The slums

The slums.

A place no one should ever call home.

The rich abandoned it. Those who could leave, did.

Here, decay spread like a disease. Corruption ruled. Despair clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

The blizzard did not care who suffered. Its icy fingers slipped into every crack, every shadow, claiming those too weak to fight back.

Elsewhere, snow was beautiful—a playground for children, a quiet wonder. But here, it meant death. Every snowflake added to the weight of survival. Homes—if they could be called that—were nothing more than patched-up tents and rusted metal held together by scraps of cloth. A single harsh night was enough to erase entire families.

And when morning came, the streets were littered with frozen bodies, their final moments lost beneath a layer of frost.

Amid the storm, a lone figure moved forward. Wrapped in heavy layers, his face hidden behind a thick scarf, he pressed on, every step a fight against the wind. The cold bit at him, but he had somewhere to be.

The sky was gray, the sun long forgotten. Warmth was a privilege, something only the powerful could afford. In the slums, survival was the only game that mattered.

But not all parts of this place were the same. The deeper one went, the worse it became. This was the underworld's heart, where outcasts and criminals thrived, untouched by the law. Power did not belong to justice—it belonged to those who could buy it. Even here, the nobles held control, their hands dirtied by the very people they looked down upon.

The man walked through narrow alleys, his steps firm, his presence unquestioned. Then—

A tug on his sleeve.

His body reacted before his mind could. He twisted sharply, eyes narrowing.

A boy stood before him, no older than fifteen. Thin. Hollow eyes of amber. Hair tangled and filthy. His clothes were little more than rags.

"Spare a few coins?"

The boy's voice was dull. Empty. Not pleading—just a question asked out of habit.

The man's gaze darkened. "Let go."

He yanked his arm free—and kicked.

His boot struck the boy's jaw, sending him sprawling. The snow softened the fall, but sharp rocks tore at his skin.

Still, the boy didn't cry out.

He just lay there, staring up with the same empty eyes.

"Filthy rat," the man spat before turning away.

Then—

Ring!!!

A sharp vibration in his pocket. His scowl deepened as he pulled out a rune-marked communication device.

"What is it, Alfred?" he grumbled.

"Sir Tyen, leave. Now!"

The urgency in the voice sent a chill down his spine.

"What's wrong?"

"She foresaw your death."

Tyen's breath hitched.

A premonition.

Slowly, he turned—

And met the boy's gaze.

Something had changed.

The emptiness was gone. In its place—something sharp. Cold. Knowing.

Tyen moved on instinct, summoning his mana—

Too late.

Pain exploded in his throat.

His breath caught. A choked gurgle escaped as warmth spilled down his chest.

Blood.

His own.

"Agh—!"

He staggered, hands clawing at his neck. His strength faded. His vision blurred.

The boy stepped forward. Slow. Silent.

Tyen's legs gave out. He collapsed into the snow, red staining white.

Above him, the boy knelt. Unfeeling. Expressionless.

"Pathetic," he murmured.

With a swift motion, he pulled the dagger from Tyen's neck. Blood poured freely.

Still, the boy didn't flinch.

He reached into his tattered clothes, pulling out a plastic bottle. Tilting Tyen's head, he let the blood flow inside. Watched as the container filled.

When it was full, he capped it, tucked it away, and stood.

Tyen's lifeless body lay still in the snow, his vacant eyes staring into nothing.

The boy gave him one last glance—then melted into the shadows.

Navigating the alleys with quiet precision, he reached his destination: a hidden building, its iron door rusted but strong. With a kick, he forced it open and stepped inside, locking it behind him.

A single wooden table stood in the center.

On it, three bottles sat in neat rows, each filled with dark crimson liquid.

The boy set the newest one beside them.

He took a step back, staring at them in silence.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper—

"It's time,"