It was a gloomy morning. Yes, it certainly was for me.
Birdsong didn't reach this alley, nor did the voices of people in the streets. Here, where sunlight barely penetrated the thin mist of dawn, I faced the source of my hatred. Once again.
I curled into myself, clutching my knees tightly as blows rained down from every direction. The adventurers laughed. Those voices were like hot knives, cutting into me just as much as the kicks.
"Look at that little rat cowering!"
"Did you think you could steal from us and get away with it?"
Three or four men lay around me, and none of them could be considered sober from drink. The dust from the alley stuck to my clothes and skin. And every time a fist or boot made contact with my body, I clenched my jaw and shut my eyes tight. I wished that this weak and desperate method of escape could somehow block out the pain.
But it couldn't. The pain was there. It crept in through every crack.
Every day the same. And that led to my mind's acceptance of a fact that I had long tried to ignore. To them―yes, to these adventurers―I was a broken toy.
The laughs were the worst. They were not laughs of humor, they were laughs of contempt. Laughter that told me what I already knew. I was nothing to them. Just an object to kick around when they were bored, a tool to throw away when I was no longer useful.
If we were ever surrounded by monsters, they wouldn't hesitate for a moment to throw me to the horde. If such a situation ever arose, would there be anyone to come to my aid? This sad, sentimental thought crossed my mind, and when I realized it, I laughed at the absurdity of it. Yes, absurd. There was no such person, there is no such person, and there never will be. That kind of people only existed in the hero books I read as a child.
And if such a person existed, I would be the first to despise them. Because this world was not worthy of a kind-hearted person.
"What's so funny, leech?"
One of them, a tall adventurer with scars on his face, shouted. He kicked me in the ribs, and though I fough, a small whimper lipped out. Damn it. I didn't want them to hear that. Because if they did, they would only get meaner and happier.
"I think she likes it," another scoffed. "Maybe we should give her more."
My hatred for the adventurers was like a raging fire burning inside me, a fire I could not put out. I loathed them for what they were. Strutting around Orario as if they were gods. In their little minds, they believed the world belonged to them. But at the first opportunity, they became just as vile, just as cruel as any monster they might face in the dungeon. No, far worse than monsters.
I knew this better than anyone.
I worked for them. I lived for them. And in return, they treated me worse than street trash. To them, I was nothing more than a porter. A small, worthless beast of burden they could use and abuse as they pleased. And when I was no longer useful, I was kicked to the curb. Like now.
The cruelest fate is being dependent on those who despise you for not being like them. Not strong. Not brave. Not anything.
"Ugh!"
Another boot slammed into my back and I was forced to the ground, my face smashed into the dirt. All I wanted to do at that moment was scream―not from the pain, but from the sheer injustice. From the hatred I felt growing inside me. This hatred that was like a ball of poison that wouldn't let go until those damn adventurers paid for everything they had done to me. How many times would they drag me through the mud before it was enough?
I gritted my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut, hot tears of rage stinging beneath my eyelids.
"Hey. Does it hurt? Because this is exactly what you deserve, you little thief!"
The judgment, the condemnation. I was the thief, the filthy little girl who dared to take what was theirs. But how could they possibly understand? How could they ever know what it meant to live on the margins, to be someone the world shunned just because you weren't born with a blade in your hand or the strength to wield it?
No. They wouldn't understand. They didn't want to understand.
Adventurers were scum, and I would find a way to make them pay.
"Let's go. This trash isn't worth our time anymore."
I heard them leave. Their laughter and the stench of cheap booze faded into the distance. Slowly, I pressed my hands to the ground and pushed myself up. Ugh! A sharp pain, like fire, ripped through my mind as if both my arms were shattered.
This time, only one arm was broken. Last time, it was both.
I leaned my shoulders against the wall and tugged the hem of my dirty hood lower until it hid most of my face. I stared toward the alley's exit.
This was Orario. It was known as the city of opportunity. Some might come here hoping for fame, others to find the love of their life. But there were also some, like me, where opportunity simply didn't exist, and instead, misery was the daily bread. Still, I would survive. And more than that, I would rise above them.
Because I was Liliruca Arde.
***
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