In the northern port of the Skotinia Empire lies the city of Ceylon. A sudden downpour engulfed the city, water streaming through the cracks of the ramparts. The sky turned as dark as ink, casting an ominous hue over the harbor. Fishing boats cowered within as waves crashed against the docks, sending up mists several meters high with thunderous roars.

The rainwater quickly flooded the impoverished district, submerging streets. The neglected drainage system, inactive for at least five years, proved futile as the slums transformed into a vast expanse of water.

Once a bustling city by Yulan Bay, Ceylon had fallen into decline. With dwindling profits from fishing, the city lord lacked the means to repair the drainage system, a task requiring an alchemist and a multitude of apprentices, not to mention the hefty sum needed for blueprints alone. It had been two centuries since a wizard graced Ceylon, rendering the municipal department virtually inactive.

Lightning tore through the sky, followed by delayed peals of thunder. Electric serpents danced, illuminating the city under the storm's fury. Amid the deserted streets, a boy of around ten struggled through the water, shivering. Thin and frail, with unevenly cut brown hair plastered to his forehead, the boy's eyes fought to stay open against the rain. He clung tightly to an oil-paper bundle, his meager meal for the day.

With a deafening roar, thunder echoed, and the boy collapsed, his face submerged in the water. Moments later, he coughed and sputtered back to consciousness. Despite his efforts to rise, his feeble body gave in, and he lost consciousness, still clutching the oil-paper bundle.

After nearly two hours of relentless rain, the sky cleared. The floodwaters receded, and pedestrians began to emerge on the streets. The unconscious boy was swept under an awning, his body propped against a hitching stone. The gate swung open, revealing a servant-like figure who, upon seeing the unconscious boy, delivered a forceful kick. "Beggar, scram, don't die here," he snarled. The boy, groaning in pain, stirred and coughed violently. Sensing a fever, he struggled to sit up, his abdomen aching. He sighed in relief upon finding his oil-paper bundle still in his grasp before collapsing once more.

The stormy night had worn him out, but he knew he had to press on. Dragging his weary body out of Ceylon, he headed east, toward his home on the outskirts of the city. If he didn't return before nightfall, another downpour could leave him dead on the streets.

Behind him, a corpulent merchant emerged from the crimson gate, his silk garments damp from the rain. "Isn't that the Metatrin boy?" he remarked to his servants, eyeing the boy's silhouette. "What's his name again?"

"Salin, sir, his name is Salin," replied one of the servants obsequiously, his voice strained. The trio of master and servants exuded an air of sleaziness, their gazes toward the boy filled with malevolence.

"Why isn't he dead yet?" the merchant grumbled.

"Who knows, sir, that bastard might still be giving him scraps," retorted the other servant indignantly.

"Hmph, keep an eye on him. If he dies, buy that house quickly. Don't let anyone else snatch it up," the merchant ordered nonchalantly, waddling away with his entourage.

The night air was chill as Salin, the boy, dragged his exhausted body back to his ancestral home. He clutched the oil-paper bundle, straying from the main road, taking every step with great effort. The massive stone house was the last remaining asset of the Metatrin family. Salin pushed open the door, staggering inside. Covered in moss, emanating coldness, the two-story structure lacked glass in its windows, giving it a desolate, eerie aura.

Salin sighed, relieved to be home. He crawled upstairs, collapsing onto his bed. The bed, like the walls, was damp, cold, and hard. His clothes soaked from the rain, he shivered in the half-dried fabric, which clung to his skin. This was Salin's only attire. Struggling to sit up, he removed his clothes, laying them on the bed. The oil-paper bundle lay by his head, and his waist throbbed with pain, bruised from the servant's kick.

This was the same servant who had kicked him. Salin gritted his teeth and lay down, hoping that sleep would numb his pain. Moonlight and cold wind seeped through the window, devoid of any poetic charm. Salin felt feverish, his head pounding. He knew he wouldn't survive if the fever persisted. Summoning his strength, he retrieved a chest from under the bed.

The lock on the chest had long been broken, exchanged for a week's worth of rations. Inside lay a jumble of papers, mostly debt documents. Among them, Salin found a metal emblem, which he affixed to his forehead. A cooling sensation spread from the emblem, alleviating some of his headache. Sitting on the floor, tears welled in Salin's eyes as he gazed at the papers in the chest.

The Metatrin family had once been aristocrats, their surname a symbol of wealth in the northern reaches of the empire. Yet, by Salin's generation, they had fallen into destitution. These debt documents were as worthless as scrap paper. The debtors had long perished, their debts unpaid. Power shifts, wars—everything had contributed to the gradual decline of the Metatrin family.

If those debtors were still alive, Salin could have used these documents to buy ten houses in Ceylon. The emblem pressed against his forehead bore the insignia of the Metatrin family—a palm-sized token Salin had refrained from selling. Like the debt documents, it was a relic left by his father.

When Salin was six, his parents died, leaving him only this chest and the ancestral home. Without any means to earn a living, he resorted to selling whatever he could salvage from the house. Unscrupulous merchants, naturally, took advantage of the opportunity. What did a six-year-old know? In less than half a year, Salin had sold off everything in the house.

Now twelve, Salin hadn't sold the ancestral home, not because he didn't want to, but because property transactions required official procedures at the municipal hall. Anticipating his demise, the merchants eyeing his property chose not to buy, waiting for Salin to starve to death. But Salin, against the odds, had survived by begging, for twelve long years.

Collapsing onto the bed, Salin felt the cooling sensation from the family emblem spreading throughout his body, alleviating some of the pain in his waist. He fell into a deep sleep, unaware if he would awaken again.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Salin jolted awake, sitting up in bed as sunlight streamed into the room, illuminating the dusty floor. Someone knocking at the door this early was peculiar. Salin's ancestral home was not near the main road but nestled at the foot of the mountain, requiring passage through a small grove of trees. Since he had nothing left to sell, no one had come to see him for years.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The knocking persisted, prompting Salin to jump out of bed. His body felt much lighter, and the fever seemed to have subsided. Putting the family emblem back into the chest, Salin approached the door, carefully considering how much money he should ask for the house.

The door creaked open, revealing a middle-aged man standing outside. With long black hair, clad in a gray robe, and leaning on a wooden staff, the man exuded an aura of mystery. Though approaching forty, he had sharp eyebrows, clear eyes, and no beard. A massive ring adorned his hand, engraved with intricate symbols. Salin felt a slight daze; the man's attire was peculiar—perhaps a clergyman from the church?

The man's expression appeared benign, but it was akin to noble etiquette, a mere facade detached from any genuine concern. Living a life of begging had made Salin sensitive; he knew whom to engage with and whom to avoid. Yet this middle-aged man knocking on his door was entirely different from the people of Ceylon; he stood before Salin, yet Salin couldn't feel his presence.

The middle-aged man smiled at Salin and asked, "Where is the master of the house?"

This man was clearly not from Ceylon, or he would have known about Salin's unfortunate circumstances. Salin calmed down, rubbing his temples, and replied politely, "There's no one else here, sir. How may I assist you?"

The middle-aged man looked slightly surprised by Salin's response. Salin had rushed out wearing only shorts, bare-chested. An imprint the size of a palm, left by the family emblem, adorned his forehead.

"This house is yours?" the middle-aged man asked gently.

"It is," Salin answered, averting his gaze to the ground, his brown pupils contracting. This man couldn't be a bandit, could he?

"Well, I'd like to buy this house. May I come in and discuss?"