The wind howled.
And in that forgotten alley—
At the very edge of life and death—
Something had just begun.
"…Then I'll survive."
The words were quiet.
But firm.
Not a desperate cry.
A decision.
Silence followed.
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then—
"…Heh."
A low chuckle broke the stillness.
The man in the shadows—no, the drunken knight—stopped his murmuring.
Completely.
The lazy, half-lidded look in his visible eye slowly sharpened.
Interest.
Real interest.
"…Well now," he muttered.
The way he looked at the boy changed.
Before, it was the gaze of someone watching a stray dog struggle in the rain.
Now—
It was different.
Like a predator noticing something… unusual.
"…That's not the kind of look a dying child should have."
The boy said nothing.
He simply stared back.
Unflinching.
Even though his body trembled.
Even though his breath was weak.
His eyes didn't break.
The knight took a slow step forward.
Then another.
His boots echoed softly against the damp stone.
"…What's your name?"
The question came casually.
But the weight behind it wasn't.
The boy paused.
A name.
His old name… no longer mattered.
That life was gone.
This body—
This world—
This era—
Everything had changed.
Slowly, he opened his mouth.
"…I don't remember."
A lie.
A simple one.
But necessary.
The knight studied him for a long moment.
Then—
"…Is that so?"
No surprise.
No suspicion.
Just a quiet acceptance.
Or perhaps—
He simply didn't care.
"…Then you're just a nameless brat for now."
The knight reached into his coat, pulling out a small flask. He took a slow drink, the sharp scent of alcohol briefly cutting through the cold air.
"…Try not to die before you get one."
The words were careless.
Almost dismissive.
Yet—
He didn't turn away immediately.
For a brief second, his visible eye locked onto the boy's.
Sharp.
Heavy.
As if carving something into memory.
"…Interesting," he murmured under his breath.
Then—
He turned.
His cloak swayed as he walked away, footsteps fading into the distant noise of the slums.
No help.
No guidance.
No explanation.
Just—
Gone.
The alley fell silent once more.
The boy remained still, staring at the empty space where the knight had stood.
"…A drunk…?"
No.
His gaze darkened slightly.
"…Not just that."
That man—
Was dangerous.
Instinct told him that much.
Far more dangerous than anything else in this alley.
"…And he noticed me."
That wasn't good.
But—
It wasn't bad either.
Slowly, the boy exhaled.
His body finally gave in, collapsing back against the cold ground.
His vision blurred.
"…Tch…"
Still too weak.
Still too close to death.
But now—
He knew.
This wasn't some side story.
This wasn't a safe timeline.
This was the beginning of everything.
A world before heroes.
Before legends.
Before order.
"…Fine…"
His fingers tightened weakly against the dirt.
If no one had written this part of history—
Then it meant one thing.
"…I'll write it myself."
His eyes slowly closed.
Not in defeat.
But in preparation.
For the next time they opened—
He would no longer be just a dying child in a slum.
Cold stone pressed against his back.
Silence returned to the alley, heavier than before.
For a while, he didn't move.
His breathing was shallow… uneven… fragile.
"…Still alive…"
Barely.
His fingers twitched weakly against the ground.
Something sharp brushed against his skin.
"…Hm?"
With effort, he dragged his hand closer.
A small, broken shard of glass.
No—
Not glass.
A mirror fragment.
Cracked. Dirty. Edges chipped.
Probably discarded trash.
For a moment, he stared at it without interest.
Then—
"…Might as well."
Slowly, with trembling fingers, he lifted it.
The shard shook in his grasp.
Not because of fear.
Because this body had no strength.
He raised it toward his face.
The reflection was dim at first.
Blurry.
Distorted by cracks and grime.
But as he adjusted the angle—
His breath stopped.
"…This…"
A child stared back at him.
Black hair—messy, unkempt.
Pale skin, dirt-streaked.
Thin face.
Too thin.
But that wasn't what mattered.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"…Red…?"
No.
Not fully red.
But faintly tinted.
Subtle.
Unnatural.
And the shape of the face…
The structure…
"…This isn't random."
His grip on the mirror tightened.
Because he recognized it.
Not completely.
But enough.
"…This face…"
A memory surfaced.
A novel.
A story he once read.
The protagonist.
A figure praised as a genius.
A hero of overwhelming talent.
Golden path.
Unmatched destiny.
And this face—
"…It looks like him."
Not identical.
But similar.
Too similar to ignore.
A younger version?
A relative?
Or—
"…A side character…?"
His mind raced.
If this was the world of that story—
Then appearances weren't meaningless.
Nothing was coincidence.
"…No…"
His brows slowly furrowed.
Something didn't add up.
The timeline was already wrong.
The era was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
So why—
"…Why do I look like him?"
The mirror trembled slightly in his hand.
For the first time—
Not from weakness.
But from uncertainty.
If he resembled the protagonist…
Then what did that mean?
A forgotten branch of the family?
An irrelevant ancestor?
Or just—
A coincidence?
"…Tch."
His expression hardened.
No.
Thinking like that was useless.
Right now, none of it mattered.
Not the protagonist.
Not the future.
Not destiny.
Only one thing mattered.
Survival.
Still—
His gaze lingered on the reflection.
On those faintly tinted eyes.
On that face that didn't belong to a random slum child.
"…I don't know who you are yet."
His voice was quiet.
Almost emotionless.
"…But you're not ordinary."
The mirror slipped slightly in his fingers.
He lowered it slowly.
The alley returned.
Cold.
Dirty.
Real.
"…Good."
A faint smile appeared.
Sharp.
Controlled.
If he wasn't ordinary—
Then that meant opportunity.
"…Then I won't live like trash."
His fingers tightened around the mirror shard.
Not as a tool.
But as a reminder.
Of what he had seen.
Of what didn't make sense.
Of what he needed to uncover.
"…I'll find out."
Who he was.
Why he was here.
And what this era truly meant.
Far above, the night sky remained dark.
Unmoving.
Uncaring.
But in the depths of a forgotten slum—
A small, fragile existence had begun to question fate itself.