I sat cross-legged in a prison cell. It was dark, the ground beneath me cold, and the air around thick with humidity. I was on the verge of freezing to death, having been here for over a day and a half without food or water.
I know you must be confused, but let me start from the beginning and tell you everything that led up to this very moment.
My name is Tatsuya Uzui, and I am a nine-year-old boy with long, messy dark hair, blue eyes, and an emaciated appearance, the latter due to a prolonged lack of nutrition. My father was a well-known ninja, a warrior who fought in battles and carried out countless missions. He was a respected figure within the Uzui clan, one of the major clans of the village. On the other hand, my mother was a war slave.
In the aftermath of victorious battles, slaves were often brought back to the village and sold to top-ranking individuals to perform various duties. The men were castrated in a bid to prevent the breeding of slave children, and the women were fed herbal mixtures designed to destroy their wombs, ensuring they couldn't bear children. Yes, the things my village did were truly inhumane.
However, my father fell in love with my mother at first sight and, against all odds, purchased her with her womb still intact. That single act caused him to make enemies, especially with his own father, the head of the Uzui clan. Shortly after, while my mother was pregnant with me, my father was killed during a mission he had been sent on, and that was the beginning of our suffering. After I was born, my mother and I were cast out of the village, left to live in the slums.
Now, you might be wondering how the slums came to exist. The slums are where the original villagers, those who committed crimes or broke the law, were sent after being stripped of their properties and some of their rights.
It was in those slums that I grew up. Through my struggle for survival, I became a leader of sorts. People, out of their desperation, flocked to me, and together we carried out countless heists, scavenging and stealing to make it through another day. But now, here I am, captured for the second time. Yes, this was the second time.
"Oi, brat, get up!" a man's voice barked from outside the cell, and he proceeded to unlock the door.
I stood up slowly, feeling the weight of the cold, heavy shackles pulling me back toward the ground, but I managed to hold my footing.
The man walked toward me, the jingling sound of his keys echoing in the empty room as he fumbled for the right one to unlock the chains securing me to the wall.
"Nhnnhnn, you'll be made an example of for the other garbage brats," he snorted like a pig.
Disgusting.
He roughly yanked on the chains, causing me to stumble and crash nose-first onto the ground.
"Hahaha! Get on your feet, you trash, or do you love the ground so much you can't let go?" he jeered, laughing at my misery.
Annoyed, I gritted my teeth, but I didn't want to make things worse than they already were. Slowly, I pushed myself up, feeling the bruising pain in my hands and feet.
We left the prison building and headed straight for the village chief's house.
In the meeting room, I knelt at the center. Seated before me were three men: the village chief in the middle, my grandfather—the head of the Uzui clan—on the right, wearing his usual look of disgust, and the village's security chief on the left, dressed in his ninja attire. The only one who wasn't an elder was the security chief.
On the ground in front of me was a large bowl of black, bubbling liquid. It was hot, releasing steam and popping sounds. I didn't know what it was exactly, but I had a sickening feeling that it wasn't anything good.
Behind me stood two men, both ninjas.
The village chief began, "I believe you are the individual known as Tatsuya Uzui–"
"With all due respect, refrain from calling this thing by the clan name," my grandfather interrupted. Right now, I shouldn't be calling him my grandfather either; perhaps "old pig" would do just fine.
"Alright, Tatsuya," the chief continued, "this is the second time you have appeared here under the same offense: theft. I believe there are countless jobs available that you could take to earn money, allowing you to buy food and other necessities. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
"This trash has nothing to say! Just get on with his punishment!" the old pig interjected once again.
"Do not interrupt the chief again," the security chief snapped, his eyes narrowing at my grandfather.
The old pig shot him a weary look but clicked his tongue and stayed quiet.
"Go on," the security chief prompted me.
"I have nothing to say," I replied.
There was no point in defending myself. No words I could utter would set me free. The presence of that bowl of black liquid before me was proof enough that my fate had already been decided.
What I really wanted to say was: How am I supposed to provide for myself? There's a rule in this village that no one under the age of fifteen can work, and I have no father! How on earth was I expected to survive without resorting to theft? But I held my tongue.
"Since you have nothing to say in your defense, your punishment will begin," the chief declared. He gave a nod to the two ninjas behind me.
One of them stepped forward, pinning me to the ground, while the other grabbed the bowl of black liquid, dipping a brush into it. He began marking my hands.
"Argh!" I screamed. The liquid was scalding, sending waves of searing pain through my body. My mind clouded with agony, making it impossible to think clearly.
The ninja gave me two marks on both of my hands before stepping back. I instinctively wanted to touch the wounds, but every time I tried, a sharp, stinging pain struck through my entire body.
"From this day forward, you are labeled a fugitive," the village chief announced. "You have been denounced by your clan and shall no longer bear the Uzui name. Lastly, you are banished from this village. This meeting is dismissed."
Ehh? Banished?
I lay there on the floor, eyes wide open, red veins spreading across my irises as I struggled to cope with both the physical pain and the realization of what had just happened. I knew what banishment was, but I didn't quite understand what it meant for me, at least not yet.
One of the ninjas grabbed me by the chains and dragged me out of the village chief's mansion, dumping me on the streets like a piece of garbage.
As I lay there, writhing in pain, people scorned me, mocked me, and even some of the children ridiculed me, though they were not much younger than me.
Time passed, and eventually, night fell. By then, the pain had subsided slightly. I was left with only a dull, throbbing ache when suddenly, a voice rang in my ears—it was my companion.
{Notice: Skill: Pain Resistance (Level 2) acquired.}
This wasn't the first time I'd heard its voice, but it was the first time I had gained a skill. I felt a fleeting sense of achievement, but the bitter reality of my situation quickly washed that away.
I made my way back to the village slums, but something was different this time. The atmosphere was heavy with gloom, and people avoided looking at me directly. I wondered if it was because of the marks on my arms, the ones branding me as a fugitive.
Some women I knew from the slums helped carry me back to my hut. As they moved, they whispered words of encouragement.
"Take heart."
"Be strong."
Honestly, I didn't understand what they were talking about, but I was curious.
When we arrived at my hut, I found a group of women and men clustered around my mother. She lay stiff and lifeless on the mat. The moment my eyes landed on her, I felt a cold, sinking sensation in my chest.
I didn't want to accept it, but the reality was undeniable. My mother was dead.
I didn't cry. I didn't feel pain, at least not the kind I expected. I was just confused. Everything had happened so fast that I couldn't keep up. I needed answers—how had it all come to this?
Everyone left the hut, leaving me alone with my dead mother. I stared at her, emotionless, my face stoic. I didn't want to cry, or maybe I simply couldn't. After all, she wasn't my real mother—at least, that's what I told myself.
But despite my lack of tears, despite my efforts to feel detached, this body I inhabited, the body of a nine-year-old boy, began to cry. This body wept uncontrollably for the loss of his mother.
[NEXT: LEAVING THE VILLAGE]