A few yards down the muddy path, near a pen holding high-end B-Rank Beasts, a young boy was sprawled out in the muck.
He couldn't have been older than fourteen. He wore patched, oversized leather armor that looked like it had been handed down three times over.
Standing over him were three older youths, dressed in more expensive, polished gear. One of them, a tall boy with a sneer plastered across his aristocratic face, kicked a small, pathetic pile of copper coins that had spilled from the boy's pouch.
"A B-Rank?" the tall youth mocked, his voice carrying over the din of the market. "With this garbage? You couldn't buy a dead goblin's pet rat, Dared. Stop embarrassing yourself."
"Go back to the border farms," another chimed in, shoving the boy back down as he tried to get up. "The frontlines don't need beggar Tamers. You'll just get whatever beast you buy killed, assuming it doesn't starve to death first."
