Aeron stood in the dim light of his shack, turning the last silver coin over in his hand. The cold metal pressed into his palm like a weight far heavier than its worth. Every time it caught the firelight, he was reminded of how little stood between him and starvation.
"Damn him," Aeron muttered, jaw tightening. The grin of the man who had claimed eighty-seven percent of his winnings haunted his thoughts. "I can't even remember owing him anything. What kind of trick was that?"
The memory soured his mood, but dwelling on it was pointless. That debt, that humiliation—it could wait. What mattered now was survival. And strength. The academy invitation burned in the back of his mind like a promise and a threat. One month to prepare. One month to become something more than weak, forgettable prey.
He slid the coin into his pocket, grabbed his worn satchel, and left the shack.
---
The slums' market sprawled before him in all its chaos—shouts of merchants echoing over cracked stone, stalls draped with half-rotten goods, the air thick with smoke, sweat, and the sour tang of decay. Aeron moved carefully, head low, slipping between bodies with the ease of someone accustomed to going unseen.
He bartered for bread, a strip of dried meat, and a few shriveled vegetables. Each purchase chipped away at the coin's edge until only silence remained in his pouch. Aeron clenched his jaw. Back to nothing.
Leaving the noise behind, he cut into a narrow alleyway where shadows stretched long against the crumbling walls. Here, the market's din faded to muffled echoes, replaced by the steady beat of his footsteps. Relief washed over him—quiet, finally.
"Ooh, look who we have here."
The voice oozed from the dark. Aeron froze.
A figure stepped forward, his grin a slash of malice across his face. The thug's clothes hung in filthy tatters, but his posture dripped with cruel confidence.
"You look better fed than most. You'll fetch a fine price in the slave market."
Aeron's stomach tightened. His eyes flicked down the alley—no exits but past the man. No help coming. His pulse quickened.
Then the thug lunged.
---
Aeron's body reacted before thought could catch up. He ducked aside, the crude knife flashing past his face. His movements were sharper, faster than he remembered being. For an instant, time slowed—and the thug's body lit up before Aeron's eyes. Faint glimmers along his ribs, his joints, his throat. Weak points.
The sight sent a thrill through him. This was new.
Aeron struck low, driving his fist into the man's side. A grunt of pain escaped the thug as he staggered back. He swung wildly in return, knife arcing clumsily, but Aeron slipped past, fluid, precise.
Again and again, blows traded—metal scraping air, fists finding flesh. Excitement hummed in Aeron's veins, but fatigue crept faster. His breath grew ragged. His limbs heavy.
Then steel kissed skin.
The knife slashed across his arm, hot pain lancing through muscle. He hissed, clutching the wound. Blood dripped between his fingers.
"Not so tough now, are you?" the thug jeered, eyes glittering with victory.
Aeron's heartbeat thundered. Desperation clawed at him. And then—
"Use the Death Law."
The book's voice slithered into his skull, sharp and undeniable.
He didn't understand how—but instinct seized him. He reached inward, grasping at the darkness he'd cultivated in that barren realm. Cold fire spread down his arm, tendrils of shadow twisting across his palm like veins of ink.
The thug faltered, eyes wide. "M-magic?! You—"
Aeron didn't wait. He drove his hand forward.
The shadows plunged into the thug's chest. His body convulsed, eyes bulging in horror as the energy ripped through flesh and bone. His scream strangled into silence, cut short by death's embrace.
When the body collapsed, lifeless eyes staring at nothing, Aeron stood above it, chest heaving. The air buzzed with power. He felt the dark energy sink into him, seep through his veins, knitting strength into weary muscle. His skin tingled, fresher, sharper than before.
In a puddle nearby, his reflection stared back. Pale, bruised, but… brighter. Alive.
---
He should have left.
But curiosity—dark, irresistible—tugged at him.
A stick lay near the wall. Aeron picked it up, knuckles whitening around the wood. He crouched beside the corpse, studying the slack face, the still chest. His mind slipped into a cold detachment.
Then he began.
The stick's jagged edge tore flesh. The thug's skin peeled back in strips, the smell of blood saturating the air. Aeron's hands worked with unsettling precision—examining layers of muscle, pulling free organs slick with warmth, tracing each system with morbid fascination.
He lost himself in the process. Each discovery, each cut, pulled him deeper. This wasn't horror. It was clarity. A puzzle laid bare, piece by piece.
When at last he stood, his clothes were drenched crimson, his hands trembling not with fear but with exertion. Hours had vanished.
"Well… that was fun," he whispered. His lips twitched into a smile. "Pity I don't have a scalpel. Would've been cleaner."
He dropped the stick, wiped his hands on the dead man's clothes, and forced himself to move. Lingering was dangerous.
---
By the time he stumbled into his shack, the night air biting at his skin, his chest was tight with exhilaration. He slammed the door shut, leaned against it, and laughed—a raw, shaken sound.
The book materialized beside him, pages whispering open.
"Hey, Booky," Aeron said with a smirk, blood still drying on his hands. "Maybe your idea isn't so bad after all."
The tome's glow flickered coldly. Its voice was like frost. "You are beginning to understand. Death is power. And you have only taken your first step."
Aeron collapsed onto his slab of a bed. His arm burned, his body ached, but none of it mattered. The fight, the kill, the rush of dissecting life into parts—every piece of it left him more alive than he had felt in years.
For the first time, he didn't fear the path of death.
He welcomed it.