
"Magic exists," it replied, voice carrying a faint amusement. "But this is the slums, Aeron. A pit where the forsaken are discarded. Here, those unfortunate enough to be born human rot at the bottom of the food chain."
Aeron's frown deepened. "Forsaken? You're not making sense."
"Look around you. The slums are lawless and brutal. Humans here are exploited for their labor, sold for their organs, and discarded when they're no longer useful. Higher races—elves, dragons, beastkin—thrive above, claiming the best of this world. And humans? They are tools. Replaceable. Disposable."
Aeron's lips twisted into a humorless smile. "So, humans are commodities."
"Precisely. But don't mistake yourself for one of them." The book's tone dropped, carrying an unsettling weight. "You are different."
Aeron didn't like the way the word lingered, sharp as a knife edge. He brushed the thought aside.
---
The streets groaned under tired feet. Thin figures shuffled past him, their faces gaunt, their eyes hollow—shadows in flesh. Watching them stirred a thought in Aeron's mind, a thought that lit a flicker of excitement in his otherwise grim expression.
"If humans are at the bottom," he murmured, "then the anatomy of other races… must be different. Organs. Circulatory systems. Entirely new structures."
He could already picture it—the peel of alien skin under his scalpel, veins glowing with unfamiliar fluids, hearts beating to rhythms no human body could sustain. His pulse quickened at the possibilities.
"Oooh, I can hear the hunger in your voice," the book chimed, its tone mocking yet intrigued. "Yes, their anatomy differs. The rarer the race, the more unique their structures. But you won't be dissecting anyone yet. Right now, you're far too weak to even attempt it."
Aeron's lips curved into a smirk, a gleam of obsession flashing in his eyes. "We'll see."
---
A low growl from his stomach interrupted his train of thought. His body reminded him—brutally—that ideas alone couldn't sustain him.
"Fine," he muttered. "Let's talk rewards. How do I even start using them?"
The book's pages flicked before vanishing, leaving only its voice behind.
"Later. Once you've eaten and settled. Who knows—this might be your last meal."
Aeron's eye twitched. "That's not funny."
"It wasn't meant to be," the book said, before fading entirely.
Grinding his teeth, Aeron exhaled sharply and set off. Hunger gnawed at his focus, forcing him to concentrate on something simple: food.
---
The market sat like an open wound at the heart of the slums. It wasn't bustling with trade—it was a chaos of desperation. Merchants squatted behind filthy cloths, shouting over each other as they peddled scraps. The air was heavy with the smell of sweat, spoiled food, and unwashed bodies.
But what drew Aeron's attention were the creatures. Some towered above the stalls—horned, scaled, or winged—while others slithered low to the ground, their forms bending through gaps in the crowd. He caught sight of a sharp-eared elf barking orders at a cluster of gaunt humans straining under crates. The man's whip cracked once, and the humans flinched like beaten dogs.
Aeron's expression darkened. "Tools, huh?"
Keeping to the shadows, he scanned for anything remotely edible. Eventually, his eyes landed on a stall stacked with stale bread and strips of dried meat. His hand went for his pouch, but a shout broke through the din.
A commotion erupted a few stalls over—thugs cornering a scrawny man, shoving him to the ground. Their laughter rang harshly as they kicked him, scattering his meager belongings across the dirt.
Aeron tensed, slipping deeper into the crowd. The thugs glanced his way—sharp eyes weighing him for sport—before dismissing him. He let out a slow breath, quickening his steps.
Close call.
---
He bought what he could—hard bread and a sliver of dried meat, barely enough to fill a child's stomach. As he turned to leave, something reflective caught his eye: a dented piece of metal propped on a nearby stall.
Aeron froze.
The reflection staring back was weak. His body was wiry, his face hollow, his skin pale as wax. Bruises marred his jaw and neck, cuts streaked across his arms, and the haunted look in his eyes spoke louder than any wound.
A bitter laugh escaped him. "No wonder this boy died before the fight even started." His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. "Pathetic."
But as he stared, something shifted. Beneath the mockery, beneath the disgust, there was a spark—small, but fierce.
Pathetic now. Not forever.
---
Leaving the market, he kept his head low. But unease prickled his neck—eyes were on him. He slipped into an alley, food clutched tight, only to find the way blocked by a hulking orc lumbering past. Aeron ducked quickly into a side street, heart hammering, and didn't slow until the market's noise was far behind him.
When at last he leaned against a wall, exhaling shakily, he muttered: "Home. Get home first. Then figure the rest out."