He couldn't scrub the blood off. No matter how hard he rubbed his hand against the moss, the warmth clung, the smell sharp and metallic in his nose.
Kael walked ahead, unconcerned, twirling the rusted dagger like a toy. "Not bad for your first time. You didn't even scream."
The boy's jaw locked. "I almost threw up."
Kael chuckled. "Better than most. I've seen newbies piss themselves before their blade even touched skin."
"Yeah, great. Gold star for me," he muttered bitterly.
Kael glanced back, smirk widening. "Sarcasm means you're still breathing. That's a win."
The boy tightened his grip on the coin in his palm. Its rune pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. He couldn't stop staring at it.
This is someone's life. Their memory. Their last scrap of existence. And now it's mine.
He shoved it into his pouch before his stomach flipped again.
As they climbed out of the tunnels, Kael's tone shifted, quieter but sharper. "You're not special, kid. Everyone in this market started with blood on their hands. Don't waste time mourning."
The boy's voice cracked low. "…And if I do?"
Kael's smirk vanished. His grey eyes hardened like stone. "Then you die."
Silence pressed heavy between them until they stepped back into the lantern-lit sprawl of the market. Merchants still shouted, buyers still haggled, children still wept. As if nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
The boy staggered away, bile in his throat, Kael's words hammering against his skull. Don't mourn. Don't stop. Or die.
He found himself back at the little girl's stall without meaning to. She was still chewing stale bread, eyes flat and tired.
"You look worse than yesterday," she said bluntly.
He barked a hoarse laugh. "Guess I leveled up."
Her eyebrow twitched, the faintest ghost of amusement. Then her gaze dropped to his trembling hand. "You hunted."
The air froze.
His pulse spiked. "…How the fuck would you know?"
She tapped her tray of coins. "Your eyes. Once you spill blood, they don't go back. Ever."
Her words cut deeper than Kael's smirk. He dropped the last crumb of bread she handed him yesterday onto her tray. His voice was low, bitter. "…Then I guess I'm fucked."
She didn't argue. Just tore her stale bread in half and held out a piece.
He took it without a word.
By the third night, the dagger no longer felt foreign. His grip adjusted without thought, his stance shifting unconsciously into the rhythm burned into his muscles.
Kael noticed, of course. "See? Muscle remembers faster than the mind."
The boy hated how true it felt. Each kill carved something out of him, but in its place grew a sharper edge. The trembling lessened. The nausea dulled. The guilt… didn't vanish, but it sank deeper, buried under survival instinct.
After a hunt, Kael would pry coins from corpses and toss him scraps like a trainer rewarding a dog. Some coins shimmered with skills—basic footwork, knife throwing, minor endurance. Others were darker—panic memories, broken fears, raw pain.
He learned quickly which ones to touch and which ones to avoid.
By day, he wandered the stalls, trading fragments for food, hiding his pouch like a man shielding his throat. By night, Kael dragged him back into the tunnels, deeper each time.
The market whispered as he passed now."New hunter.""Kael's stray.""Won't last a month."
He ignored them. He had no name to defend, no past to hide. Only the pouch, only the hunger.
On the tenth night, Kael handed him a fresh dagger. Not rusted. Steel. Polished, sharp, wrapped in leather.
"You're ready," Kael said.
The boy blinked. "For what?"
Kael's smirk returned, wider than ever. "For a real hunt."
Before he could ask, Kael turned toward the blackest tunnel yet, the air colder than bone.
The boy followed, the steel dagger heavy in his hand. His chest burned with equal parts fear and resolve.
Whatever waited in that darkness—answers, death, or worse—he would face it.
Because this world ran on memories.And he was done being prey.