It was morning when I finally left the palace, walking a good distance until I reached the slum area. The heavy smell of the city mingled with the humid air, and the pale sunlight barely managed to penetrate the fog that hung over the dirty alleys. Perhaps here I could find an abandoned building to rest for a while, to close my eyes even if only for a short time.
But then I remembered—I hadn't changed my clothes since the last time I was in the dungeon. The shoulder and sleeve of my shirt were stained with dried blood, yellowed at the edges, and running in dark spots across the fabric. Now, more than ever, I looked like a marked criminal, an outcast from the city. The few early risers who crossed my path gave me suspicious looks and quickly changed direction, avoiding coming near me.
All I wanted was to eat and sleep. That's all.
I crossed a dark alley, where the shadows seemed denser and the noises of the city were muffled. There, I saw a group of individuals who looked rather unsavory—worn clothes, hard eyes, and suspicious expressions. Maybe they could help me, or at least lend me some money to buy a piece of bread.
I approached slowly and spoke, trying to keep my voice steady:
"Listen, guys, is there anywhere around here where I can get something to eat?"
They looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, assessing whether I was a threat or just a poor wretch. After a moment, one of them stepped forward and, with a discreet gesture, pointed the way.
(Hey, sorry, guys, today's not your day), I thought, feeling the weight of rejection, but at least now I knew where to go.
I thanked them with a nod and turned away, pretending to leave. My steps seemed sloppy, as if I were simply giving up on the conversation, but my eyes remained alert. I waited until they moved away from me a little, distracted by their own quiet conversation, and then I slipped back — a whisper in the shadows.
I have learned to feel the darkness as an extension of my body. When I move like this, it seems to breathe with me, as if it were welcoming me. And in this state, I realized that most people simply... did not see me. Their eyes passed over me as if I were just another shadow among many. Perhaps this is the influence of dark mana — a subtle veil over the perception of others.
I approached silently. In a fluid and precise movement, I struck the temples of two of them with the side of my hand — hard enough to knock them out, but without breaking anything. A muffled sound, bodies falling like sandbags.
The third, leaning against the wall, looked up in surprise. I reached him before he could react, grabbed him by the neck, and pressed him against the soot-stained bricks. My fingers found his carotid artery, and I began to squeeze with controlled force.
He struggled, his hands desperately trying to push mine away. He was saying something—perhaps a plea for mercy, perhaps insults—but all I could hear was the muffled sound of his failing breath. Then he pulled a short knife from inside his coat and raised it toward my abdomen.
I should have felt fear. Panic. A rush of adrenaline, perhaps. But what I felt was... nothing. As if I were watching the scene from outside, as if the attack were just an inevitable part of the script.
Before the blade touched me, I dodged it with a slight movement of my hips and delivered a sharp kick to his knee. The knife fell. He let out a weak sound, and then the resistance disappeared from his muscles, his arms falling heavily. I waited, still holding his neck, until his consciousness faded completely. Only then did I let go and let him slide down the wall to the floor.
I looked at my hand, then at the unconscious body.
For some reason, it had left me feeling a little strange. There was no trembling, no guilt, not even relief. Just a silence inside me. As if the dark mana had numbed my human instincts. As if... this was normal.
I took a deep breath and looked at the three bodies. Nothing valuable. No coins. Just street crumbs, just like me.
Maybe worse.
Without thinking twice, I moved on instinct. I emptied the pockets of the three with quick, precise hands. None of them seemed to have great treasures hidden, but the contents were enough to warm my gray mood. Five silver coins, eight copper coins, and a knife with a bone handle—crude but sharp. I tucked the weapon into my boot and adjusted the third man's cloak over my shoulders. It was rough and smelled of cheap tobacco and old sweat, but it covered the dark stain of blood running down my shirt sleeve well. A makeshift but functional disguise.
Now, with coins in our pockets and our stomachs rumbling loudly, we could go eat.
The streets were still damp from the morning fog, and the first rays of sunlight filtered through the crooked roofs of the slum. The city was beginning to wake up—a blacksmith was already hammering metal in the distance, and the smell of stale bread being reheated escaped through open windows. I walked calmly, following the aroma to a corner tavern with a sign hanging from a single nail.
I let out a brief sigh, pushed the door open, and entered.
The place was dark and stuffy, with poorly arranged tables and a wooden floor that creaked under the weight of the customers. There was an old man with a dirty face sleeping on an empty plate, and a waitress looked at me as if trying to decide whether I was a customer or a problem. I took four coins — one silver and three copper — and placed them on the counter with a simple gesture.
"Two rolls and three mugs of milk," I said, without taking my eyes off the waitress.
The woman gave me a strange look, perhaps because of the unusual combination, perhaps because of my dirty face from a sleepless night and silent struggles. But she said nothing, just took the money and turned away.
I sat in the darkest corner, with my back to the wall, with a full view of the entrance. An old habit. It wasn't as if I was waiting for someone, but... you never know. The bench was hard and uneven, and the smell of the place — a mixture of mold, old sweat, and stale grease — made me feel momentarily nauseous.
The food arrived. The bread was hard around the edges but still warm inside. The milk... also lukewarm, starting to sour, but sweet enough to mask the taste. I took one of the pieces of bread and dipped it into the mug, letting the milk soak it until it softened.
Bread and milk. A habit from when I was a child. The kind of thing that makes no sense to explain, but sticks to the soul. My body was here, in this strange world, in this miserable place... but for a moment, as I chewed that bread swollen with warm milk, I felt as if I were back in the cramped kitchen at home, with my mother cutting pieces of fruit and singing softly by the window.
I swallowed and took a deep breath. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to curl up in a dark corner and disappear for a few hours, maybe days. But I couldn't. Not yet.
I had four silver coins and two copper coins left in my pocket. Enough money for a few more meals, maybe a hard bed for one night. It wasn't much. But it was all I had.
And for now, it was enough.