THE RISING OF THE COMMONER
CHAPTER TWO: SPARK
Part One: The Beginning
The sun was rising when Zuren packed the last of his belongings into a tattered cloth bag. The wooden house that had once held his laughter, his parents' warmth, and the smell of bread was now nothing but a hollow carcass. Dust hung in the air like ghosts, and silence pressed against his chest.
He glanced around one final time.
His mother's ring glinted faintly on his finger—a simple silver band with a small gem in its center, cracked from years of wear. It was not worth much in gold, but it carried the weight of his mother's love. His father's sword leaned against the doorframe, tall and sharp, its blackened steel shimmering faintly as though it carried a pulse of its own. Zuren's thin fingers brushed the hilt, and for a moment, it felt like holding his father's hand again.
Everything else—clothes, pots, furniture—he had already sold. From the merchants and traders who cared little for his name, he had gathered eleven gold coins and fifty silver coins. Enough, he calculated, to feed himself for a year and more, if he lived simply.
But he knew gold did not last forever. And neither did peace.
With the bag slung over his shoulder and the sword tied across his back, Zuren stepped outside. He walked the dirt road until he reached the outskirts of the Vournia Kingdom. The city walls loomed behind him, the towers of the castle still visible over the rooftops. The place where his family had served… the place where they had been killed.
He stopped and stared, his young face set in stone.
"This is goodbye," he whispered, voice low, almost swallowed by the wind. "But I'll come back. And when I do, I'll bring it all down."
The flames of revenge burned in his chest, but he did not let them consume him. Not yet. He needed time. Strength. Knowledge.
And so, he walked. Away from the kingdom. Away from his past. Toward the wilderness.
The jungle greeted him with a thousand sounds: birds shrieking from treetops, insects buzzing like living static, and the occasional growl that rumbled from deep within the undergrowth. It was nothing like the cobblestone streets of Vournia. The air was damp, the earth soft, and the trees towered over him like giants.
On his fifth night, as he set up a small camp by a cluster of rocks, he heard it—the sound that would mark his first battle. A low, hurling screech.
He spun, sword half-drawn, eyes darting to the bushes. Nothing. Only the rustle of leaves.
He stayed awake for hours, climbing a tree to rest on the higher branches. Sleep came and went in fragments, and by morning, the sound was gone.
Two days later, it returned. This time, from above.
Zuren's gaze snapped to the sky, and his breath caught.
A Slinger.
It looked like a cross between a bat and a lizard, wings stretched wide with leathery skin that gleamed in the sunlight. Its jaws were lined with sharp teeth, and its tail whipped through the air like a spear.
Zuren's heart hammered in his chest. Aerial beasts were rare in these parts, but even a low-ranked one could kill a young boy in seconds.
The creature dove, claws slicing through the air. Zuren threw himself aside, barely dodging, and tumbled into a tree, his head cracking against the bark. Pain blurred his vision, but he gritted his teeth.
Think. Use the jungle. Don't fight it head-on.
His eyes darted to the branches above. Thick vines hung loosely, coiling down like ropes. An idea sparked.
He positioned himself in an open clearing and waited. The Slinger shrieked again, wings beating as it swooped from behind. At the last moment, Zuren hurled himself backward, grabbing a vine and looping it across his father's sword. His back slammed into the tree—pain shot through his spine—but he ignored it.
The vine stretched. The sword glinted. And then—
Snap.
He launched forward like a stone from a sling, blade first. The steel pierced through the beast's chest, its screech echoing through the jungle as blood sprayed across the leaves.
The impact threw Zuren to the ground. The sword slipped from his grip and flew into the distance.
The Slinger crashed into the trees, wings twitching before falling still. Silence returned to the jungle.
Breathless, Zuren scrambled through the undergrowth, searching for the sword. Hours passed until, just before sunset, he found it buried in the soil. He pulled it free, and to his shock, the blade bore no crack, no chip—nothing. It looked as if it had never even touched blood.
Zuren stared, awe rising in his chest.
"Father… what kind of weapon did you leave me?"
The months rolled by.
Zuren grew leaner, sharper. His hands blistered from gripping the sword. His feet toughened from walking barefoot across roots and rocks. Hunger gnawed at him often, but he learned to eat berries, roots, and the flesh of fallen beasts—even when he risked poisoning himself.
He fought creatures both small and great :
•Packs of shadow-wolves that lunged from the night, their eyes glowing yellow.
•A swamp crawler that dragged him into the mud before he slashed it's throat underwater.
•A herd of iron tusk boars, which he avoided by climbing trees and throwing rocks to divert their charge.
He didn't win every fight. Sometimes he fled, bleeding and gasping, his pride in tatters. But each encounters sharpened him. Each scar taught him a lesson.
And slowly, he grew.
By the end of six months, Zuren could hold his own ground against beasts that once could have torn him apart. His swordsmanship was still rough, his strikes wild, but his mind has grown sharp,
cunning, and unyielding.
The jungle no longer frightened him. It felt like a testing ground.
At last, the trees began to thin, and the dirt path widened into cobbled roads. Beyond the horizon, Zuren saw walls—tall, gleaming walls of stone and metal, unlike anything in Vournia.
The Kingdom of Manabu.
Known across the continent not for its armies, but for its inventions. The place where scholars, engineers, and mages mixed their crafts to create wonders unseen elsewhere.
As Zuren entered through the gates, his eyes widened.
Carriages rolled by without horses, powered instead by glowing crystals that pulsed with light. Street lamps burned not with fire, but with orbs of floating energy, humming softly as though alive. Children played with mechanical birds, their wings flapping with gears and magic threads. Merchants displayed tools that bent water into shapes, or stones that whispered secrets when pressed.
Zuren stood in the middle of the street, overwhelmed. He had grown used to the primal struggle of the jungle—the rawness of blood and survival. But here, the air itself buzzed with progress and mystery.
"This… this is another world entirely," he muttered.
And yet, beneath the marvel, there was something unsettling. He noticed the way guards in silver armor watched the streets with cold eyes, the way beggars huddled in shadows ignored by all, the way merchants whispered in corners about prices and secrets.
Manabu was wondrous, yes—but it was also a kingdom of power, like Vournia. Just painted in brighter colors.
And Zuren knew better than to trust bright colors.
Part II: Blinding
The city of Manabu breathed with life. Everywhere Zuren turned, he saw things that his younger self could never have imagined—mechanical birds, glowing carriages, merchants bargaining over crystals that hummed with strange energy. Yet even in this brilliance, he carried darkness inside him.
His bag felt heavier than ever. Not because of the coins, nor the sword, but because of the two small clay bowls inside. Each held ashes—one of his mother, one of his father. He had kept them safe since that day, never daring to leave them behind.
Now, he searched for a place where they could rest.
The grave keeper's hut was small, built at the edge of the city, away from noise. Wooden crosses dotted the field, some old and weathered, some newly placed.
Zuren stepped inside. The keeper, an old man with clouded eyes, greeted him without words—only a nod. He offered two stone shelves where ashes of the dead could be kept, honored, and remembered.
Zuren placed the bowls carefully, his hands trembling slightly. He whispered beneath his breath, so soft the keeper could not hear:
"Father… Mother… I'll live with your strength inside me. And I'll burn this world with it if I must."
As he stood there, two voices interrupted the silence.
"Hmm. Didn't think I'd find someone so young here," a boy said casually.
Zuren turned. A tall, wiry youth with sharp features leaned against the wall. His hair was messy, his clothing simple but worn, and his eyes were bright with curiosity. Beside him stood a girl, perhaps a little older, with black hair tied neatly and a book in her hand. Her expression was calm, but her gaze was piercing—like she could read the truth in a heartbeat.
They looked at him, not with pity, not with hostility, but with something else. Interest.
"Who are you?" Zuren asked, his tone cautious.
The boy smirked. "Name's Lung Pear. And this is Ryyea Agamo. We were just passing by. But you… you look like someone carrying more than you should."
Zuren tightened his grip on his sword's hilt instinctively.
Ryyea tilted her head. "Don't worry. We mean no harm. We've just… seen grief before. It leaves a mark. Yours is easy to see."
For a moment, Zuren's throat closed. He couldn't tell them the truth—not here, not now. But if he lied too carelessly, they might suspect.
"My name is Ron," he said slowly. "I… can't say my family name. Not for now. Let's just say I lost them… in a way I can't forgive."
The boy, Lung, scratched his chin. "Ron, huh? Fair enough. Names aren't always safe to give. Trust me, I know."
Ryyea closed her book. "We understand. Pain doesn't always need to be explained. Sometimes, it just… is."
The three of them stood in silence for a moment, bound by a strange, fragile thread of shared sorrow.
Finally, Lung shrugged. "Well, Ron. Maybe we'll see you around. Manabu is small when fate decides it isn't."
They turned to leave, and Zuren let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. For the first time since Vournia, he felt something unfamiliar—recognition. Not trust, not yet. But recognition.
Days passed, and Zuren explored more of Manabu. The inventions dazzled him, but he also noticed the shadows beneath: slums hidden behind glowing streets, men whispering about debts and guilds, children begging while nobles threw coins at dancers.
It was during one such wandering that he stumbled upon a strange, loud building with iron gates and banners. Carved above the entrance were the words:
ARENA OF DUMPS
Zuren tilted his head. Arena? Dumps? The contradiction intrigued him.
Inside, the air smelled of sweat, blood, and coin. A vast pit stretched below, surrounded by seats where people cheered, laughed, and threw money. Fighters—huge men, scarred and half-dressed—stood in the ring, trading blows.
As Zuren walked deeper, eyes turned toward him. Big men with muscles like boulders. Thin ones with sharp daggers hanging at their belts. All of them stared. A boy with a sword, alone, in a place like this.
The tension grew until the door at the far end opened, and another man entered. The crowd's attention shifted instantly, the silent pressure fading from Zuren's shoulders.
He exhaled, relieved.
At the counter near the entrance, a woman waved at him. She was young, with auburn hair and a sharp smile.
"New face," she said cheerfully. "Name's Lily. First time here, huh?"
Zuren nodded cautiously. "Name's Ron umm What is this place?"
Her grin widened. "The Arena of Dumps. A home for rejects. Fighters who couldn't get into guilds. Outcasts, wanderers, people with nowhere to go. They fight here—for coin, for survival, for recognition. The rich love it. Nobles bet, merchants cheer, sometimes even royalty comes down to watch."
Zuren frowned. "Guilds?"
She leaned on the counter. "You're not from around here, are you? Alright, quick lesson: guilds are the backbone of adventure and power in this world. They manage dungeons, beasts, contracts. But they don't take just anyone. Only fighters ranked C and above."
Zuren's eyes narrowed. "Rank?"
"Yep. Simple system." She counted with her fingers.
"S is the highest. Then A. Then B. Then C. Below that? D, E, F… trash, basically. And those people end up here. In the Dumps."
Zuren tapped his sword. "So they're forced to fight?"
"Not forced. Tempted. There's coin to earn, glory to steal, and blood to spill." Lily's eyes glinted. "The question is… you want in?"
Zuren hesitated. His heart beat faster. Part of him screamed not yet. He wasn't ready. But another part whispered: this is where strength is tested. Where survival meets opportunity.
"…Yes," he said finally. "I'll register."
Her smile widened like a cat. "Good. Welcome to the Dumps, Ron."
That night, Zuren lay in the rented room above the arena, staring at the ceiling. He thought of Lung and Ryyea. Of his parents' ashes resting in silence. Of the kingdom he would one day burn.
And of the fights waiting below.
He whispered to himself: "I'll climb. No matter how many steps it takes. No matter how much blood I spill. I'll climb."
But deep down, he knew the Dumps were not just about fighting. This place smelled of secrets. And secrets always had teeth.
Part III: Brawl
Morning light filtered through the narrow window of Zuren's rented room. For once, he had slept without jolting awake in the middle of the night. His body was still sore from traveling through the wilds for months, but his mind was calm… calm in the way fire is calm just before it eats wood.
He dressed quickly. Sword strapped. Mother's ring tied to his neck by a thin thread. Coins hidden deep inside his pack.
Breakfast was cheap—a bowl of soup, stale bread, and half a boiled egg. It didn't taste good, but it reminded him he was alive.
After cleaning his blade, he made his way down the creaky wooden stairs into the lobby of the Arena of Dumps.
"Ron!"
Lily's cheerful voice hit him the second his boots touched the floor. She stood behind the counter, a ledger in hand, her auburn hair tied messily but still somehow neat.
He gave a small nod. "Morning."
"Had a good sleep?" she asked brightly, as if she hadn't seen dozens of bloodied men limp past her last night.
"…Good enough."
"That's rare. Most first-timers either don't sleep, or they wake up screaming. You're tougher than you look."
Zuren didn't respond. He didn't know if it was toughness or just exhaustion that had let him sleep.
She flipped a page on her ledger. "So, when's your first fight? You can't stay in the Dumps without stepping into the pit eventually."
He leaned against the counter. "Probably later today."
Her grin sharpened. "Perfect. I'll put your name down for the evening match."
Zuren blinked. "…Just like that?"
"Just like that," Lily said. "But don't worry. You won't be thrown against a beast yet. We start newcomers against… manageable opponents. You win, you get coin. You lose, well… depends on how badly you lose."
Her casual tone unsettled him. "And if I die?"
She shrugged. "Then the crowd cheers louder. That's just how it is here."
By evening, the arena was alive with noise. Drums beat. Torches lit up the pit. Rich men and women in silk clothing leaned over the railings, tossing coins, shouting bets.
Zuren stood at the entrance gate to the fighting pit, his sword sheathed at his side. His palms sweated inside his gloves, but his eyes were steady.
"Your opponent tonight…" Lily's voice came from behind, "…is Grum."
The gate creaked open.
A massive man stomped into the ring. His bare chest was scarred, his arms like tree trunks. He carried a blunt iron mace, heavy enough that even swinging it once could break bones.
The crowd roared.
Zuren stepped into the dirt, the gate closing behind him with a final clang.
Grum grinned, revealing a broken row of teeth. "Kid. You sure you wandered into the right hole?" His voice was like gravel.
Zuren drew his sword slowly, holding it low. "I'm sure."
The drums pounded. The announcer's voice boomed:
"FIGHT!"
Grum charged first. His mace slammed into the dirt where Zuren had been standing a heartbeat ago, sending dust flying. The ground shook.
Zuren's instincts screamed at him: Don't fight his strength. Think. Think.
He circled, keeping distance, eyes sharp. Grum swung again, wild and heavy. Zuren dodged, but the shockwave of the mace brushed his side, numbing his ribs.
"Fast little rat," Grum spat.
The crowd jeered. Some shouted for blood, others laughed at the size difference.
Zuren's heart pounded, but his mind was cold. He remembered the jungle. The beasts. The slinger. He couldn't overpower Grum. But he could use the arena.
He stepped closer, baiting Grum. The big man snarled and swung, overcommitting his weight. At the last moment, Zuren dropped low, rolling in the dirt. The mace slammed into the wooden railing, splintering it.
The crowd roared.
Grum cursed, pulling his weapon free. Zuren slashed—not deep enough to kill, but across Grum's thigh. Blood sprayed.
The man howled, staggering.
For the first time, the crowd cheered for the boy.
But Grum wasn't done. He lunged again, rage making him faster. Zuren barely parried, the force rattling his bones. His arms screamed. His chest burned.
Too strong. Too strong.
Another swing. Zuren ducked, slashing again—not at the chest, but the arm. A shallow cut, but enough.
Grum bellowed, swinging wild in fury. And that was his mistake.
Zuren saw the opening.
He darted forward, sliding under the arc of the mace, and drove his blade across Grum's stomach. Not deep enough to spill guts, but enough to drop him to one knee.
The crowd exploded in noise.
Grum's eyes burned with hatred. "You little—"
Zuren raised his sword, pointing it directly at Grum's throat. His voice was quiet but steady. "Yield."
Silence rippled through the crowd.
Grum's chest heaved. He wanted to kill the boy. But he saw it in Zuren's eyes—if he moved, the blade would end him.
Finally, he dropped his mace into the dirt with a heavy thud.
The announcer's voice rang out:
"Winner… Ron!"
The crowd erupted, some cheering, others booing, gamblers screaming about lost bets.
Zuren sheathed his sword, his body shaking from exhaustion, but he did not stumble. He walked out of the pit like he had known victory was certain.
Back in the lobby, Lily leaned against the counter with her usual grin. "Well, well. Didn't think you'd survive your first match. Not bad, Ron. Not bad at all."
Zuren wiped sweat from his brow. "…That man could've killed me."
"Of course," Lily said, smirking. "That's the fun of it."
Her eyes glimmered as she slid a small pouch of coins across the counter. "But hey—you've just bought yourself a place in the Dumps. Let's see how long you last."
Zuren took the pouch silently, feeling the weight of his first earned blood money.
For the first time in years, he felt something new stirring beneath his grief.
Not hope.
But power.