'The slums hadn't changed at all.'
Garbage everywhere. People scrambling for scraps like their lives depended on it.
And that's how everything operated here.
The weak stayed weak because they didn't have the resources to hunt in deep waters. Didn't have the gear to go after real artifacts. Didn't have the strength to survive what lurked out there.
So they teamed up with the strong—lieutenants, captains—and got whatever scraps were left over after the real warriors took their share.
Bones. Guts. The parts nobody wanted.
If lucky, a simple low-grade artifact.
It was a system designed to keep people down.
And it worked perfectly.
Yet the clan sold it as opportunity—work hard, aim for the stars, and if you managed to grab one, you'd live comfortably for the rest of your life.
Which… was a lie dressed in flowers.
A way to make people think they had a chance. And the system worked perfectly.
While the weak stayed weak, the strong got stronger.
Especially if you were born into a noble family.
They had everything. Access to shards. Powerful artifacts. Training from masters. Resources that could turn a decent fighter into an absolute monster.
Down here in the slums?
You got scraps.
And empty promises.
That was it.
The game was rigged from the start. Always had been. The strong stayed strong. The weak stayed weak. And everyone just… pretended it was fair.
Like hard work mattered.
Like effort could close the gap.
It couldn't. But that wouldn't keep him from enjoying home.
He wandered through the familiar streets like a kid in a toy shop, taking it all in. Every broken detail.
The buildings still looked broken—chunks missing from corners, walls crumbling at the edges, clotheslines stretched from one house to another like the world's saddest spiderweb.
Nothing had changed.
Same old bakery.
The one he'd stolen bread from when he was younger.
Not because he wanted to. Not because he enjoyed being a thief.
Because he was forced to.
There were times—too many times—when his father refused to send him food. Days spent locked in the storage room. Sometimes a week. Just him, the dark, and his empty stomach.
He looked at the old bakery and chuckled. 'Still broken.'
Same cracked window. Same crooked door. Same smell of fresh bread that used to drive him crazy with hunger.
'Ahh. I missed this.'
The beautiful smell of fresh bread lasted exactly three seconds.
Then he walked past a drain.
Soil mixed with stagnant drain water hit him like a physical wall. A combination so foul it completely obliterated his nose. Like someone had weaponized garbage and aimed it directly at his face.
He gagged.
'Okay. Maybe I didn't miss EVERYTHING.'
'Definitely didn't miss that.'
'How is it worse than I remember?'
He moved through the slums without a care in the world, almost… happy to be back.
People bumped into him. Shoved past without apologies. Cursed at him with words he'd never heard before—and he'd heard a lot of creative cursing in his time.
'Wow. That's impressive. Didn't know you could use that word that way.'
Someone elbowed him hard in the ribs.
"Watch it, kid!"
He stumbled, but caught himself, and kept walking.
Because this—this—was the first normal human interaction he'd had in years.
Just people. Living. Surviving. Too busy with their own problems to care about his.
It was… kind of nice, actually.
In an "everything smells terrible and everyone's mean" kind of way.
But still nice.
After wandering the slums for hours, he finally found what he wasn't looking for.
Bars. Hotels. The kind of establishments that reeked of sweet perfume trying—and failing—to cover up the smell of cheap alcohol and poor decisions.
Drunken men stumbled out of doorways. Women in clothing way too revealing for… well, anything, really, lounged against walls and called out to passersby.
This was definitely a place he wasn't supposed to be.
Like, definitely not.
The moment he stepped into the area, the murmurs started. Eyes tracked him from every direction—curious, suspicious, calculating.
'Okay. So much for blending in.'
His skin crawled under the attention.
He needed to move. Fast.
So he did what any reasonable person being stared at by a bunch of drunk strangers would do—
He bolted forward without looking.
And slammed directly into someone.
Hard.
His butt hit the ground. He looked up, ready to apologize—
Then froze.
A familiar voice made his heart stop.
"Watch it, brat. Your dirty clothes will stain my coat."
'Oh no.'
'No no no no—'
Shiro's voice died in his throat. His brain short-circuited. Of all the people. Of all the people in this entire district—
He'd run into him.
It was the Eighth Division captain. The same one from last night. The one whose date Shiro had ruined.
And he wasn't alone.
Two women flanked him—both redheads, both tall, both wearing glasses and dresses that left very little to the imagination.
Very. Little.
They were… well-endowed. That was the polite way to put it. His brain tried very hard not to notice.
It failed.
They had two very noticeable personalities. The kind that made it hard to look them in the eye without your gaze accidentally drifting somewhere it absolutely should not go.
His face went hot.
Then hotter.
Then somehow even hotter, which he didn't think was physically possible.
For one terrible moment, he just stood there. Still.
Brain: completely blank.
Mouth: slightly open.
Dignity: nonexistent.
One of the women noticed him staring and smirked.
"See something you like?"
That snapped him back to reality.
Because if it hadn't, his stupid teenage brain would've kept him sitting there, mouth open, drooling like the world's least threatening creep.
And without a second thought, Shiro scrambled to his feet and ran.
"CATCH HIM!"
The man's voice roared behind him, loud enough to wake the dead.
Panic flooded his mind like ice water.
He shoved through the crowd, ducking under arms, squeezing between bodies, not caring who he knocked aside.
'My damn luck. Out of EVERYONE in this city, I had to run into HIM.'
Footsteps pounded behind him.
Shouts echoed through the narrow streets.
'Move move move—'
His heart hammered against his ribs as he tore through the streets, dodging startled pedestrians and overturned carts.
'Damn it, that was too close.'