The summer sun dragged itself up the horizon, pouring its' over Dan City long before the day had even settled in. By early morning the heat was already a living thing, heavy and relentless, forcing sweat out of every pore and stealing shade from every corner. Along the city's main road, shreds of faded cloth in various colour had been fashioned into makeshift stalls. They flapped limply, tethered high above to bamboo poles and fraying ropes, forming a ragged canopy for the fickle trade below.
The air was thick with noise vendors haggling, the shuffle of feet, and—threaded through it all—the ceaseless pleas of beggars. They were everywhere. Men and women, children and the withered old, spaced out at intervals, their bodies draped in rags that barely concealed their bone-thin limbs.
"Spare some coins for the poor, please!"
"Please spare!"
Their voices cracked and desperate, cut through the city's hum. Closer to the edge of the road, a cluster of little beggars thumped their wooden bowls against the dirty brick, desperation echoing hollow in the rising heat. Among them, a boy tried to shout with the rest. His lips, cracked and pale, struggled to form words that wouldn't quite come.
"Kid, shout louder or you die as a dry corpse," hissed a gaunt man, all elbows and sharp corners, gesturing with annoyance.
The boy's mouth was so dry he could not answer. He merely blinked, shrinking in on himself. His face, streaked with grime and exhaustion, might have been an old monk's—drawn and fragile after a month of fasting. Each breath hurt, but he whispered, "My voice just won't come out… I'm too hungry." His lungs burned from the effort.
The man glared, muttering under his breath, "Hmph, look at this brat. Thinks beggar's life is easy? Who cares."
As the morning wore on, the sun pressed downward without mercy. The stalls emptied, vendors melting away with the crowds, as even they could stand the furnace no longer. The road shimmered and baked, the stones beneath the boy's hands burning like iron pulled from the forge. Each motion hurt, but he dragged his shriveled frame across the searing street, searching for a sliver of shade.
At last, the covered stretch of stalls provided some refuge—a little less heat, a mercifully sluggish breeze. He collapsed onto his back and let relief sweep over him, if only for a moment.
"I'm so hungry," he thought, pressing a palm against his fluttering chest. "A piece of bread—just a crumb—please…"
A voice cut through above him, gentle and oddly bright. "Kid, you want some chicken?"
The boy blinked. Above him stood a man in a black and brown tunic, his cloth oversized but still looked a little fit, a bamboo hat casting a shadow where his eyes ought to be. In his hands—a bowl, steam trailing fragrant threads of many spices and flavors moving through the air into his nose. Instinct jolted the boy. He baulked upright, forcing ceremony into trembling movements as he remembered the words taught by older beggars manners might win you mercy as well as food so stick to it.
He pressed his fingertips together and moved towards his feet and said as elegantly as possible. "May God bless you, great master. May fortune find you."
The stranger crouched beside him, his face with big dark circles and eyes black and deep as an abyss offering a thin smile. "How old are you?"
The boy forgot to answer as he lost in his eyes a while then he forced a smile of his own, lips trembling with anticipation said "Seven years, sir."
The man's voice was sweet but edged with curiosity. "Will one bowl of soup be enough for you, child?"
The boy shook his head with practiced humility. "Master, your kindness is more than enough to fill my stomach. But if your heart would bless me further, I dare not refuse."
"Then two bowls," the man declared. "Eat as much as you like." He set the bowl before him, waving another order to the nearest vendor.
The soup wasn't much—cloudy water, flecked with scraps of chicken and wilted carrot—yet it was a miracle to the boy. He tore through it with abandon, etiquette lost to survival. The first bowl was gone in moments, the second followed just as quickly. Sweat ran down his filthy temples, but at last, his breathing slowed, stomach sluggish and sated for the first time in days.
He didn't notice the stranger watching him all the while, eyes hidden in shadow, gaze unblinking and black as the abyss.
Suddenly, a hand settled on his shoulder—gentle at first, then creeping toward his neck. The man leaned closer still, the smile fading from his lips.
"I'm finished, thank yo—" the boy tried to speak, but the words caught. Pain. His eyes widened with panic as invisible fingers pressed his throat. He crashed sideways, clawing at his neck for relief that would not come.
Nearby beggars rushed at the sound of his collapse—just moments ago, they had watched with envy, but now their faces twisted with horror the beggars also fight for survival but when the outside force tried to harm anyone of them they reunite together as one.
"You cheap devil! What did you do to him?"
"He's just a child!"
The soup-seller recoiled, anger flaring. "I did nothing! I have a son that age. I swear it!"
Then, the man in black and brown dropped down, voice edged with urgency. "A chicken bone is stuck in his throat! He needs a physician or he'll die!"
With the mention of money, the unity of beggars split like dry earth as there natural enemy was money. Panic set in.
"Great master, please! We are beggars, how can we pay for a physician? For the love of mercy, help him, sir!" They groveled.
The stranger's brows knit in supposed compassion as this is all he want to hear from them. "Don't worry," he said, urgency cloaked in care. "It's my fault—my kindness brought this accident. I'll handle everything. Please, watch my things for me."
Awestruck, desperate, the beggars nodded. "It's the least we can do, master. We'll keep them safe."
And just like that, the boy was swept away—lost, alone, drifting toward oblivion as the sun blazed indifferently above.