The village was a ramshackle refuge for outcasts: humans, dwarves, elves, beast-blooded. All bore exile tattoos—shame marks, world-judged unworthy.
In a narrow lane between crumbling houses, a young man stood.
Tattered clothes, blood and dirt stained. Lips cracked, eyes hollow.
No birthday, no parents—only dream warmth.
"Hey,"
he rasped, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space.
"Voice… are you there? Come on, if you're real, say something already—don't leave me hanging like this."
Silence.
Tears fell, fists clenched.
"I don't know why… but it feels like someone's supposed to be listening, like there's a presence just waiting to respond. Why won't it answer?"
He cried, then stopped, gaze forward.
Road buzzed: shops, laughter, arguments—without him.
Hunger twisted; days without food.
He spotted stagnant pond, knelt, drank.
"Disgusting little wretch—look at him slurping that filth."
"Why does trash like that even exist? Polluting our village."
"He's human, of course—weak and worthless, always scavenging like vermin, no wonder they're exiled."
Boot struck; he slammed into wall. Pain flared, but unbroken.
Life resumed.
He stood, scavenged scraps, headed to crate-home.
Cruel laughter stopped him.
Four drunk adventurers cornered a beast-blooded woman with fox ears, tail. She backed away.
Young man froze. Pressure stirred, warmth spread.
"Leave her alone—you have no right to harass her like this! Back off before you regret it!"
he shouted, his voice carrying more force than he expected.
They turned, amused.
"Scram, kid—before we decide to turn our attention to you and make you regret interfering. This ain't your business,"
one slurred, his tone dripping with threat.
He stood firm, awakening stirred.