[A/N]
Dear Readers,
This is your charming, undeniably handsome (and definitely not single) author. Before you dive into the story, there's something I'd like to mention: you may feel that the story's pacing is a bit slow at first, and you're right! It will be a little slow for the first 20 chapters or so, but I promise it will pick up soon.
So please bear with me.
Feel free to leave comments with your thoughts or any errors you notice, so I can correct them.
Oh, and one last thing—if you enjoy the story, please consider supporting it with POWER STONES! And if you have a bit more time, a rating for the book would mean a lot.]
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Oh, shit.
I finally died... right? I think so.
After thinking about it for a few seconds, the realization hit me: I'm dead. Or 'unalived', if you prefer a fancier term.
I know what you're thinking, and yes, here it comes—my backstory.
To really understand my situation, it's probably best to start from the beginning.
I was born 19 years ago into an incredibly wealthy family.
Every member owned high-value businesses spread across the country, each one thriving.
Normally, a boy born into such a rich family would have had a life of luxury and privilege, but that's where the gods decided to throw a cruel twist into my story.
I was born with a frail, weak body and completely, 100% blind.
I guess you can already imagine how shitty my life must have been based on that one sentence alone.
My family disowned me, sending me off to an orphanage.
At least they were kind enough to send money from time to time—just enough to ensure the staff treated me a little better, since I was the "special case."
The orphanage wasn't terrible, as far as I can remember, at least.
I spent about twelve years there, where I learned to speak, identify objects by touch, and spell.
In that time, I adapted to my world of darkness, even though I don't know what darkness looked like.
Now would probably be the point where I'd describe my appearance—but the thing is, I've been blind my whole life, so I have no idea what I look like.
Fuck, I don't even know what anything looks like.
There was this one lady at the orphanage, though—someone's grandmother, from what I could tell by her voice.
She told me once that I had pure white hair, golden eyes, and pale skin, with a thin, weak, malnourished body.
She said I was the strangest-looking kid she'd ever seen in her entire life.
Is having white hair and gold eyes really that strange? I wouldn't know.
I've never even seen what "white" or "gold" looks like.
By the time I turned twelve, the family that abandoned me must have stopped sending money to the orphanage.
Slowly but surely, any help or assistance I received began to disappear.
It was fine... no, it fucking wasn't.
It was anything but fine.
I was blind, my body weak, and the only things I could do were speak and relieve myself.
How could I possibly survive without even a little help? The least I could have asked for was someone to help me navigate.
When I questioned the orphanage about the unfair treatment, they slapped me until my face turned red, breaking a few of my weak teeth in the process.
Then, they kicked me out with nothing but the ragged clothes I was wearing.
Blind, frail, and with only a stick to guide me, all I could do was wander aimlessly, hoping I wouldn't stumble into a hole and die a pathetic death.
No one would take me in—not that I had anything of value to offer.
I had no talent, no skills, nothing to make me worth saving.
Eventually, I had no choice but to become a beggar.
But even begging was a struggle for someone like me.
People took advantage of my blindness.
There were times when they pretended to drop money into my bag, but instead filled it with trash.
Sometimes, heartless people went so far as to urinate or defecate in it as a sick joke.
Once, I was beaten senseless for the few measly dollars I'd saved.
Everywhere I went, people distanced themselves from me.
They ignored me, recoiling in disgust as if my very presence made them uncomfortable.
Maybe it was understandable—an old woman once mentioned I had a "strange appearance."
Still, I could've endured being ignored, but they didn't stop there.
Some heartless people even sent others to drive me away, just so they wouldn't have to see me.
I lived in the slums, under bridges, sometimes even in garbage dumps.
My only companion, the only being that didn't recoil from me, was a stray dog I befriended on the streets.
I used to call him Big Ben... He passed away a few years after.
RIP big Ben.
By the time I turned fifteen, I became more aware of the cruelty around me.
I could sense when I was being wronged—when people peed near me, spat on me, or treated me like the dirt under their shoes.
People spat on me more times than I could count, all because I was "weird" and "strange-looking."
I began to grow afraid.
Afraid of the wind.
Afraid of the people.
Afraid of not knowing what was happening around me.
Fear.
Coldness.
Anxiety.
Numbness.
Panic.
I felt all of it when a group of people suddenly grabbed me one day.
They took me somewhere and performed all sorts of horrific experiments on me.
I don't know how long it lasted—days, weeks, months?
They eventually let me go, but they left me scarred and broken, both inside and out.
At least I was still alive, or so I thought, until I started coughing up blood.
Yes... I was sick.
Deathly sick.
Years of living in garbage dumps, eating spoiled food and filth, had riddled my body with disease.
I accepted that I was dying.
But the saddest part? I had never experienced a moment of true happiness or warmth in my life.
I wanted to feel that, just once.
How naive of me.
In my desperation, I made a foolish decision: I decided to visit the family that abandoned me, hoping they might at least offer me a proper burial when I died.
But when I tried to approach their mansion, I was turned away.
"Trash" like me wasn't allowed inside.
I should've expected that.
So, I returned to a nearby garbage dump and sat there, reflecting on how hollow, worthless, and meaningless my life had been.
That's when I heard footsteps—several men approaching, followed by the sound of heavy thuds.
"Just dump them here," one of the men said.
"Who's going to snoop around in a dump like this?" another replied.
I didn't fully understand what they were talking about, but I assumed they were here to dispose of something.
Then I heard one of them approach me.
"Shit, someone's here!" the man shouted, clearly startled.
The others soon gathered around.
"Now what? He must've seen us dumping the bodies," another man said.
D-Dumping Bodies? Oh hell no.
Why do these things always happen to me?
I wanted to cry, but no tears came.
It seemed I had already exhausted all the tears I had.
"Please, I didn't see anything! I'm blind!" I still pleaded, my voice shaking with fear.
"It doesn't matter if he's blind or not. We can't leave any witnesses," another voice said coldly.
Witness? What witness? I'm fucking blind—I couldn't even be a witness to my own existence.
"He's right," a third man agreed. "We should just kill him."
I couldn't see their expressions, but I could feel the looming threat of death.
My entire life, with all its pain and cruelty, flashed before my eyes—those hurtful comments, the beatings, the spitting, the coldness.
It all came flooding back.
I lowered my arms.
There was no point in fighting back or trying to run.
I was going to die anyway, whether it was now or later.
It didn't matter how it happened.
"Kill him. He's just a beggar. No one would care if he died," one of them said, sealing my fate.
And he wasn't wrong.
No one would care.
No one ever had.
Killing me wouldn't matter to anyone.
With that thought, I felt something sharp pierce my chest.
My heart stopped almost instantly.
My body shuddered briefly before the numbness took over, swallowing me whole.
Then, there was nothing.
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{Author's Note: If you enjoyed this chapter, don't forget to vote with some POWER STONES. It would also really help me if you could rate this book. Thank you for reading!}