The boy pushed open the warped wooden door of the shanty, his hand trembling slightly from the weight of the basket. The room was dim, the air heavy with the faint scent of damp wood and sickness. His mother lay on a straw-filled mattress in the corner, her frail form barely visible beneath a patchwork blanket.
"Mother," he called softly, setting the basket down and stepping toward her. Her eyes fluttered open, dull and glassy, but she managed a faint smile at the sight of him.
"You're back," she whispered, her voice as fragile as her frame.
The boy nodded, kneeling beside her. "I brought something that will help," he said, pulling the vial from his pocket. Its liquid shimmered faintly in the dim light, and for a moment, hope flickered in his mother's tired eyes.
Carefully, he uncorked the bottle and lifted it to her lips. She drank slowly, each swallow a visible effort. When the vial was empty, she lay back, her chest rising and falling unevenly.
"Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "You're a good boy."
The boy's heart ached at her words. He wanted to believe the potion would work, that it would chase away the shadows of sickness clinging to her. But deep down, he feared it wouldn't be enough.
After ensuring his mother was comfortable, he grabbed a ragged broom to tidy the cramped space. The shanty barely stood upright, its walls patched with scraps of wood and cloth, its roof sagging ominously. Every corner seemed to hold a new chore—mending torn blankets, patching holes in the floor, or sweeping away the endless grime that seeped in from the slums outside.
As he worked, a sharp commotion echoed from the street. The boy froze, his heart sinking.
---
The Knights
The sound of boots against cobblestones grew louder, accompanied by the bark of harsh voices.
"Open up! Tax collectors!"
Through the cracked window, the boy saw them: a group of armored knights, their tabards bearing the king's crest. They moved through the slums like wolves in a henhouse, their eyes gleaming with cruelty.
A few houses down, an older man stood trembling in his doorway, his meager coin pouch in hand. "This is all I have," he pleaded.
The tallest knight sneered, snatching the pouch and upending its contents. "Barely enough for a drink. You holding out on us, old man?"
"I swear, it's all I have! Please, my family—"
The knight silenced him with a backhanded slap, sending the man sprawling. His family huddled inside the house, too frightened to intervene. The other knights laughed as they shoved past the man, ransacking his home for anything of value.
The boy clenched his fists, helpless rage boiling in his chest. He knew better than to intervene. This was life in the slums—a cycle of suffering and subjugation that no one could escape.
When the knights reached the towering wall that separated the slums from the noble district, their demeanor shifted. They straightened their postures, wiping the grime from their armor and smoothing their tabards. The jeers and laughter were replaced by stiff, formal silence as they passed through the guarded gate.
Beyond the wall, the streets were wide and clean, lined with grand mansions and well-dressed nobles. The knights moved with rehearsed decorum, bowing to the aristocrats they passed. Their brutality was hidden behind polished smiles, their greed masked by a veneer of civility.
---
MC pov
Back in the slums, the boy's thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.
"Hey, there you are!"
He turned to see a girl his age hurrying toward him. Her red hair was tied back in a messy braid, and her cheeks were smudged with dirt. Despite the hardship etched into her features, her green eyes sparkled with determination.
"Lyra," he said, managing a faint smile.
Lyra was one of the few constants in his life—a friend who understood the struggles of the slums as intimately as he did. Her father worked as a blacksmith, barely scraping by, and she often helped him deliver tools and weapons to the guild.
"I saw the knights," she said, her voice low. "Did they take from you again?"
"No, not this time," the boy replied, though the truth of their earlier visit burned in his mind.
Lyra frowned, crossing her arms. "They're getting worse. Someone needs to stop them."
The boy's gaze dropped to the ground. "Who? No one in the slums has the power to stand up to them."
She hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe not now. But someday… things will change. I know they will."
Her words carried a conviction that he couldn't quite share, but her presence was a balm to his weary soul. For a moment, the weight of his struggles seemed a little lighter.
---
??????????????? pov
Far beyond the slums, in the void between worlds, a presence stirred. The ?????????? watched the boy and the chaos unfolding around him with a twisted sense of amusement.
The boy's face was etched into the demon's mind—a fragile, golden thread in a web of countless lives.
"Such a feeble existence," the ?????????? mused, his voice a low rumble that reverberated through the void. "Yet it is from these fragile threads that the greatest pawns are spun."
He tilted his head as if considering a puzzle, his shadowy form flickering like a dying flame.
"The clock begins to tick," he murmured. "Tomorrow, his story ends… and mine begins anew."
There was a pause, a moment of silence as he contemplated the boy's fate.
"But what shall I offer him?" the ?????????? continued, his tone tinged with amusement. "What lie will he cling to when I extend my hand? What dream will he believe, even as it drags him into the abyss?"
The ????????? chuckled softly, a sound that echoed like distant thunder.
"Hope is the cruelest weapon of all," he whispered. "And this boy will wield it… until it destroys him."
His form dissolved into the void, leaving only his parting words behind:
"The countdown begins."