The wind in the slums never just passed through. Tonight, it tugged at the torn clothes of a pale young boy like it was trying to peel him from the world entirely. His dark hair, streaked with unnatural silver, whipped about his face.
Behind him, a half-dead neon-green sign stuttered in the dark, buzzing like an insect too stubborn to die. The sickly light washed over his thin frame, making him look more like a specter than a boy.
He stood on the roof of a long-abandoned cloth shop, its windows smashed, its door sagging on rusted hinges. Down here, honest trade was a death sentence.
"Robbing and killing… now that's a job that pays," he thought, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Far ahead, past the grime and stink, black skyscrapers clawed into the fog-choked sky. Dim neon outlines clung to their edges like mold. Uptown. Cleaner, richer and quieter.
Where meals had meat instead of disgusting excuses for them.
Where desperation wore perfume.
Where peasants only starved slower.
But peasants they remained. And in a type-F world, peasants were just trash in nicer clothes.
Tonight, however, this particular piece of trash had a plan.
---
Lucian crouched low, the tar beneath his boots cold and slick with drizzle. From the alley below came the sounds of trouble—screams, wet footsteps, laughter without joy.
A girl's voice—young, breaking with fear.
Men's voices—cruel, unhurried.
"Shut up, bitch!" one of them barked.
He crawled to the roof's edge, grey eyes narrowing.
Three men. A girl about his age, wrists bruised where they held her. Her hair tangled, her cheeks streaked with grime and tears. They dragged her deeper into the maze of shadows.
Kidnapping. Obvious.
In Namek's slums, scenes like this were wallpaper—noticed, then ignored. Survival meant minding your own business. But today wasn't about survival.
This wasn't just some girl.
She was a Chosen.
The mark of the gods rested somewhere on her skin, though she clearly didn't know it. Chosens were rare—rarer than gold. Gifted by the divine to stand against the endless tide of demons that had been spilling from hell since the Rapture, a thousand years past.
For humanity, Chosens were the last flicker of hope in a world that had burned almost to ash. And this flicker was about to be sold to the wrong outpost if Lucian didn't move.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a battered pocket knife. His other hand brushed against the faint heat at the base of his neck, hidden beneath his scarf.
Then he whispered the call.
———<>———
Name: Lucian
Sponsors: The Almighty, Lucifer Morningstar
Holy Core: Dormant
Demonic Core: Infernal 1 — [7/25 souls to next tier]
Memory: 0.001% recovered
———<>———
"Let's make it nine," he murmured.
With a running start, he leapt.
The fall was fast, savage—wind tearing at his hair, knife flashing silver in the neon glow—
Crack.
The blade split skull before the thug could scream. Lucian wrenched it free, rolling as warm blood splattered across wet concrete.
The other two froze. One's mouth worked soundlessly, the other's hand went to his belt and stopped halfway.
From the roof to here, in an instant—a starving, ragged boy had carved open their friend like a sack of rotten fruit.
"Let the girl go," Lucian said, voice calm. "Walk away. Or stay and die. Doesn't matter to me."
They hesitated, glancing at his size, his rags, the dull knife in his grip.
"Kid, you'll get yourself—"
The knife left his hand before the sentence could finish.
A blur of steel. A wet thunk.
The second thug dropped, clutching his throat, choking on blood.
The last man bolted without looking back.
The girl stared at him, still trembling. Slowly, she stepped forward, bowing slightly.
"Thank you. You're… my hero."
Lucian's expression softened into something that almost passed for warmth.
"When I crawled out of the filthy hole I call home this morning… do you know what I felt?"
She frowned. "...Heroic?"
He chuckled. It was dry, humorless.
"No. Hungry."
His hand snapped to her neck. Her body went limp before she could gasp.
Catching her easily, he sighed.
"You should've run when you had the chance."
---
He stepped over the corpses and held his hand over one.
Red-grey vapors bled from the body, twisting into his palm, burning through his veins like molten metal. The alley darkened around him as the last wisp vanished.
A rune flared into view:
[You have absorbed 2 souls of: Mortal Human]
Lucian smiled—a smile far too sharp for his face.
---
The fog thickened until the sky became a smothering ceiling. Whether it was night or day no longer mattered. With the unconscious Chosen slung over his shoulder, he headed for the only place in Namek that would pay for her:
The NPF, R31 unit.
Police, in name. Thugs, in truth.
The building squatted between two gutted factories, its sign flickering in pale yellow. Inside, the air reeked of cheap smoke and cheaper intentions.
Lucian dropped the girl into a chair.
"Here she is. Like we agreed."
A man in a black vest approached, checking the back of her neck until his eyes found the faint star-shaped glow.
"Huh. Didn't think you'd pull it off, kid," he said.
"Yeah, well. Pay me. Places to be."
The man's grin widened.
"Kasugu's men aren't easy to deal with. How'd you—"
"Why does it matter?" Lucian's tone sharpened.
The grin didn't fade.
"Just curious. Though… why's the back of your neck covered?"
Shit.
Lucian's eyes flicked to the door. Closed. Officers shifting into position.
"You forgot where you are," the man said.
Lucian laughed—low, bitter.
With a tug, he tore the scarf from his neck, revealing the faint glow of his own Chosen mark. The ground beneath him trembled. Power began to gather.
"Fine. Then we'll all die here."
He gripped his knife—
A searing beam of light tore through his shoulder. The second shot ripped into his thigh.
Pain bloomed like wildfire. His vision swam, but his glare didn't break. The man with the gold-plated blaster stepped forward, lazy smile on his lips.
"Stubborn brat."
He raised the gun—then lowered it.
"Don't kill him. They need the little fucker alive."
A silver syringe appeared in another man's hand. The needle bit into Lucian's neck.
Cold fire rushed through his veins.
The room tilted. His legs buckled.
The last thing he saw before the dark swallowed him was the ceiling lights blurring into stars.
His last thought wasn't pain.
It was rage.
"Secure him. Black Keep Agents will be here in ten."
Hands cuffed his wrists. Restraints bit into his skin.
And then—only silence.