The fire still raged when the screaming stopped.
The village that once laughed with children and sang with farmers now crackled only with burning timber and the popping of flesh.
The night smelled of roasted meat, but no one dared call it food.
The boy stood among corpses.
Bare feet blackened from soot, his face streaked with tears and blood. He was not crying anymore.
From behind him came the sound of men boots crunching against broken pottery, weapons still slick with life.
Raiders. Bandits. Survivors.
Whatever name they bore, the truth was the same.
Wolves feasting on sheep.
One of them spat to the side, glancing at the boy. "Alive, eh? Little rat didn't burn."
Another laughed, teeth yellow under the firelight. "What's the use? Starved bones, no coin in his blood. Best slit his throat and save the trouble."
"Idiot," a third voice snapped. This one carried authority, the kind that came from surviving too many winters.
He was broad-shouldered, scarred across the mouth, and his eyes held no pity. "A starving rat still bites. Rats grow into men. Men grow into blades. Let him live and one day he'll put steel in your back. If you kill, kill clean."
The boy did not move.
His body trembled, but his gaze did not fall. He stared at them as if memorizing their faces, burning them into his mind alongside the flames.
The scarred man noticed. He smirked. "See that? Already hates us. Good. Hate keeps the weak alive longer than bread. But make no mistake, boy hate won't feed you. It won't keep you warm. Hate without strength is just seasoning for your corpse."
The others chuckled.
One even crouched to look at him closer. "Oi, brat, you understand? The world's a pit. Those with claws climb out. Those without…"
He reached down and yanked a dead woman's necklace, snapping the string. "…become steps for the rest."
The boy's throat was dry, but he forced words out. "You'll die."
The men roared with laughter. Even the scarred leader grinned. "Listen to him. Already cursing us, as if words can kill. You've got fire, boy, I'll give you that. But remember this.." He leaned close, breath reeking of blood and ale.
"The world doesn't care if you curse it. The world only kneels when you make it bleed."
He straightened, sheathing his sword. "Leave him. Fire or hunger will do the work. If he lives, then maybe he deserves it."
The raiders moved on, dragging their spoils and captives.
Soon, only the fire and the dead remained.
The boy sat among ashes until silence swallowed him.
His stomach growled, but food was gone. His hands shook, but tears refused to fall.
Something else filled him heavier, hotter.
He wandered through the wreckage.
The bodies were still warm.
He found his father's corpse near the well. The man's chest was caved in, throat cut to silence his screams.
His mother lay across him, arms outstretched, as if shielding him even in death.
The boy stared for a long time.
Finally, he whispered, "You couldn't protect even yourselves. What right did you have to tell me the world was kind?"
His words did not echo. Only the crackle of fire answered.
Days passed. Hunger gnawed.
The boy learned quickly the flesh of the dead rots fast, but the marrow inside bones lasts longer.
He learned how to break them on stone, how to chew until his teeth ached, how to swallow even as bile burned his throat.
Shame vanished after the first taste. Survival had no room for dignity.
When scavengers came desperate villagers who had hidden during the raid the boy saw them as no different from wolves.
One approached, gaunt and shaking, eyes fixed on the pile of bones he guarded.
"Please, boy," the man begged. "Share. Just a little. My son he's sick..."
The boy held a shard of bone like a dagger. His voice was hoarse, but steady. "If your son is weak, let him die. Better one corpse than two."
The man froze. Then his face twisted in rage. "Monster! Eating your own! You're no human
.."
The boy lunged, driving the bone-shard into his thigh.
The man screamed and fell.
The boy straddled him, eyes wild. "Humans starve. Monsters survive. Tell me..." he pressed the shard deeper, blood warm against his fingers.
"...Which one do you want to be?"
The man's curses turned to sobs. He crawled away, leaving a trail of red.
The boy watched him vanish into the smoke.
On the seventh night, when the fires were ash and the air stank of rot, the raiders returned.
Not all of them only a few, scouting for survivors.
They found the boy crouched among bones, gnawing silently.
One of them gagged. "By the gods… he's still alive."
Another shook his head. "No gods here. Only a demon."
The scarred leader stepped forward, studying the boy with something that wasn't pity it was recognition. "Still breathing, are you? And feeding on death. Hah. The world tried to bury you, and you dug your way out with teeth."
The boy met his gaze. His lips were cracked, but his words were clear. "You said hate without strength is seasoning. Then I will eat until I am strong enough to make the world choke."
The scarred man barked a laugh, genuine this time. "Good! That's the spirit. But remember, boy strength isn't just in your arms. It's in your mind, your lies, your patience. The strongest man isn't the one who kills first. It's the one who waits until killing costs him nothing."
Another raider scoffed. "Why waste breath on him? He's just a rat fattening on corpses."
The leader's grin widened. "Exactly. And a fattened rat grows into a wolf if the pit doesn't swallow him first. Mark my words, brothers this one will either die in filth or rise in blood. And if he rises…" He shrugged. "Best pray we're not in his way."
The boy said nothing.
He only tightened his grip on the bone-shard, as if carving those words into himself.
That night, alone once more, he sat before the cold ashes of the village. His voice cracked, but it did not waver.
"The world is meat. Men are knives. To live is to carve. To die is to be carved."
He pressed his bloody hands together, as if in prayer not to heaven, not to gods, but to the hunger inside him.
"When heaven falters," he whispered, "I will ascend."