"Hey! Worthless trash!"
A solid kick slammed into my backside, nearly flattening me face-first into the sand.
"What are you digging for down there? Decided to join the women? It's disgraceful for a man to be gathering dung and weeds. Get some guts—stand up and meet my fist with yours!"
I stayed silent. I was occupied with something far more important: searching this damned sand not for a stick—none grow near the village—but for a simple stone. Just one sharp-edged rock lost over the years… anything heavy enough to crack open that mindless brute Virgl's head and watch the blood bloom bright red.
"Snot-noses!" came the scrawny yelps of my tormentors behind me, followed by the satisfying thuds of punches landing.
"Clear off, now!"
"Senior Di, we were just talking with this loser—man to man! How's this stray supposed to grow into anything if he hides behind others?"
"Virgl, don't test my patience." Another smack, another cry of pain. "One day, I'll snap the arms and legs of every last thug in your pack!"
"Thank you, Uncle Di," I said, climbing off all fours and sitting in the sand, still sifting it aimlessly through my fingers.
"They're getting bolder," murmured the muscular man standing over me. His short black hair was streaked with the pale dust of the Wasteland. His sun-blackened face wore guilt—pressed lips, furrowed brow—but he wouldn't meet my eyes. His gaze flitted everywhere but at me.
"Not surprising," I replied with a bitter smile. "The chief's son is growing into his future role. And training his loyal parasites well."
"Chief?" Di growled. "He's no chief—just a village-appointed leader! The only thing elevated about him is his status. One misstep and the first visiting warrior will boot him out of the main hut."
"Words," I said flatly, finally locking eyes with Di's deep blue ones. "And words won't stop our 'not-quite-chief' from tossing our family outside the village fence the moment Mother displeases him. You couldn't stop him either. You didn't hit Virgl, did you?"
"You're a clever boy," Di said after a pause, looking away again. "Your father would've been proud. I'm sorry you have to grow up so fast."
"Unfortunately," I laughed coldly, "his son is now the most despised person in the village. Uncle Di… leave me alone for now, please."
"Forgive me, my boy. But closing a two-star gap isn't something you can overcome with willpower alone." He paused, then continued, "Take this and give it to your mother. Luck smiled on me today."
I listened to his footsteps fade into the distance. Then came the hush of the Wasteland, slowly filled with the chirr of insects. My mind was blank—until a jagged pebble snagged between my fingers. It was strange: a smooth, black rectangle no larger than an adult's thumb. It looked like a shard of Ancient legacy. Let this stone be my daily reminder of today's humiliation and weakness.
I turned the glossy object over, polished by centuries in the sand, and still couldn't guess its purpose. I slipped it into my neck pouch with the other odds and ends. Then I turned to the jute bag Uncle Di had left. Loosening the drawstring, I peeked inside. As I expected: a dead quyrgal. When he used to hunt the Wasteland with the villagers, Father always praised Di as a master tracker. Tonight, our family would feast.
"Thank you, Uncle Di," I whispered, palms pressed together, bowing toward his fading footprints—the only person in the village who still helps us.
My sister returned home first and helped with supper. She scrubbed the table clean, rinsed it with boiling water, and laid out the festive clay bowls, eyes sparkling with joy as she danced around the hearth. I, wearing a stern expression, occasionally threatened her pale head with a spoon.
Mother, as always, returned after nightfall. I helped her undo the straps of her carrier, buried deep in the moonlit sand. When she stumbled, I caught her by the elbow and guided her into the hut.
"Why were you collecting dung until dark?"
I was fuming, pacing the room as my sister helped wash Mother's dust-covered body from the hanging basin. No wonder she looked so pale with exhaustion—chasing wild jeyrals across the Wasteland since sunrise to fill the village's largest carrier!
"I want to go to Black Mountain for herbs tomorrow," she said. "So I had to double my haul today. Luckily, your mother knows a few secret spots no one else goes to..." I glimpsed a tired smile easing the crease at her lips, making her the most beautiful woman in the world.
"Mom!" I felt tears begin to gather at the corners of my eyes. "What mountain, what herbs? You're all we have left. Don't you dare go off alone! What if you meet the Beast?"
"There, there…" she pulled me close, stroking my head. "I'm careful and experienced. You could say I'm a veteran of the Wasteland. I know when and where to go. And don't forget—I have eight stars!"
"Father knew even more than that! He was stronger than you! And where is he now?" I tried to pull away from her arms.
"My love, what happened?" she wouldn't let me go, only loosen her grip.
"Did they pick on you again?"
"Yes," I forced out, eyes dropping to the freshly swept floor. "They said some awful things. Mom… maybe you should try joining the herbalists' team?"
"I see," she sighed after a moment, squeezing my shoulders. "They blamed you for my job again. But you understand, don't you, that here in this godforsaken wasteland, in our lowest-ranked settlement, there's no such thing as 'honorable work'?"
I nodded grudgingly. We'd had this conversation before, but it still stung.
"More than half the women collect jeyral dung. What else can we do, when even a scrap of wood is a luxury here? Yes, there are cleaner jobs—gathering herbs, cooking for hunters, collecting stones, scraping hides… Your mother is a tanner, after all! But to be assigned anything else, I'd need to petition the village head!" Her voice hissed through clenched teeth. "I will never beg the man who killed your father!"
"What?" I flinched. "But the Monster tore him apart! He died of his wounds!"
"My children!" Mother finally let go and looked at my sister. "I must confess something. I bear guilt for the misfortunes that fell on our family. Leila, sit down with me."
"Yes, Mom," my sister squeaked, sitting beside me on the floor.
"Leila doesn't remember, but you, son—you must. Look at me." Her gray eyes blazed, her face flickered in the firelight like shifting masks. "This barren wasteland on the edge of the White Desert is not our true home. We didn't always live out of a wagon, wandering the eternal road. Yes, the Zero Ring is cursed, but you were born in one of its best corners. Your father and I lived in a five-star settlement called Arroyo, in the Black Wasteland. We were respected—blacksmith and tanner, nine and eight stars. Few could look down on us. Do you remember our house, my son?"
"Vaguely. Bits and pieces. A big house. A wooden table," I murmured beneath her demanding gaze, eyes so like mine. "Vats of earth and flowers. Wide stone-paved streets."
"Yes, yes, that's right," she nodded, wiping tears from her face. "Our home. Your father always dreamed of moving the family to the First Belt. As you know, reaching it with only nine stars is impossible. But he always sought a way—asking advice from the old ones who remembered other belts. Though what help could they offer? Fallen to the Zero. Trash, like all of us. Still, he never gave up hope. One day, he had a chance: a small commission for the new Warrior assigned to our settlement. Instead of coin, he asked for guidance. I stood beside him. I remember it like it was yesterday."
Her face stiffened—a ghostly mask, hollow-eyed—as she stared past us into the shadows.
"The advice that brought us here. The Warrior said:
'Your talent and grasp of fundamentals is poor. You veered off course as a child. Now, as a grown man, it's hard to change what's embedded in your bones. Your best chance to break your stagnation is a journey. New places, new people, battles fought with everything you've got will help you uncover your mistake and take one final step—beyond the limits of ordinary men. There are easier paths, but in the Zero, they're beyond your reach.'"
She paused, eyes raw with tears. The mask slipped from her face. I stayed silent. Beside me, little Leila shrank against my side, wordless.
"My first fault, my children, was yielding to your father's persuasion and joining him on his journey. We sold our home, our workshop, and set out together with you, Legrad, traveling through our Ring. And I won't say those were bad years. We saw all of the Zero. Others might think this wasteland is monotonous and empty. But believe me, children—it's not. Our eyes learned to see its beauty. And some corners still hold nearly untouched structures of the Ancients, unlike here. Those towering ruins carried the aura of a lost greatness.
In the end, it was during that journey that Leila was born. Virigo's advice—that Warrior—proved true. Your father realized his mistake and broke through to the tenth star. Unlike me. I never cared about Ascension. I never sought to overcome the limitations of humanity. My joy was you—my children. But Virigo did misjudge one thing." Mom smiled—this time not bitterly, but proudly. Her eyes sparkled. "Your father wanted to return to Arroyo and take the test there, to make his family proud. So we kept traveling, making our way home by new roads. And he had an astonishing gift. Without a Belt One mentor, he reached the rank of Warrior!"
I was stunned, trying to process what I'd heard. Not once had I heard such a tale from drunken Orikol, who loved to brag about the secrets he'd picked up in Belt One. No—if I thought hard, maybe there had once been original Warriors, ones without teachers. But even that was before the Ancients… even for them, probably just myths and legends. Could this be real? Father… I remember how strong you were! Were you truly a Warrior? In the Zero Ring, there are no breakthrough teachings—not even a child like me believes they exist!
"Our journey was nearly over when we arrived at this cursed place," Mom snarled, grinding her teeth—I'd never seen her like this, consumed by fury. "Within days, Rimilo clashed with Cardo. First, Cardo demanded a whole silver piece for lodging inside this pathetic fence that couldn't even stop a limping jackal. Then, after a successful hunt, he tried to take most of the meat. Maybe you're used to this, son. But the law of the Wasteland says only half goes to the communal pot. Everywhere we traveled, that law was honored—except by Cardo.
Rimilo beat him. What could that coward do against your father? He never expected it—he was used to ruling this dump by brute strength. Of course, he held a grudge, but at every encounter he smiled sweetly and bowed to my husband. I've regretted so many times that Rimilo held back—that he didn't finish it then. The villagers, starving in a land rich with game, would have thanked us. We were nearly rested and ready to move on when that black day came."
Leila shuddered and gripped my hand. For her, that day marked the end of innocence. For me, too. I held her cold fingers tight.
"If only your father had known a spiritual technique. We scoured countless settlements, spent nearly all our money buying rare recipes from blacksmiths and tanners, but never found any clear descriptions—just scraps, half lies and inventions! Even Orikol was paid gold, yet taught nothing—useless drunk, good only at guzzling swill and spinning nonsense!" Mom slammed her fist against the stone table. "If Rimilo had even one Warrior technique, he could've killed the Monster without those wounds! He wouldn't have died in my arms!"
"Mom! Mom!" Leila couldn't hold back, released my hand and rushed to her, sobbing.
"Forgive me, forgive me!" Mom whispered, hugging her tight, stroking her head, back, arms. "I'm sorry, children. My second fault was that Rimilo asked me not to worry about him—to buy space in a caravan and return to Arroyo. But I went against his will. He couldn't survive a month of travel with such wounds. So we stayed. I was a fool—so focused on his pain, I failed to see the danger to the family.
But Rimilo knew exactly how things would play out. From that day, Cardo harassed us constantly. We paid silver for shelter, food, herbs for dressings. That bearded pig preyed on my husband's helplessness and extorted us. I clenched my teeth, endured, prayed and hoped Rimilo would recover."
Now my own teeth clenched, pushing back angry tears. I remembered how it started—the very next day after Father saved the hunters with his own health, Virgl's gang beat me for the first time. Thrown from heaven face-first into dirt.
"My third fault, daughter…" Mom kissed Leila's hair—so like her own—over and over. "Forgive me, forgive me. A week later, a tiny caravan arrived—just two traders. I bartered with one of them for a healing potion. I gave away your inheritance—all my tanner tools. He swore, and I believed, it would save your father. But…"
Mom fell silent. I lowered my eyes and saw flickers of moisture under my feet in the glow of the hearth. Was I crying? I remembered that day too—vivid as if it had just happened. The day our family grew smaller.
"The merchant insisted the potion was taken too late—that your father lacked the life force to heal. That's impossible! I was born and raised in a five-star settlement! I've heard of this potion. I saw survivors brought from the Wasteland with worse wounds than his! The potion itself contains herbs that restore life!" Mom screamed. Just like she did that day—I remembered. "I couldn't prove anything. The seal was intact when witnesses inspected it. But I didn't believe it.
For months, I watched that rotten old trader—who somehow hadn't been claimed by the gods—whispering deals with Cardo. I became more certain they were in it together. Two months ago, when a real caravan from Arroyo came through, not just the geezer's wagon, I secretly met a traveling apothecary. I gave him the bottle. All the money I had left. But it wasn't in vain—it wasn't!"
"Mom, Mom!" I tore at my collar, listening to her hoarse, broken laughter. "What did he say?"
"He said it was a strength potion! It killed your father—forcing his body's last resources into muscle growth! It's no cheaper than a healing one, and if Rimilo had taken it during the fight, he could've killed that Monster with ease. I don't believe that merchant faked the seal on his own. Everything Cardo takes from the villagers goes to that trader! Cardo paid him to kill your father. There's no other explanation!"
I sat against the cold wall of our hut, ignoring the chalk rubbing off onto my back, staring at the stars. In the distance, jackals howled, searching for meat in the twilight. A faint leopard's roar sent them silent. They must've considered stealing some prey—but got scared.
I listened to the night sounds, sifted through my memories. Not just those two burned-in days, but hazy others too. Each image convinced me Mom was right. Everything pointed to Cardo having paid for Father's death. I knew more than she did—even less than a month ago, hiding from Virgl near the training grounds, I overheard Cardo speaking to that old merchant behind the shed where they kept spare spears and measuring stones. Their conversation was the talk of equals, old partners. Full of coded hints and unfinished phrases—clear only to those who've been plotting for years.
All I understood was that things were proceeding as expected. Some even better. The next potion would arrive on time. He wouldn't fail Cardo, especially if supplies increased just a little more.
Lightning flickered on the horizon—rain was coming.
"Mom," I peeked into the hut, "if we have family in Arroyo, why haven't you sent word?"
"I'm an orphan," Mom said softly, seated at the hearth with Leila on her lap, brushing her hair—now nearly waist-length. "Rimilo's parents lived there. They hated me. Never forgave him for marrying me against their plans. Never let him cross their doorstep. But we stayed in touch with his brother—despite his father's ban. I wrote to him twice. And two months ago, I sent another letter with a caravaner. I don't know why he never replied. It's been six years… anything could have happened. Still, I try not to lose hope—or dwell on the worst."
"There are still Dad's tools. Why not sell them? We could find a place in the caravan," I asked.
"They're your inheritance. I won't defy Rimilo's wishes," Mom frowned, glancing at the chest near her bedding.
"Even if it might save us?" I was stubborn.
"Don't get your hopes up," Mom said, shaking her head, then began to explain. "If anything happens to your uncle—heaven forbid—we'll be stranded in the city without support and without money. I won't be able to work leather anymore. I don't have my tools. I won't have the money to buy a place. My mentor was a kind old man, but he's gone. And no one lets an outsider master into their workshop just like that—everyone guards their secrets. And I'm too old now to be anyone's apprentice in a new trade.
I'd be stuck scraping by with cheap labor—no better than what I do now. Arroyo isn't a cheap settlement. We'd be left relying on the kindness of a handful of acquaintances. That support won't last forever, and there's three of us. We'd keep slipping lower and lower. Believe me, son, I know what I'm saying. I once clawed my way upward—but back then, I was alone.
Eventually, we'll end up right back where I started. In the slums. I grew up there, and I won't let my children fall into that life. You'd suffer worse there than you do here. Trust someone who once begged for bread, son.
With eight stars, I could easily join the Monster hunters. But that's deadly work, and I can't leave you two alone. My death would be the cruelest betrayal of all. Son, you wouldn't believe all the things I've had to weigh in my mind over these years…"
"Wait," I didn't give up, though my head was already aching from this tangled mess of problems. "Would our grandparents really abandon us in the slums? Their son's children?"
"Believe me," Mom gave a crooked smile, shaking her head, her dried-out hair falling around her shoulders, "to them, you're first and foremost my children. The cursed seed of a thief."
"A thief?" I couldn't hold back—I grabbed my head.
"Oh, my son… you don't know what hunger can drive someone to do. Maybe we should eat something, and if you want, you can ask more questions tomorrow evening," Mom glanced toward the hearth and the clay pot, still releasing a mouthwatering scent, steering the conversation away.
I had no choice but to surrender. I realized I wouldn't learn anything more today.