Rise Of A Young Clan Leader

The sun rose slowly over the ancient rooftops of the capital, casting its light not as a blessing but as a cold witness to disgrace. Along a narrow stone-paved street, a figure staggered forward, one step at a time, as if death clung to his back and urged him onward. His body was draped in rusted iron chains—a thick loop dug into the skin of his neck, others bound tightly around his wrists and ankles. Each movement sent the chains clanking, scraping against bone and flesh alike. His limbs trembled, not from fear, but from sheer exhaustion. He had long passed the point where pain mattered. His bare feet dragged over the rough stone. From the soles and up to the shins, blood seeped with every step, marking a crimson trail behind him. Torn skin, half-healed wounds, and infected gashes told stories of endless torment. His legs were failing, muscles barely clinging to his bones. Hunger had stripped him of all weight, all pride—his body nothing more than a husk, a starved silhouette that looked more corpse than man. Behind him marched two imperial guards. Their armor gleamed under the morning sun, spears held upright but ready. One of them jabbed the butt end into his back, forcing him forward when he slowed. "Walk," the guard hissed.