It is said that the world was born when a divine will realized that the universe was too vast… and too empty.
The loneliness of a cold cosmos shaped the thought of an ordered whole, of rules that would govern existence.
When that will created life, the laws came with it.
Creation worships its creator.
And its creator worships its creation.
Blessed is the world where the privileged, the chosen by the Aether, rule over the weak with tyranny and without mercy.
While nobles feast and celebrate beneath eternal lights, others struggle to survive one more day.
In the slums of the metropolis of Hiryl Ar, childhood does not exist.
Children learn to run, to hide… or to die.
The current era had left behind primitive times, those in which beasts ruled without reason or conscience.
However, in the deepest and most forgotten areas of the city, those beasts seemed to resurface—not from nature, but from the darkest depths of the human subconscious.
The slums were a jungle of concrete and rust.
There, neither laws nor titles ruled—only invisible fangs and hungry gazes.
On a narrow street, barely lit by dying streetlamps, a silhouette slipped through the shadows like a serpent.
Thin, pale arms emerged with precision from the nocturnal crowd, rummaging through distracted pockets, taking just enough and vanishing before being noticed.
Never too long in the same place.
Never twice from the same person.
Finally, after several minutes of running through damp alleyways and abandoned buildings, the silhouette stopped beneath a flickering lamppost.
A pale-skinned, malnourished boy opened his hand and looked at his loot.
"Only two Moons…?" he murmured with a tired grimace. "All that effort for this."
His stomach answered with a dry growl.
"Tch…" he clicked his tongue. "At least it should be enough for some stale bread."
He slipped the coins into the frayed pocket of his pants and began walking toward the underground market.
His eyes, black as polished onyx, intermittently reflected the dying light of the lamppost.
Each blink illuminated the empty buildings around him for an instant, as if the concrete itself were watching him in silence.
Too much silence.
The boy frowned.
'…This isn't right.'
There were no footsteps.
No voices.
Not even the usual murmur of the slums.
'Even this late, it's never this dead.'
He slowed down, slightly turning his body.
'I should go back. Now.'
But before he could change direction, three figures rounded the corner of a nearby alley and stopped several meters away from him.
His pulse quickened.
'An ambush…?
Nexus? Biyacer?'
'No. It didn't matter.'
'This isn't the time to think. I need an exit. Fast.'
The three men wore thick, worn clothing. In their hands, metal bats reflected the light with a dull, threatening gleam.
The one in front took a step forward.
His face was marked by old scars, and his smile was as crooked as his voice.
"So you finally showed up, damn rat," he growled. "You're Grey, right?"
The boy didn't answer.
"The vermin that's been stealing in our territory."
Grey clenched his teeth.
The air felt heavier.
The alley walls felt too close.
'I screwed up.'
The three figures lunged at Grey at the same time.
The leader was the first to attack, raising his metal bat over his head and bringing it down with brutal force.
The other two split to the sides, cutting him off, blocking any escape route.
The thunder of their footsteps echoed in Grey's ears.
At the last instant, his body reacted before his mind.
He threw himself to the side and the bat whistled past just centimeters from his skull, smashing into the pavement with a dry crack. Without stopping, Grey propelled himself forward, barely dodging the second thug's attack.
For one second—just one—he ended up behind the leader.
Strike… or run?
The hesitation was enough.
A violent kick slammed into his abdomen.
The air burst out of his lungs, and the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth. Before he could react, a punch struck the side of his head.
His hearing exploded into a dull ringing.
I can't…
The world grew heavy.
Distant.
As if gravity had decided to crush only him.
Die… here…?
The ground came up fast.
His battered body bounced against the filthy pavement, tearing a muffled groan from his throat and dragging him back into a reality filled with pain.
A shadow rose over him.
The dull gleam of a bat descended straight toward his skull.
With an effort that set every muscle ablaze, Grey rolled onto himself. The blow struck where his head had been a second earlier.
"Well, look at that," he heard the leader's rough voice say. "This worm is still moving."
"You should just die already, damn rat!" another spat.
The third raised his bat.
This time, he didn't hesitate.
The cold of the ground seeped through his torn clothes.
The stench of garbage mixed with the taste of his own blood.
But Grey refused.
Not like this.
When the thug lifted the weapon to finish him, Grey clenched his fist and hurled it with all his strength toward the air.
The ground exploded.
Dust, gravel, and filth rose in an improvised cloud, getting into the eyes and mouths of his attackers.
"Shit!" one shouted.
Grey didn't waste the moment.
He forced his body to rise and ran.
Every step was a stab of pain.
Something inside him was wrong—broken—digging into his organs with every breath.
But none of that mattered.
Nothing is more important than surviving.
He ran without looking back.
He no longer heard footsteps.
Nor insults.
Only his broken breathing and the furious pounding of his heart.
The walls on either side seemed to stretch, to close in, as if the alley had no end. Time stretched strangely; he felt as if he had run far longer than possible.
Until, finally, he reached an intersection.
He slipped into a dark alley and collapsed against the wall.
He made it.
I did it… I survived…
"That must hurt, huh?"
The world froze.
The voice didn't come from behind.
It came from everywhere.
Grey's eyes flew wide open. His body trembled uncontrollably.
A strong, nauseating smell of cigarette smoke filled his nose.
A figure stepped forward from the darkness.
The man removed the cigarette from his mouth and slowly extinguished it against the wall.
"Well," he said with a crooked smile. "You almost made it. Congratulations."
Grey wanted to run.
Scream.
Do anything.
But his body no longer obeyed him.
This… isn't fair.
It's not fair!
"Now," the man continued, "go to sleep for a bit."
Darkness fell.
Grey didn't feel the impact.
Only silence.
...
Pain came first.
Not a uniform pain, but a constant one, spreading through every corner of his body like a slow, relentless tide.
His mouth was dry, soaked in the metallic taste of his own blood. His ears burned, wet—blood, surely, from one of the blows. His wrists were cold, trapped by chains, and his frozen back rested against the black stone of an underground prison.
Shit…
This hurts like hell.
A memory slammed into his mind.
He had it.
He had escaped.
Bastards…
"Do you think the ones from the south will want to buy him?" an unfamiliar voice said. "He's weak. Malnourished."
"There's always some degenerate who buys anything," another replied, older and rougher. "For fetishes, for experiments… he's worth taking."
Grey clenched his fists.
Three blurry silhouettes appeared in his mind. Then others. People dragged across the floor, screaming, reaching out to him, begging for help that never came.
The memory hurt more than any wound.
He wanted to scream.
He couldn't.
His throat was so dry that not even hatred could find a way out.
Damn you…
Damn all of you.
Damn the nobles.
Hot tears gathered in his eyes as he clenched his fists until the skin split and blood began to flow.
You took everything from me.
My family.
My home.
My life.
A silent scream escaped his trembling mouth.
And now you want to take my freedom too?
Something stirred in his chest.
An unnatural heat surged from the deepest part of his being, spreading through his veins, his bones, his flesh.
To hell with this hierarchy.
His arms began to feel different.
Firmer.
More alive.
To hell with this world.
The pain disappeared… but it wasn't relief.
It was replaced by something worse.
Dull cracking sounds ran through his body. Bones shifting. Muscles tightening. Torn skin sealing as if it had never been broken.
It wasn't healing.
It was rewriting.
Grey struggled upright and gripped the thick gray metal bars in front of him with all his strength.
For the first time since he had awakened there…
His voice came out.
"And fuck you too, world."
The instant the last word left his mouth, reality shattered.
The darkness vanished.
The stench faded.
Grey saw.
A new, golden world unfolded before his eyes.
Everything was connected.
The walls, the floor, the bars—nothing was solid. Threads of golden light flowed and intertwined, holding the shape, the weight, and the meaning of everything.
The order of the world.
And deep within his mind, he understood.
What he was seeing was the Aether.
He didn't need an explanation.
He didn't need words.
He simply knew what to do.
His hands tightened further around the bars.
He didn't think about destroying them.
He thought about breaking the order that forced them to be what they were.
The golden flow fractured.
The metal lost its shape.
The bars rippled, dissolved, turning into an inert, weightless mass that slipped through his fingers and fell to the ground like thick water.
The cell ceased to exist.
Grey took a step back, breathing heavily.
From the corridor, agitated voices echoed.
"Did you hear that?"
"Yeah… it came from the cells."
Hurried footsteps approached.
Grey lifted his gaze toward the dark hallway before him.
For the first time in his life…
The world no longer confined him.