He was barefoot, poorly clothed, and filthy. His face was wrapped in bandages, his body hidden beneath a heavy dark cloak — strange attire for the heat of midday. But strangeness was the law in Rhea Nori.
The city groaned with life. Quantum trudged through the central market, where farmers and merchants barked at passing customers, horses clattered against cobblestones, and carts crammed the streets until the air itself felt clogged. Sweat, spices, dung, and smoke all mingled into one choking haze.
No one spared him more than a glance. Rhea Nori was a crossroads near the Karakhian border, a haven for mercenaries, assassins, slave-traders, and wanderers with too many secrets. A cloaked stranger, even barefoot, was nothing worth remembering.
Still, Quantum noticed everything.
He saw the gaunt farmers with their baskets of onions and grain, haggling like their lives depended on it. He caught the sharp perfume of harlots weaving through the crowd, slipping soft hands into coin-pouches as easily as they slipped into men's arms. In the shadowed alleys, he glimpsed cages of exotic beasts, and the hollow stares of chained slaves waiting to be sold.
The richer quarters would soon stir with gamblers, nobles, and smugglers as the sun set. The poorer streets were already alive with beggars fighting stray dogs over scraps. And in the filthiest corners lay the forgotten — addicts twitching, the homeless fading into madness.
It was among these that Quantum finally stopped walking. His bare feet ached, his body sagged, and the stares that passed over him carried no judgment, only indifference. In that moment, the forgotten city claimed him as one of its own.
Quantum had arrived.
Quantum lay in his new abode, an alley between a clothes shop and a meat stand near the Western Gate of the city, the same gate through which he had entered. Deeper inside stretched a maze of crooked homes and "little rooms" where harlots drew in their customers, and gangs of boys prowled, stealing for the caretakers who owned them. This was Quantum's dwelling now, the filth and smoke of Rhea Nori's underbelly.
He sat against the wall of the meat stand, where the scent of charred and smoked meats from beasts of the wilderness clung to the air. In his hands he clutched a long, rusty spear, its head dark with old blood. He held it as one might hold life itself, for it was one of the few things he held in high regard.
By day he drifted to the roadside, watching the endless river of people pass by. Children darting between legs, merchants groaning beneath carts, youths glowing in their prime, elders bent and weary, nobles passing in their carriages. He studied them all. By night he returned to the shadows of the alley, where his thoughts pressed heavily upon him.
It did not take long for Quantum to see the truth: no human being was truly free. Each one bore chains. The rich and the poor, the mighty and the broken, the righteous and the corrupt, the content and the greedy — all carried some yoke. They were desperate, dissatisfied, pitiful, and above all, burdened. In this, he saw himself reflected. The burns beneath his bandages, the scars carved into his flesh, the venom coursing like fire through his veins — these were his chains, his burden.
One fateful day Quabtum witnessed a child caught stealing. The shopkeeper beat him bloody and hurled him into the street. Blood streamed down the boy's swollen face, and still the crowd flowed around him, uncaring. He sobbed until another boy dragged him into the alleys. "Wretched," Quantum thought. Humanity was wretched, without even a sliver of hope. Their destruction would come in time — by their own hands.
He had known them before Rhea Nori, and not once had it ended well. When he showed kindness, they schemed to use him. When he showed wrath, they cursed his name and called him destroyer. He wanted nothing more to do with them. He longed only for release, for the burden to be lifted. Death seemed the only answer. Perhaps he would give them what they already wished — to be the demon in their tales, a shadow to frighten children until humanity devoured itself.
And so the days passed, the sun crawling across the sky from east to west, again and again. Quantum pondered as time slipped into itself. To his eyes, all human civilization was nothing more than children ruling over children — from the gods above to the lowest souls in the gutter. And so he remained, silent in the alley, watching.
It was only a matter of time. After all, Quantum was wanted.
They called him Rahiel — a name the locals gave to cold-blooded murderers. His supposed likeness was plastered on the walls of Rhea Nori, and city heralds cried out warnings to the people. Yet most did not believe the stories. Tales of his strength and brutality, of his unnatural power and mysterious origin, sounded too much like drunken fantasies. Still, the rumors spread. Travelers carried them in from the wild forests beyond the Karakhian Empire, and with each retelling, the deeds grew darker, the body count higher, the horrors more vivid. Within a popular tavern, there was a heated argument amongst a group of mercenaries on the legibility of witness accounts of Rahiel. Some claimed it was utter nonsense. Others claimed it to be more than true.
Whether true or false, there was always profit in fear. Bounties piled high on Rahiel's head, and mercenaries poured into the city to claim it. Adventurers whispered in taverns, and bounty-hunters sharpened their blades. Every day new faces came to Rhea Nori, hungry for gold and glory. They searched for a phantom, not knowing that their quarry sat quietly in an alley beside a meat shop, watching them pass by.
Quantum knew what they would do to him if they found him — or rather, when they found him. Execution, torture, spectacle. The people would drag him into the streets, soldiers would parade him, and his death would be made into a lesson. News of Rahiel had spread beyond Rhea Nori, even to Cor-Ni'a, and all waited for the day the monster was caught.
But Quantum was unmoved. He longed only to lay down his burden and vanish from the world. A distant voice, he could not answer. His strength was failing; each step forward left more death behind him. So he waited in silence, as the sun rose and fell, as the days bled into one another. None truly knew what Rahiel looked like. Survivors were rare, and those who had glimpsed him spoke only of a "human-shaped demon." The wanted posters were guesswork, caricatures of a terror they could not comprehend. "Oh, how disappointed they would be," Quantum thought.
The evening sun painted the city gold and red as it slipped behind the horizon. The bustle faded, merchants packed their wares, and the meat shop prepared to close. A group of men stood before a poster of Rahiel, laughing at the crude sketch. In the distance, a mother's frantic cries for her child echoed through the streets.
Then Quantum saw the boy. The child stood before him, staring with wide, uncertain eyes. Something in Quantum's face must have stirred a memory. The boy opened his mouth and spoke one word:
"Papa."
Before Quantum could react, a woman rushed in — the searching mother. She seized the boy, scolding him harshly and striking his hand. Tears welled in his eyes as he began to wail. The woman turned, and her gaze fell on Quantum. For a heartbeat she froze, her lips parting as if to speak, but fear or doubt silenced her. She pulled the boy away, her steps quick and desperate.
Quantum watched them disappear down the street, the child's sobs echoing faintly as they turned a corner. He lifted his head to the sky, bandages stiff against his face, and whispered:
"Don't worry, little one. You are not alone in your grief."