Breeze sat quietly on the wide stone steps, the weight of rejection pressing heavily on his small shoulders. The cold wind still lingered in the air, nipping at his face, but his mind was elsewhere, lost in thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a figure sitting down beside him. He shivered for a second, knowing with certainty that there was no one sitting there a moment ago.
He turned his head and was met by the sight of an old man, ragged and worn, with long, unkempt hair and a beard streaked with gray. The old man was known in the city; people mockingly called him "The Captivating Sage," but Breeze sensed something different about him.
The man looked straight ahead, seemingly unaware of Breeze's presence. After a long pause, the old man spoke, his voice low and raspy, as though he hadn't used it in days. "Being pathetic is a blessing here," he muttered. He then handed Breeze a bottle of juice. "Want to take a sip? You seem thirsty."
"Ah, thank you," Breeze replied. He took the bottle, gulped a mouthful, and handed it back.
'But old man, I'm not being pathetic and penniless because I like to,' Breeze thought to himself.
He furrowed his brow, stroked his chin while looking at the ground, confused by the cryptic words. He turned to ask what the old man meant, but by the time he did, the man had already stood up and shuffled away, disappearing into the streets. Breeze sat in silence, mulling over the strange comment. Why would being pathetic be a blessing? Was the man mocking him, or was there some truth hidden in the rambling?
"Don't mind whatever he says to you. This old man is really crazy. I remember listening to his advice one day, and I nearly got myself into serious trouble. They call him the Captivating Sage—his words are sage-like, coupled with his looks, which captivate your attention, making you think deeper and deeper about the meaning of his words. If no one warns you, you'll think you've stumbled upon a hidden big shot or something. Just take my advice and forget anything he told you," a passerby advised him.
Shaking off the confusion, Breeze refocused on his task: finding work. The next few days were a blur of disappointment. He knocked on doors, visited shops, and approached anyone who seemed like they might offer a job, but his ragged appearance and hollow cheeks repelled most people. They shooed him away with annoyed glares as if he carried the plague. One or two people suggested he try working at the local taverns, but Breeze knew better. Drunken men were nothing but trouble, and he had already seen enough chaos that stemmed from their revelries.
The city, though clean and neatly organized, was full of people with hearts as dirty as the gutters. Stinginess ran deep in the veins of its citizens. Only a few, the poorest among them, offered Breeze any kind of help—a crust of bread here, an old piece of fruit there. It wasn't enough to survive on, but he accepted their kindness with gratitude. Ironically, those with the least were the ones most willing to give.
Even the children of the city weren't spared from the cruelty that seemed to infect everyone. They mocked him from behind the safety of their parents, pointing fingers and calling him names as if they somehow knew they'd never be in his shoes. Breeze felt the weight of their scorn but said nothing. His father's voice echoed in his mind, reminding him to endure and observe rather than lash out. But that didn't help him completely endure the mockery of kids his age and younger, especially when he was in a situation imposed on him. He didn't want to live in such conditions—it just happened like that. All he could do was cry silently. Being a kid without a shield to protect you was truly the hardest thing.
A week passed, each day bleeding into the next with little to show for it. Breeze was starting to lose hope when he finally stumbled upon a cowshed in need of help at the corner of the vast bastion. The work was dirty, and the smell was far from pleasant, but Breeze didn't care. It was a job—something to keep him going. The owner was a gruff man, but he didn't ask too many questions. Breeze was small, but his hands were capable, and that was all the man cared about.
It wasn't a popular job, honestly, and came with a bit of risk. The animals in general were huge. The cows, for example, stood nearly 3.5m (11.48 ft) tall and had bodies over 4.5m (14.76ft) long. If one went berserk, you'd be lucky to end up with just a broken hand, leg, or ribs—most cases ended in death. The funny thing was that the pay didn't match the risk of the work, but what could a poor boy complain about? It was good enough just to find a job.
There had been an opportunity to work at one of the martial arts halls in the city, but Breeze remembered his father's warnings: "Never get involved with the rulers or anything related to them." His father's voice rang clear in his mind, and Breeze knew better than to disobey, no matter how desperate he became. The rulers' influence spread like a shadow over the city, and Breeze had no intention of stepping into their world.
As the days passed, Breeze settled into a routine. He spent his mornings and afternoons at the cowshed, working quietly and without complaint. The owner began to notice the boy's diligence. As the weeks turned into months, he started to like Breeze more, providing him with extra food and an increase in his meager salary. Breeze worked harder than anyone else in the shed, earning the respect of the other workers and the owner alike. Despite the hard labor, he felt a sense of pride in his work.
Evenings were a different story. After a long day of labor, Breeze would retreat to a small corner of the shed, peeling away the bandage he kept tightly wrapped around his belly. Hidden beneath was a book—the only thing his father had left him. His father had warned him never to open it unless his father died. "I'll teach you everything you need to know while I'm alive, and if I die, you can't read it on your own until you feel that you are ready to keep your mouth in check," he had said. But now, with his father gone, the book represented a world of knowledge that Breeze could not access.
Every night, after finishing his chores, he would take out the book and gaze at its worn cover, feeling both a longing and a heavy weight of responsibility. Then, he wrapped it again with the bandage against his belly. The book was written in a language his father had taught him, one that Breeze had never seen used anywhere else in the world. It contained sixteen chapters, each with fifty pages, followed by two hundred blank pages at the end. His father once told him that the book was a family inheritance, and each lineage had to write two chapters until the "promised day." Breeze didn't know what would happen on that day, but he knew that chaos would befall the world.
A year passed, and he didn't even read a single word due to exhaustion from the long days of work.
But he remained diligent, determined to honor his father's memory by mastering the words his father had entrusted to him. First of all, he had to build a strong body so he could resist the fatigue of relentless toil. Only after that could he concentrate on reading the book. It was filled with stories, knowledge, and insights that felt like fragments of a world beyond his own. He tried to read one night, but he couldn't focus. The information was too important, but his mind was half asleep. He stopped, telling himself, "Nothing will change by being hasty."
As the months passed, Breeze became more skilled at his work. He found himself looking forward to the day he could start reading his book, but also to the warm meals the owner provided. Each bite filled him with hope and energy, pushing him to work harder the next day. The cowshed became a haven for him, a place where he could forget the cruelty of the city and focus on his growth.
One evening, after a long day of hard work, he felt strange. His body wasn't feeling like usual. "I may have pushed myself too hard these days," he thought. "But with each minute that passes, I can feel my temperature rising. Forget it, probably after a full night of sleep, I'll be okay." He prepared his sleeping spot and fell asleep almost instantly.
In the stillness of the night, Breeze started sweating non-stop, as if a cascade was running down his body. He woke up achingly, with tears falling from his eyes. He didn't know what was happening but didn't want to cry loudly, fearing the cowshed owner would find fault with him. He had struggled to find this job, and if he made a mistake that disturbed the cows, he'd probably be fired. So, he endured—endured and endured the pain until dawn. When everyone woke up and started working, his fellow workers found him curled up in pain. Some tried to help him, while others went to inform the owner.
The owner came as fast as he could, and when he saw the young kid in that condition, he raged and started yelling.
"SICK! ARE YOU SICK IN MY YARD?! YOU DARE BE SICK HERE! THROW HIM OUTSIDE NOW! AND NEVER EVEN THINK ABOUT COMING BACK HERE!" Then he added, "If one of my cows gets infected or harmed in any way, I'll be sure to hunt you down. What a waste of all that food I gave you!"
Breeze couldn't breathe easily, let alone reply. The workers, pitying him, carried him out of the yard.
"Sorry, kid, we're really useless in a situation like this. You're on your own," they said and left him near a clinic, hoping someone would help.
An hour later, the doctor passed by, ignoring him completely—or not quite ignoring, as he called a bulky man to throw the "corpse" away from his clinic, worried it would ruin his reputation.
Thrown from place to place like trash, Breeze ended up near a trash can. Feeling pathetic again, not even able to move on his own or push away anyone who threw him, he cried loudly at the humiliation.
Then a young girl, who was throwing out the trash, heard the sound of a child crying. She approached him, trying to ask if he needed any help. Noticing her, Breeze mustered all his strength and yelled, "ENOUGH! STAY AWAY FROM ME! I'M NOT TRASH SO YOU CAN THROW ME WHEREVER YOU WANT. AFTER THROWING ME FROM PLACE TO PLACE, WHAT'S WORSE THAN A TRASH CAN—A MONSTER'S BELLY? LEAVE ME ALONE!" His cry echoed in the young girl's ears.
She kept silent for a moment, then approached him and carried him to her house. There, she gently laid him in the bath and began undressing him. She noticed something wrapped around his belly, peeled it off, and set the book aside. Breeze couldn't even move to stop her. She gave him a cold bath to lower his body temperature—it felt as if his body were a scorching ember. After the bath, she dried him off, dressed him in one of her loose, soft dresses, and placed him on her bed. All this happened, and he couldn't even move a finger.
Then the girl quietly left the house, leaving him alone.