The streets of the capital were alive with chaos and life—laughter, the aroma of roasted meat, and the sweet scent of dumplings drifting through the air. Yet none of it reached Laine.
His steps staggered, body weak. His ribs showed through his torn shirt, and his skin clung tightly to his bones.
Children pointed at him, mocking laughter spilling from their lips. Vendors sneered and pulled their stalls away, as if even his shadow carried disease.
"Look at him… nothing but a gutter rat."
"Worse than the beggars."
"Disgusting… he should just die in the sewers."
Every word was a blade. Every glance a wound. Laine no longer had the strength to shout back. His stomach twisted in pain. His legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the filthy stone road.
The crowd did not stop. They walked around him as if he were nothing more than garbage left in the street.
For a moment, Laine thought—Maybe this is it. Maybe I was only born to rot like this.
His vision blurred. Darkness swallowed the bustling city.
And within that darkness… a flame flickered to life.
A deep, ancient voice echoed inside his collapsing mind.
"Pathetic."
The ground beneath Laine cracked, and a shadowy figure emerged—an old warrior draped in tattered, yet regal robes. His presence was heavier than the city itself. His eyes burned like twin suns, staring into Laine's very soul.
The people on the street froze. Laughter faded. Yet, in truth, no one else could see him—this apparition existed only for Laine.
"My descendant…" the Ancestor's voice thundered. "Is this what has become of my bloodline? A starving mutt crawling in the dirt, treated like filth?"
Laine's lips trembled. He could not answer.
The phantom extended a hand, and in it appeared a mask—black steel, with a single crimson eye glowing like a heart of fire.
"You are dying. If you wish to remain a worm, then let death claim you here, in this gutter."
The mask floated closer, hovering before Laine's pale face.
*"But if you wish to live… if you wish to be feared, remembered, and never again looked down upon…" the Ancestor's voice shook the heavens, "…then wear this mask. Stand, and make the world bleed until it knows your name."
Laine's vision flickered between death and destiny. The hunger inside him shifted—no longer just for food, but for power.
With trembling fingers, he reached out.
The mask was cold against his skin. The crimson eye opened.
And the city… was drowned in red light.