The boy was walking down the road like a king — not because he was rich, but because in his world, five silver coins made him feel like a royal prince.
He kept looking at them like a hungry man staring at sweets through a locked shop window. "Alright… here's the plan," he whispered like a secret agent, "Two coins for ration… three for savings. Because what's the point of being poor if you don't have savings, right?"
Then he chuckled to himself like a mad philosopher, "Hah! Only legends know how to survive on two coins a week. One piece of bread every two days. Truly, I should write a guidebook: 'How to be Poor and Happy'."
As he kept walking, he started giving himself imaginary awards:
"And for the award of World's Most Broke Genius, the winner is… ME!"
He even mock-bowed on the empty road.
For a poor, hungry, tired seven-year-old, he sure had great humor management.
That night, the laughter faded. Half a piece of dry bread sat heavy in his stomach, but even heavier was the ache in his heart.
He woke up before dawn, the world around him dipped in silent shadows, and above, the sky was glittering with stars like shattered promises.
He sat by his old companion — the same tree under which childhood memories used to bloom. And as the cool night breeze whispered through the leaves, his thoughts drifted somewhere he tried to avoid: Luna.
That promise.
That farewell that never happened.
That empty goodbye that still hung somewhere between the stars and his throat.
"Why didn't I just say something? Anything…"
The stars blinked at him, indifferent to his pain. And the worst part wasn't that she was gone — it was that deep down, a small part of him still believed she might come back.
The coins in his pocket suddenly felt heavier than gold. What's the use of money, of laughter, of surviving, when the one person you wanted to share it with wasn't even here to see it?
But then — softly, like a whisper — the words of his own promise returned to him:
"Tomorrow will be a new beginning. Tomorrow will be better."
He wiped his face, stood up, and whispered into the dark, "I'm not done yet. Not by a long shot."
The Next Day Begins...
Morning broke. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, spat to the side like a hero in a movie (except nothing cool came out), grabbed his trusty axe, and marched straight toward the jungle like a warrior going to battle.
Five minutes in.
"Alright! Let's chop down this forest! This is MY jungle now!"
Five more minutes later.
Thud.
He sat on the ground, defeated, after felling just one miserable tree.
"What is this life?! I've seen ants carry more weight than me today."
Looking up in frustration, he spotted a little bird's nest tucked into the branches above. And, just as he admired it, the bird peeked out of the nest, tilted its head, and gave him "that look."
You know, the "Look at you — still homeless — shame" look.
"What! Don't look at me like that! I'll build a home one day too!"
But the bird just blinked — silent judgment in full force.
"I swear to all the gods of bread and soup… one day, I'll have a better house than you."
Grumbling, he plopped down on the ground dramatically like he was in some grand tragedy. "Born broke, raised broke, now chopping wood broke — am I destined to live like a potato forever?!"
Just then — footsteps. An old lady appeared with a basket full of flowers, humming like she'd just baked cookies for the entire universe. She stopped, squinting at him like a curious grandma detective.
"Child… why do you look like someone stole your blanket and your dog in the same day? Drink this. You look like a shriveled raisin."
Without hesitation, he took the bottle. "Bless you. You've saved a dying soul. This one bottle of water… feels like holy nectar from the heavens…"
The old lady chuckled. "I've seen you before. Wandering. Working. Talking to birds, apparently. You're not a bad one, though. Got heart. And that matters more than gold, you know? You keep working hard. You've got a storm inside you — but you're not the kind to sink. If you ever need anything, come find me. I'm always around."
It hit him. Right in the chest.
No one ever really said things like that to him.
For a second, he thought he might cry. Then he remembered the bird watching him. No way am I crying in front of a bird.
Instead, he stood up tall, picked up his axe, stretched dramatically like a hero preparing for battle, and grinned.
"Thanks… I won't forget this. I've got chopping to do. And I've got dreams to buy, one tree at a time."
As he raised the axe, he muttered, "Watch out, forest. I'm poor, hungry, angry, and mildly offended by birds."
And with that, the chopping resumed. The future? Still messy. The heart? Getting stronger.
The boy dragged the logs toward the village, sweat clinging to his back, lips dry, but eyes sharp. Another day, another weight on his shoulders. But as he reached the market, he noticed something… off.
It was silent.
Not the kind of quiet you hear on sleepy mornings—the heavy, suffocating silence that comes before a storm. People stood still, eyes lowered, like cattle waiting for slaughter.
And then—he arrived.
Mr. Lionheart.
Not just a tax collector—Lord Victoria's personal blade. Decked in fine velvet, golden rings on every finger, chin tilted so high the clouds probably had to move for him. The click of his boots against the stone echoed like war drums.
Right then—fate decided to play its hand.
The old grandmother—the very same who'd offered the boy water the day before—was carrying her basket of wildflowers, crossing the road. Maybe she didn't see him. Maybe she was just too old to care.
She bumped into Mr. Lionheart.
The basket tipped.
The flowers scattered like lost dreams.
The grandmother stumbled.
Thud. Right at his feet.
The boy's fists clenched. His teeth ground together.
Mr. Lionheart… looked down. Slowly. Like a vulture sizing up a dying animal.
"How DARE you!" His voice ripped through the silent market. "Filthy… crawling little insects! You walk in my path?" He raised his hand, not to help her up—but to strike her.
Before the hand could fall—another hand caught his wrist.
It was the boy.
The market gasped.
The boy stood between Mr. Lionheart and the grandmother like a small, defiant flame before a raging storm. His heart pounded, fear and rage mixing in his veins like boiling water.
"Are you mad, boy?! Do you know who I am?" Lionheart seethed.
The boy's voice came steady, cold as winter.
"Yeah. I know who you are. The man who forgot what it means to respect the ones who raised him. That's who you are."
A ripple of whispers spread through the crowd. Someone finally said it.
Lionheart's eyes narrowed. "You worm. You—nothing. I am Lionheart! Lord Victoria's own blade! Speak one more word, and I'll see to it you never speak again!"
The boy stepped closer.
"Funny," he said softly. "You call yourself a lion. But all I see is a jackal barking at the weak."
The silence shattered into murmurs. The boy had insulted him. Publicly.
Lionheart's pride—burned. His lips curled into a snarl.
"GUARDS! Take him! Break him if you must! I want him gone! NOW!"
Boots thundered as armored guards surged forward, their weapons flashing like wolves' teeth in the sunlight.
The boy's breath caught—but he didn't run.
Not this time.
Not ever again.
Here's the full translation of your scene into intense, cinematic English with the emotion kept intact:
The guards seized the boy roughly, dragging him through the dirt. The entire crowd stood frozen, helpless. No one dared to intervene—not even the old grandmother, who could only watch, her trembling hands clutching her empty flower basket. Her lips moved as if to speak, but no words came. Helpless.
The boy didn't fight.
Not because he didn't want to—
But because… what could a seven-year-old boy possibly do against armed soldiers? His thin wrists were yanked behind his back. He tried once—just once—to pull free, but it was useless.
They threw him into a dark, suffocating cell.
No windows. No air. Just dripping water from some leaking pipe above.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
He was not even 10 years old but now is an a cell with chained arms
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Heavy, slow, deliberate.
Click. Click. Click.
Mr. Lionheart appeared in the doorway, his golden rings catching the faintest glimmer of torchlight.
He stood still for a moment, watching the boy like a butcher studying a lamb. Then he spoke, his voice dripping with venom.
"You filthy sewer rat… You humiliated me… in front of the entire town." His words slithered like poison. "You think there won't be consequences?"
From behind his cloak, Lionheart pulled out a whip.
Long. Barbed. Hungry for blood.
Without waiting for another word, he brought it down hard across the boy's back.
CRACK!
A sharp, burning pain tore through him, forcing a cry from his throat. Again.
CRACK!
Blood soaked through the boy's tattered shirt. His knees gave out, but the guards forced him upright again.
Welts rose. Cuts bled. His thin body trembled.
But worse than the pain… was the feeling of helplessness.
In his mind, memories blurred—Luna's laugh, the promises they made, the warmth of the grandmother's smile, the kindness of strangers. All fading behind the cruel sting of leather and iron.
He could have screamed for help.
But who would hear him here?
No one.
And even if they did—
Who would care?
A whole month passed.
A month of hunger gnawing at his insides like a wild animal. A month of thirst making his throat feel like dry, cracked stone.
Every muscle ached. His skin clung to his bones. His clothes, already torn and dirty, now hung off his frame like rags tied around a ghost.
The boy sat slumped against the cold, damp wall of the prison. The chains around his wrists had bitten so deeply into his skin that red, raw flesh peeked through, mixed with dried blood and dirt. His once bright eyes—now dull, hollow—stared blankly into the nothingness before him.
The sound of dripping water echoed in that darkness like a cruel reminder of everything he didn't have.
Finally, as if dragging words from the depths of a dying soul, he spoke.
Softly at first. Then louder. Bitter. Broken.
His lips were cracked. His voice raspy, but filled with an ache no child should have known.
"I've told you everything. From the beginning… until now. What more is there to say?"
He gave a small, bitter laugh.
"It's not some heroic tale, is it? Just… pain. Just me… running. Falling. Breaking."
"I tried. I tried to be good. I tried to be better. But what did I get?"
His head fell forward. His messy hair, tangled with sweat and grime, covering his eyes.
"No one wanted me. Not when I was born. Not when I grew up. And even the ones who said they cared… they never really saw me."
Silence filled the space.
Only the sound of chains creaking as he shifted his weight.
"Maybe… maybe I'm cursed," he whispered.
"Maybe I wasn't meant to be happy. Maybe… I wasn't meant to be anything."
His thoughts spiraled faster now, tumbling one over the other, suffocating him like waves pulling him under. His memories twisted like knives inside his chest—faces of those he trusted, fading one by one, replaced by the cold sneers of strangers, by betrayal, by indifference. By hunger. By pain.
"Maybe this is how it ends for me… here… rotting in the dark. Forgotten by everyone. Forgotten by her."
Luna's face flickered in his mind like a dying flame. The only light he ever knew. And now, even that light was fading.
Tears welled in his tired eyes but refused to fall, as if even his sorrow was too tired to move.
The darkness wasn't just around him anymore.
It was him.
Inside his chest, curling around his heart, pressing on his ribs, whispering give up… just give up.
"Is this… all I was ever meant to be? A shadow? A mistake?"
His fists clenched, weak and trembling. Blood dripped from his wrists where the chains dug deeper. His breathing was shallow.
And then… a terrifying thought took root.
"Maybe death would be the only thing that would ever be kind to me."
The silence answered him.
The darkness did not argue.