The alley was narrow, suffocating, walled in by towering stone buildings that blocked out even the faintest slivers of moonlight. Shadows clung to the damp walls, stretching long and unbroken. The air was thick with the stench of rotting garbage, damp earth, and the lingering scent of blood. Filthy puddles dotted the uneven ground, reflecting faint, distorted glimpses of the stars above. A single rat scurried past, its tiny claws clicking against the cobblestone before vanishing into the darkness.
A young man lay motionless on the freezing ground, his breath shallow. Torn clothes barely clung to his battered body, bruises blooming across his skin like ink spreading through water. Blood dripped from his nose, staining the dirt beneath him.
Golden strands of hair stuck to his face, matted with sweat and filth. His deep red eyes. Unnatural, almost glowing, flickered open, sluggish and unfocused.
Somewhere in the distance, drunken laughter echoed from the main street, blending with the occasional clatter of wooden shutters and the muffled murmur of voices behind closed doors. Life went on. Indifferent.
Ashenford wasn't a large village. It wasn't rich, either. The kind of place where people lived their whole lives without ever leaving, where the roads turned to thick mud after a storm, and where the only things that ever really changed were the seasons.
But it had a brothel.
That alone made it different from the countless nameless villages scattered across the kingdom. Travelers passed through, merchants stopped to rest, and on rare occasions, even a nobleman might linger for a night before vanishing back into the world of wealth and power.
To most, Ashenford was just another place to drink, to waste coins, to forget.
But for those who lived here, it was home.
He let out a sharp breath.
"Ahhh…"
"They finally left…"
His fingers twitched as he exhaled, white mist curling in the cold night air.
"This country… is fucking rotten."
He spat blood onto the ground. The taste lingered, metallic and bitter, mixing with the quiet rage burning inside him.
"All this over four bronze coins.?"
He exhaled sharply, his hand tightening around the hilt of the knife.
"I should stop carrying a knife with me, if i'm not even gonna use it…"
Pain stabbed through his ribs as he forced himself to sit up. He gritted his teeth, sucking in a shaky breath.
A kingdom where lives were worth less than pocket change. Where power decided everything, and the weak were crushed underfoot. He had always known it, but lately, the truth had become impossible to ignore.
For years, the country had been stable. Corrupt, unfair, but stable. The king ruled. The nobles schemed. Commoners struggled. Wars were distant, mere border skirmishes. Crime flourished, but laws still held weight. Magic existed, but few could truly wield its power. Those who could were either born into noble bloodlines or forced into obscurity, their abilities feared or misunderstood. For most, magic was just another legend… something spoken about in hushed whispers but rarely witnessed. The balance remained intact.
Until six months ago.
Until the king declared he had no heir.
Long ago, when the first ruler established this kingdom, he had faced the same problem. No heir, no family, no clear successor. So he devised a brutal solution. Nine individuals… nobles, commoners, warriors, even criminals… would be chosen at random. Given one year to prove themselves, to form alliances, to eliminate the competition. When the time came, the strongest, the most cunning, the most ruthless would take the throne.
The system was abandoned after his death. The next king passed power down through blood, and so did every ruler after him. But with no heir to inherit the throne, the ancient tradition had been revived.
Nine were chosen once again.
The moment it happened, a mark burned itself into their skin… a symbol impossible to fake. Some whispered that it granted immense power, amplifying one's strength tenfold, even twentyfold, making them far stronger than they had ever been before. Others claimed it was just a sign, nothing more. But what mattered was that the moment someone saw the mark, they recognized its meaning immediately. No explanation was needed.
At first, people thought it was just a political game. Then, the killing started.
Nobles were slaughtered in their mansions. Commoners were hunted in the streets. Some heirs disappeared, vanishing into the shadows. Others gathered armies, preparing for war.
The kingdom's laws unraveled.
Guards turned a blind eye. Assassins roamed freely. As long as the chaos didn't spark rebellion, the authorities didn't care.
Murder became normal.
The strong took what they wanted. The weak prayed to survive.
And beyond the kingdom's borders, the world was watching. Once feared, the kingdom now looked like prey. If the chaos continued, an invasion was inevitable.
Half a year had already passed.
For the first twelve months, the marks weren't permanent. An heir's title could still be stolen. Some hid, waiting for the year to pass so their position would be secured. Some built alliances, fortresses, preparing for the trials ahead. Some hunted down the others before their rivals could grow stronger.
And when the year ended, the Nine would be locked in. From that point on, there was no escape. Only one choice remained… stay and fight for the throne.
The trials could take years… tests of strength, intelligence, leadership, and loyalty. In the end, the king himself would choose the one most worthy.
But if no king was chosen soon, there might not be a kingdom left to rule.
Despite it all, life went on.
People still worked, struggled, survived. The chaos of the throne was distant to most.
Vani shivered as he limped through the empty streets, ribs aching with every step. His bruised skin burned against the cold night air. Half a year of bloodshed. The war for the throne was tearing everything apart.
But right now, none of that mattered.
Right now, he just needed to get home.
His breath turned white in the night.
His mother was going to be worried again. He could already hear her sighing when she saw him like this… beaten, bleeding, barely standing.
His footsteps dragged against the dirt road as he reached a small, worn-down house at the village's edge. The sight of it should have been comforting.
But something felt wrong.
The door was slightly open.
Vani hesitated.
His mother never left the door open. Never.
A cold feeling twisted in his stomach.
He stepped forward, each movement slow, cautious. The wooden boards creaked beneath his weight. He pushed the door open further, the dim candlelight flickering inside.
And then…
A voice from within.
"Oh, you got home early, Vani."
His breath caught in his throat.
That voice.
He heard it before.
But something about it made him feel disgusted.
And at that moment, Vani knew.
Nothing would ever be the same again.