By the time Felix finished his last newspaper delivery, the sky had shifted from violet to pale gold.
The richer districts would be waking soon — servants preparing tea, guards rotating shifts, merchants opening shops.
But in the outer demon district, people were already working.
Because hunger didn't wait for sunlight.
Felix reached into the small cloth pouch tied at his waist and emptied it into his palm.
Seven bronze coins.
They were dull and scratched from circulation. Bronze was the lowest tier of currency — thin discs stamped with the barony's crest.
In this world, money rose in rigid layers:
100 bronze = 1 silver
100 silver = 1 gold
100 gold = 1 black gold
100 black gold = 1 platinum
Most slum families never saw gold.
Middle-class households survived on fifteen to twenty silver per month.
His father had earned twenty-five silver per month.
Twenty-five silver.
Five silver for rent in the middle district.
Roughly fifty bronze per day for food, fuel, and daily expenses.
It had been enough.
Not luxury.
But stability.
Felix closed his fist around the coins.
Stability had a price.
And apparently, loyalty did too.
He approached a small vendor's stall at the corner of the alley.
"Two dry breads," he said quietly.
The vendor barely looked at him as he placed two hardened loaves onto the counter.
"And one cup of Nix sheep milk."
The vendor poured pale liquid from a metal container into a tin cup.
Nix sheep were a dwarven-bred livestock strain — large, durable, engineered for maximum milk output. Their milk was thin but cheap. Most of it was sold to the lower districts.
Felix handed over his coins.
He did not buy anything for himself.
He balanced the bread and milk carefully and began walking home.
Two years.
It had been two years since his father's execution.
Felix had been six.
His sister, four.
He still remembered the day they moved from the middle district.
Their old house had wooden floors polished smooth from years of care. His mother used to place small potted plants by the window.
The new place—
The roof leaked.
The walls smelled of mold.
Rent here cost two silver per month.
Cheap enough for the disgraced.
His father had not been a powerful man.
He was not noble.
Not wealthy.
But he was respected among the guards.
He joined the guard at sixteen.
Climbed slowly through discipline and reliability.
Never late.
Never drunk on duty.
Never involved in politics.
Maybe that was the problem.
The day of the kidnapping, another guard fell ill.
His father was reassigned to the southern gate.
Last minute.
The suspected carriage never passed that gate.
Yet somehow—
His father was accused of aiding its passage.
The trial lasted three days.
Three days to decide a life.
Witnesses testified.
Documents presented.
Verdict delivered.
Too clean.
Too fast.
Like they were trying to close the matter before something surfaced.
Amy — a maid in the baron's household and his father's childhood friend — had tried to speak after the arrest.
No one knew what she had seen.
But days later, she collapsed.
Her mind was gone.
Doctors claimed spontaneous neural failure.
No poison.
No injury.
She never woke.
Then she died.
No further investigation.
Felix's jaw tightened.
If everything was coincidence—
Then the world had too many coincidences.
He turned a corner—
And collided violently with something hard.
The impact sent him sprawling.
The bread flew from his hands.
The cup spun through the air, spilling milk across the dirt.
Pain flared in his knees and arms as he hit the ground.
He looked up.
A carriage towered over him.
Polished black wood.
Reinforced wheels.
No public insignia.
But he recognized the subtle crest engraved near the wheel hub — small enough to avoid attention.
The baron's house.
The carriage did not belong in this district.
People rushed toward him—
Not to help.
Hands snatched the fallen bread from the ground and disappeared into the alleys.
Felix scrambled up, but he was too late.
The milk had already soaked into the dirt.
For a second—
His chest burned.
Not from embarrassment.
From anger.
"WHAT THE HELL?!" he shouted at the driver. "Why are you driving here? This is the pedestrian side! Because of you, I lost my breakfast — and milk for my sister!"
The driver leaned down, irritation clear on his face.
"You walked into the road, boy. Watch your steps before blaming others."
"You're not supposed to be here," Felix shot back. "I'll report you to the local guards."
The driver's eyes narrowed.
"You think they'll listen to a slum brat?"
Felix clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles whitened.
Before the driver could say more—
The carriage window shifted.
A gloved hand emerged.
Two silver coins flicked into the air.
They landed in the dirt before Felix.
"This should be enough."
The voice from inside was calm.
Measured.
Cold.
"Driver," the voice continued, "we do not have time to waste."
The curtain fell back into place.
The carriage began moving again.
Felix stared at the coins.
Two silver.
Two hundred bronze.
Nearly half a month's rent in the slums.
Around him, eyes gleamed with hunger.
Without hesitation, Felix dropped down and grabbed the coins.
He slid them into his inner pocket instantly.
Someone nearby muttered in frustration.
The carriage rolled away smoothly.
Felix remained standing in the street for a long moment.
The baron's household rarely came to this district unless something required silence.
Or discretion.
Or disposal.
But they had no insignia.
Who were they?!
His stomach twisted.
Were they here because of some new incident?
Or…
Because something unfinished was stirring?
He looked down at the dirt where the milk had vanished.
His sister had been waiting for that.
He swallowed hard.
Then he turned and ran.
Back to the vendor.
Two fresh breads.
Another cup of Nix sheep milk.
This time, he held them tightly against his chest.
As he walked home, something felt different.
The coins pressed against his ribs felt heavier than metal.
Two silver.
A careless amount for nobles.
A fortune for him.
His father had earned twenty-five silver per month.
And died without being able to defend himself properly.
Felix's breathing slowed.
If power decided truth—
Then he would obtain power.
Not recklessly.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
He would learn.
Observe.
Wait.
Above the city walls, clouds drifted unnaturally for a brief moment.
Far beyond mortal sight—
A golden eye narrowed.
And in the slum district below—
An eight-year-old demon boy walked home with bread, milk, and two hidden silver coins.
His knees bruised.
His pride wounded.
His resolve hardening.
Fire flickered faintly beneath his skin.
Not red.
Not orange.
White.
And for the first time—
It lingered longer than a second.