The Trial by Fire

 "Get up. GET UP YOU FILTHY RAG!" The voice thundered through the cramped alley, cutting through the thick air of the slums. Michael's body recoiled as a powerful blow struck his ribs, sending searing pain coursing through him. He stumbled backward, gasping for breath as he clutched his side, feeling the warmth of blood trickling between his fingers.

"We warned you," the voice continued, dripping with disdain and disappointment. Michael's eyes flickered toward the figure looming over him, barely more than a kid himself. "All you had to do was one job."

"You just had to follow our instructions," the kid sneered, his face contorted with rage. "How hard could bringing us 100 Aurins be? I've been selected for The Great Defense against Jolain, so I'll earn plenty of money. But it's my job to teach bastards like you lessons. You didn't obey me." He looked around at his comrade's faces, taking nods for them for the approval of what he was about to do. He brandished a knife with practiced ease, the blade glinting menacingly in the dim light of the alley. "And now, you're going to pay the price." He brought down the knife.

It had only been a few days since Michael had escaped his torturous orphanage. Everything in the slums was just as terrible but at least he now had freedom. But freedom came at a price, as Michael soon discovered. It wasn't long before he found himself drawn into the orbit of a group of older kids, barely more than teenagers themselves but already seasoned survivors of the unforgiving streets. They took him under their wing, offering him scraps of food – rotten apples and stale bread – and a fraction of protection in exchange for doing them some work.

At first, Michael had been grateful for their help, but it wasn't long before he realized the true nature of their arrangement. They expected him to work for them, to do their bidding without question or hesitation. And his first task? Theft. Michael tried to reason with them, to explain that stealing went against everything he believed in. But his protests fell on deaf ears, drowned out by their laughter and taunts. To them, morality was a luxury they couldn't afford in a world where survival was a constant struggle. Even after that, Michael chose to stick with his principles, and the result of it was now becoming evident. 

The leader of the group of 5 boys, Dante, was ruthless and his only law was that of the jungle, where the strong preyed upon the weak and compassion was a luxury few could afford. Michael was merely weak and unfit for their use. And now, it was time to dispose of him. 

Michael caught the knife through gritted teeth. "you'll be…sorely disappointed because-", he mustered the strength to push Dante back, " the price you're asking for is one I have no intention of paying."

Dante looked shocked, but his rage took over soon enough as Michael had just damaged his pride in front of his group members.

"HOW DARE YOU!" He roared as he lunged forward, knife in hand. With fuzziness cluttered in his mind, Michael barely managed to sidestep him. Mustering all of his strength, he dealt a blow straight into Dante's abdomen, sending him staggering backward into the rubble of the uncomfortable alley.

The other boys dumbfoundedly watched Dante struggle to get back up as the punch had injured him greatly. As Dante lay sprawled on the ground, his authority called into question, he frantically motioned to his comrades, his command ringing out like a death knell. "KILL!"

However, Michael felt alive. He found strength in himself and his fighting abilities. It was as if he was born to fight. His injuries were almost unnoticeable. Was it the adrenaline? Or was it this strong sense of justice? He wasn't sure.

The other 4 boys, almost four years older than him, all closed in on him, their faces twisted in malicious intent as they circled their prey like hungry wolves. Michael knew he was outnumbered and outmatched but he refused to back down. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he launched himself into the fray, his fists flying in a flurry of blows that found their mark with unerring accuracy.

He ducked and weaved, dodging the boys' attacks with fluid grace, his mind sharp and focused as he calculated his next move. In the heat of battle, time seemed to slow to a crawl as Michael's senses sharpened, his every movement guided by instinct and intuition. He blocked, parried, and countered with precision, his body moving with a fluidity that seemed to move against his injuries.

But for every blow he landed, there were two more raining down upon him, each one driving him further to the brink of exhaustion. Blood dripped from his wounds, staining the ground beneath him, but still, he fought on, refusing to yield to the overwhelming odds stacked against him.

In the end, Michael summoned a final burst of energy, his fists a blur as he unleashed a barrage of blows upon his assailants. One by one, they fell before him, their cries of pain echoing in the dimly lit alley.

And then, in a moment of eerie silence, it was over. The boys lay battered and bruised at his feet. Despite the odds, Michael stood tall, his chest heaving with struggle, a defiant glint in his eyes. He walked over to Dante, who was lying right there where he fell after Michael punched him. 

"DON'T EVEN DARE YOU BASTARD!" He spat hideously through crooked teeth as Michael advanced upon him. Dante tried to get up, only then realizing almost all his ribs were broken. He screamed and fell in pain and tears. 

"How…you're more injured than me…yet you fought them all." His face was aghast, "AND YOU'RE ONLY 9!" He thundered in rage with guilt and envy as he picked up the knife beside him and tried to throw it towards Michael, only for it to fall in front of Michael's feet sheepishly.

"You're…weak. That's why."

But then, the boy noticed something. Something he hadn't noticed before. It was faint, but it caught his attention.

"Your…" He stuttered, not being able to believe what he was seeing, "Your right eye is…glowing, glowing purple?"

But Michael didn't hear a thing as the world darkened, as he fell backward due to overexertion.