The outskirts is a place abandoned by civilization and forgotten by the gods. Those who lived here were either discarded slaves or desperate bandits. The air reeked of smoke, sewage, and blood, filled with corrupt elites who used this no-man's-land to conduct their foul dealings far from the eyes of the law. It was a place where screams went unanswered, and even the foulest crimes faded into silence.
The outskirts had become, almost literally, the drainage basin of the Barony above. Human waste, industrial runoff, and unwanted lives all trickled down into the gutters here. Its residents survived on scraps scavenged from refuse heaps, clinging to life in the shadows and grime like vermin in a collapsing nest.
A young boy trudged along a rotten, filth-slick road. The dirt beneath his feet squelched with every step, soaked by some unidentifiable liquid. Distant screams echoed through the fog-choked alleys.
"Ahh... why am I doing this?" he muttered.
He dragged a heavy sack behind him. Long, bloodstained, and oozing decay, it reeked like a butcher's dump site left to rot in the sun.
"This thing stinks..."
The boy visibly struggled. His arms trembled, legs buckling under the weight. His frail frame seemed ready to collapse at any moment, his bones threatening to snap like twigs.
"Making me do all the dirty work. I will never forgive them."
He cursed under his breath and forced himself forward. Eventually, a crumbling ruin appeared at the edge of the road, its walls half-eaten by mold and its roof barely intact.
—
Upon reaching it, he let the sack fall with a dull thud onto the shattered stone floor.
"Gods... this thing stinks so much."
Hands trembling, he fumbled with the sack's opening. The stench hit him full-force as it peeled apart. Inside, a severed head stared back. Its eyes had rolled back, and its mouth was frozen in a scream. Limbs followed arms, legs, and unrecognizable chunks of flesh. The boy recoiled, gagging, and flung the bag aside in horror before stumbling out of the ruin.
On his way back, the streets seemed even more wretched than before. Beggars clung to walls like dying insects. Hollow-eyed, starving, and skeletal, they were the forgotten detritus of a world that had no place for the weak. In the outskirts, you either worked until death or you were sold into it.
It was a cruel place, but the boy had a reason to endure. He had to survive. For his older brother.
A scream tore through the stagnant air, sharp and sudden. The boy froze. That voice sounded familiar.
His pace quickened despite his exhaustion.
"Hopefully it's not who I think it is..."
This sector of the outskirts was ruled by a group known as the Black Vein, a syndicate of ruthless criminals who extended their grip far beyond the Barony. They were not just a local gang. They were a plague. They infested the entire underbelly of the Kingdom of Vaeloria.
Another scream rang out, louder this time.
The boy's chest tightened. It was not rare for someone to die here, but this time something felt wrong.
Despite his aching muscles, he sprinted.
—
Near a crumbling tavern, within a sagging wooden shack...
A young man was tied to a beam. His body was swollen with bruises, bleeding from multiple lashes. A man loomed above him, whip in hand, grinning.
"Talk, Clyde. We don't have all day. Where is your brother?"
The whip cracked again, drawing another scream from the young man.
"We don't want to do this, Clyde. You know what your brother did."
Clyde coughed, eyes swollen, trying to speak.
"S-stop, Edgar. I-I don't know what you're talking about."
Edgar sneered. "Playing dumb, are we? That little rat Claude released a hostage. Not just any hostage, but a noble girl. Do you understand what that means? Your stupid brother doomed us all."
He lashed Clyde again, then drove a brutal kick into his ribs.
"Talk. Where is Claude?"
—
Claude raced through alleyways, heart pounding. The shack he shared with Clyde was just ahead.
From a distance, he saw them—two bandits stationed at the hut's door, both armed.
He ducked behind a crumbling stone wall before they could see him.
'What the hell is happening? There is no way they caught me. I was sure no one saw me release her.'
His thoughts spiraled. Confusion, guilt, rage, until the screaming stopped.
Silence. Or as close to it as the outskirts ever allowed.
Claude peeked over the wall just in time to see Edgar step out. His hands were dripping red.
Claude's heart dropped.
He took a wide detour, rushing behind the hut. Through a shattered window, he looked in.
What he saw rooted him in place. Blood. A still body. A knife in its chest.
Claude could not breathe.
'No… No, no, no.'
He did not believe it. He refused to believe it.
He climbed through the window, stumbling forward. He flipped the corpse over and froze.
It was Clyde.
His mind buckled under the weight of it. Everything they had been through—pain, hunger, fleeting laughter—came crashing down. A tidal wave of memory and grief.
Tears blurred his vision.
Anger. Jealousy. Helplessness. Despair. All of it poured from his soul.
'Why… Why is this happening? I didn't want to live like this. Why was I born a filthy outskirts rat? Why can't I be happy? Why?'
Then, in the depths of his mind, a voice answered.
{You stir at last, little Rat. The world remembers you.}
Claude's breathing became ragged.
'I will never forgive whoever made this world.'
Outside, Edgar gave the order.
"Dispose of the corpse before it starts rotting. I'll inform the boss."
Claude heard it, but his mind was slipping. The world spun. His limbs felt like stone.
Before losing consciousness, he grabbed the bloodied knife from Clyde's chest and crawled under the rotting bed.
—
Edgar washed his hands, red water pooling around his boots. One bandit remained near the door. The other prepared to follow orders.
"You heard me. Get rid of the corpse before it starts to stink worse than this dump. I'll speak with the boss."
The two men entered the hut, grimacing at the carnage. One bent down to examine the corpse.
He did not see it coming.
A scream. Blood sprayed across the wall.
A knife had been driven into his thigh.
The second bandit turned too late. His throat split open in a single slash.
The wounded bandit stared upward, trembling.
Claude stood over him. His presence had changed. He was no longer just a desperate boy.
Before the man could speak, Claude plunged the knife into his chest.
He heard more footsteps. Someone else was coming.
Claude hid behind the door.
—
Edgar returned, frowning at the silence. As he stepped inside, his eyes widened.
His men lay dead, their throats cut and blood soaking the floor.
"What the hell?"
A sharp pain in his leg dropped him to one knee. He spun around—another stab.
Claude was there, trying to drive the blade deeper.
With a snarl, Edgar kicked him aside and activated his Aetheris. His muscles bulged. His eyes glowed.
He lunged with terrifying speed, his fist crashing into Claude and hurling him into the wall.
Claude spat blood but stood again.
"You awakened your Aetheris. That could be useful," Edgar said. "Surrender now. I'll overlook this. We'll even find a job for you."
He stepped forward to strike, but Claude threw a knife.
Edgar dodged.
"How wea-"
Another knife struck him in the stomach. Claude had picked it off one of the corpses. He twisted it mercilessly.
"D-dirty rat…" Edgar coughed blood.
He kicked Claude away, but staggered. The blood loss was immense. His legs failed him.
Claude, breathing heavily, looked down at his blood-slicked hands.
And laughed.
"Heh... Hahahaha... Hahahaha!"
His laughter echoed through the ruin, manic and hollow. It continued until he collapsed, right on top of Clyde's corpse.
—
Hours later…
The boss of the Black Vein tapped his foot impatiently.
What is taking Edgar so long?
He sent scouts to investigate.
They returned shaken. Inside the hut, they found nothing but corpses—Edgar and the others, all dead.
And Claude, unconscious in a pool of blood.
But Clyde's body?
Nowhere to be found.