The sun broke through the clouds for the first time in days, but its warmth never reached the ground.
Ash walked with steady steps, every part of him aching. His worn boots squelched through mud and filth as he entered the outer slums—Lowend, the edge of Ravenmark where even shadows went to die.
Sickness hung in the air. Children with hollow eyes sat in silence under broken awnings. Men too weak to steal groaned in the alleys. The city's wealth and glory lay far behind, behind walls guarded by men in gold-trimmed armor.
Here, there were no guards.
No rules.
No hope.
Ash moved through it like smoke. Silent. Sharp. Watching everything.
He saw a group of thugs shaking down an old vendor for half-rotten bread. A woman offering herself for scraps of coin. A boy crying beside a man's body.
No one looked up.
No one dared look up.
And that was exactly why he came here.
This was where real power begins—not in courts or castles, but in the gutter, where the fire is still raw, still hungry.
A cry pierced the air.
Ash turned.
Down a narrow alley, five men circled a figure slumped on the ground. One of them laughed as he kicked the boy in the ribs.
"Thought you could talk back, huh? Trash doesn't speak unless spoken to!"
The boy—barely sixteen—coughed blood but glared up through matted hair.
"I… I don't belong to you."
Another kick. This time to the head.
Ash stepped forward.
Quietly. Deliberately.
"Walk away," he said, voice low but cutting through the alley like a blade.
The thugs turned.
One sneered. "You talking to us, cripple?"
Ash didn't answer.
He moved.
Before the leader could blink, Ash was in front of him. His elbow struck the man's throat, crushing his windpipe in a single motion. As the others hesitated, Ash twisted, grabbed the next one's wrist—and snapped it backward with a brutal crack.
Panic set in.
The last three rushed him, but Ash danced through them like smoke. His blade flashed—once, twice—and they fell screaming, cut shallow but bleeding hard.
He stood still, breathing steady, watching them writhe in the mud.
"You get one lesson," he said coldly. "Use it well."
The thugs scrambled and limped away, dragging their wounded.
Ash turned to the boy.
Bruised. Bloodied. Refusing to cry.
He was rail-thin but defiant. His knuckles were raw from trying to fight back. A scar ran down one side of his face—fresh and ugly.
Ash offered a hand.
The boy hesitated. Then took it.
"What's your name?" Ash asked.
The boy spat blood and wiped his lip.
"…Kael."
Ash studied him. Something burned behind those eyes. Not talent. Not strength.
Conviction.
"You want to survive, Kael?"
Kael's jaw tightened. "I want more than that."
Ash nodded.
"Good. Then follow me."
That night, they sat beside a makeshift fire in the ruins of a forgotten cellar.
Kael ate in silence, watching Ash.
"Who are you?" he asked finally.
Ash glanced at the fire.
"No one important. Not yet."
Kael frowned. "But you fought like you've killed before. Real killing, not back-alley stuff. You're not from here."
Ash smiled faintly. "You're sharp. Keep that."
Kael didn't smile back. "What are you planning?"
Ash leaned forward.
"I'm going to build something," he said. "Not for the nobles. Not for the rich. For those who have nothing. For people like you."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "You sound like a madman."
"Maybe," Ash said. "But madness is only dangerous when it spreads."
He reached into his pack and tossed a piece of dried meat toward the fire.
Kael caught it.
"Eat. Heal. And think carefully."
"About what?"
Ash stared at the flames.
"Whether you're ready to burn the world that burned you."