On the grim streets of a city swallowed by darkness, a child sat alone — filthy, emaciated, as though forgotten by the world itself. His pale skin was nearly hidden beneath layers of dried mud, and his black hair, matted and tangled, clung to his face like ash. His eyes, dark as coal, stared into the void with a weariness far beyond his years.
Beneath that mask of filth and despair still lingered the features of a boy — once beautiful, once proud, perhaps even noble by blood. But all of that had been buried beneath indifference, dust, and the stink of the streets.
Wrapped in rags, he sat silently on a cold stone, waiting. For what? Maybe for his final night. Hunger gnawed at his insides, and every few moments, his frail body shivered in the bitter wind.
People passed by him like he was part of the pavement — a lump of darkness that didn't deserve acknowledgment.
«Why would anyone look at me?» he thought.
That was the fate of those with no family, no friends. Sitting on the freezing concrete, the child forced a smile.
«Am I really going to die from hunger? I didn't expect much from life, but not even a sip of water… Maybe I should've just left the city and fed myself to those monsters. But wouldn't that be too pathetic? Dying without even tasting real food. I really believed one day I'd eat like other kids, not just scraps from food stalls… Guess that's impossible now.»
The city was divided into three levels:
The first level belonged to the warlords, those who commanded the soldiers. The second level was for the knights who fought outside the city and fed the people. The third level was for the useless. The ones with no skills, no fighters in the family. They were called the freeloaders.
The third level was chaos.
Murder, violence, theft — these were daily occurrences. The child lived here.
«If it weren't for that old man at the meat stall, I would've been in deep trouble.»
There were four meat stalls in the third level, distributing food every five days.
Each one gave out fifty kilograms of meat — cold, stringy, and won through sweat and blood. Two hundred kilos in total. That was the king's mercy. A harsh, calculated mercy — but the only hope people had.
The child had been raised in an orphanage but was kicked out at age six. The orphanages shut down as hunger grew. Everyone was left to fend for themselves.
One of the king's workers, Jack the butcher, had taken the boy in. The child helped Jack process monster meat, and in return, Jack fed him and protected him.
Under Jack's wing, no one dared touch the child.
But a week ago, Jack was found dead. The meat was stolen. People blamed the boy, but the knights couldn't prove anything.
The king took it seriously, but no clues were found.
Now, the boy had no protector. They even wanted to kill him. But he wasn't stupid — he always stayed near the city guards. Harsh as they were, under the king's law, they wouldn't harm him.
The king's rule was absolute.
Some knights had bad reputations, but the boy avoided them.
«If only I could become a knight… then I'd get food myself,» he thought.
Over the week, the people's anger faded. The king sent more meat and tightened patrols during food distribution.
The boy looked over the street again, making sure no familiar faces were around, and then smeared himself with more dirt to hide his features.
He tried to survive — just a shadow among shadows.
That's when a shadow fell across him. He slowly lifted his head.
A woman stood before him — tall, around 180–185 cm, draped in a white cloak. She lowered her hood. Golden hair shimmered in the flickering torchlight. Her face was not human. Beautiful beyond belief. Like an angel.
Her grey eyes looked at him with pity. In her left hand, she carried a basket that smelled of fresh food.
She sighed. The child didn't know why, but he felt her sadness.
The woman knelt before him, smiling gently:
— What's your name?
The child was stunned. People around him stared. Even the thugs.
«She must be famous… I hope in a good way.»
His voice cracked as he whispered:
— I… I don't know. I don't have a name.
At the orphanage, they called him insults — never a name. He didn't want to explain.
The woman tilted her head and smiled again:
— Then let me introduce myself. I'm Alice. Here — this is for you.
She set the basket beside him and stood up to leave.
«That name… sounds familiar.»
The boy was grateful for the food, but confused. Why help him?
He asked with a raspy voice:
— Why?
She paused, then smiled:
— The one I made this for is no longer alive. I didn't want it to go to waste. And… I like feeding cute kittens.
She turned and walked away. The crowd parted for her with reverence — and fear.
«Kittens? Is that some kind of monster?»
The child was glad someone noticed him. But he couldn't understand her words. He figured it must be a strange adult term and gave up on it.
The smell of the food made his stomach churn with hunger.
Inside the basket was bread, a yellow liquid, and another piece of bread with meat and something sticky inside. It smelled divine. His mouth watered.
Just as he was about to eat, shadows appeared. Then more. The ones he didn't want to see.
Thugs of the third level. Infamous for theft and violence.
The city knights mostly stayed in the upper levels. Only a few guarded the third level — and only during food distribution. The rest didn't care.
Some knights were even friends with the thugs.
Most of the thugs were grown men — cowards who feared the monsters.
Their leader, Hale, was an ex-knight. He stood over the boy and sneered:
— Rats don't deserve fine meals, do they?
Their eyes met.
The boy answered:
— Exactly. You shouldn't eat it.
The mockery in his voice infuriated Hale. He kicked the boy in the stomach.
The child cried out, clutching his belly.
A deep bitterness rose within him. But at whom?
The people who tormented him?
The fate that cursed him?
The woman who gave him food but left him vulnerable?
He didn't blame her. But he couldn't feel thankful either.
Good deeds should be done completely. Giving food in a place like this… it was dangerous.
«Damn you, Hale.»
That was the thug's name.
«I've always wondered what rich folks eat…» Hale muttered, eyeing the alley. «That woman… she looked familiar.»
A fat man panted beside him:
— She called herself Alice. Looked like a princess straight outta the palace.
— Princess? — scoffed a scarred man. — Why would a princess be here?
— Could be the king himself, — Hale laughed. — Who cares? She brought food. That's what matters.
He reached for the basket, already tasting it in his mind.
But another hand grabbed it first — filthy, thin.
Hale glared.
«How dare you touch my food with those disgusting hands?»
He punched the boy again, hard. If he'd eaten, it would've come back up. Instead, only bile spilled from his mouth.
He clenched his teeth. Tears welled up.
He wasn't just hurt — he was ashamed.
Ashamed to be so weak. So helpless. So alone.
But even as tears fell, his fingers didn't release the basket.
Yes, he was weak, pathetic, nameless. But his will — it remained.
He looked up. His eyes burned with fury.
As long as he lived, he wouldn't let go. That food was his. That smell belonged to him.
And if they wanted it — they'd have to kill him.
— You wanna die, brat? Think anyone here cares about you? Think these trash watching us will help? Huh?
The boy said nothing. His glare was enough.
Hale shivered.
He raised his hand again — but a cold voice behind him froze him mid-move:
— Enough.