The man stood quietly amid the patch of wild flowers atop the hill for a while, where the forest thinned and the world began to show its mortal face. Behind him, the whispering trees offered no farewell. Before him, a city pulsed with distant lights—like scattered stars clinging to a fading dream. The side of the city nearest to him was saturated with corrupted energies, vibrating with unrest. But as his gaze wandered further inward, the energies grew calmer, purer. And at the heart of the city stood a towering castle, surrounded by a dense knot of mixed energies. Just to its right, a distant building glimmered faintly—its aura made of untainted creation energy.
He stepped forward.
With quiet grace, he descended the slope. The ground was soft beneath his feet, still damp from dew, and the wind carried faint traces of smoke, sweat, and sorrow.
By the time he reached the city's edge, he entered through its forgotten side—the slums.
The contrast was immediate.
Crumbled walls leaned precariously. Roofs patched with tarps and broken tiles. Children with hollow eyes stared from alleys. Some worked alongside adults, some played while laughing—though their eyes remained hollow, ghostlike. Rats scurried freely between puddles of refuse and ash. People washed clothes in cracked buckets, or simply sat outside, lost in silence. A few lay unconscious in the streets.
The city's outer decay pulsed with something more than poverty. The air felt heavy—not just with suffering, but with something deeper, older.
A fracture.
The man paused near a collapsed shack. His eyes scanned the surroundings, not as a mortal, but as something ancient, trying to comprehend the ache of mortality.
Then he saw him.
A boy.
He saw the fading threads of energy inside the child—a dimming spark.
Curled into himself in a narrow alley, bones pressing against translucent skin. Seven years old, maybe younger. Pale. Lips cracked. His breath barely stirred the air.
The man knelt beside the child.
The boy's eyes fluttered open but did not focus.
He was dying.
The man did not think. He placed his hand lightly against the boy's chest, and from within him—a sliver, a thread of something bright—slipped forth.
The energy of Creation.
The spark flowed, barely a whisper of power, yet it surged like warmth through frozen blood.
The boy gasped.
Color returned to his cheeks. His eyes widened in terror, then confusion. He scrambled weakly back until his spine hit the alley wall.
"Y-you… what did you do?"
The man tilted his head. "I do not know. You were dying."
The boy coughed violently, a fit that nearly doubled him over. "You're not from here. Are you a mage?"
"I am… something."
The boy's eyes narrowed, though his body sagged. "Why did you save me?"
"Should I have let you die?" the man asked.
The boy's jaw trembled. "Quit messing around," he barked, then coughed again. His voice cracked with more than just sickness. "This is the slums. No one helps anyone here for free. And besides… I've got no more reason to live."
The man said nothing. But the boy's words stayed with him.
He stared at the boy for a time, then asked, "Why do you want to die?"
Now it was the boy's turn to fall silent.
Then, without another word, the man lifted the child into his arms.
The boy squirmed. "Hey! Put me down! You can't just—"
"You are weak. I will carry you."
"Why?"
"I want to understand."
The boy felt genuine curiosity from the man. He wasn't mocking him.
He didn't argue after that.
As they walked through the deeper slums, the man listened. The boy—Elias—spoke of the Ashram, the place that ruled the slums. An institution cloaked in religious pretense, taking in orphans only to enslave them to quotas. Each child was forced to gather fragments—small shards of ethercrystal, The quota had to be met weekly.
" You know about ethercrystal? Right?"
The man shook his head.
...The boy sighed and continued explaining
Ethercrystal is a naturally occurring mineral believed to store traces of ancient magic. It powered lanterns, medicines, charms—everything the upper rings needed.
Poor people-like us are sent to gather ethercrystals from etherfields — dangerous zones where raw energies leak from the world's fractured veins. These zones are often unstable and harmful, but the crystals are a major source of magical and economic power.
In the slums, orphans and the poor are forced to meet monthly ethercrystal quotas or face punishment. The Ashram sends them in groups, sometimes supervised, but usually not — their lives are seen as expendable.
If a child failed, someone else could offer their collection on their behalf… but such kindness was rare. Most kept their fragments to themselves. The weak vanished.
"My brother didn't make the quota last month," Elias said, voice small. "I gave him my share. He smiled. Took it. But the next day… he was gone. All I found in our room was my pouch. They said he was sold to the South Lords. He was all I had."
The man felt something shift inside. Was it pain? Empathy? He didn't know. But a stir. A flicker of something that had no name.
They passed addicts huddled by broken fire pits, men with haunted eyes muttering to themselves, women screaming at invisible things. Enforcers—Ashram guards—kicked over stalls, beat down beggars. No one stopped them.
So this… was suffering.
At last, they neared the edge of a ruined neighborhood—collapsed buildings, jagged stone where homes once stood.
"This is it," the boy muttered. "My place is up the stairwell, the one that's still half-standing."
Before they could reach it, shadows emerged.
Three figures. Ashram goons in mismatched armor.
One of them—a woman with short-cropped hair and a scar across her cheek—stepped forward, hand resting on her club.
She squinted at the man. Her voice was rough, sharp.
"Who the hell are you?"