His lips pressed into a thin line. He had two choices — sneak in through a weak point in the city's defenses or create an opportunity for himself.
A weak point… unlikely. The guards were thorough, and the nobles wouldn't allow a single gap in their security. But creating an opportunity? That was something he could work with.
He needed a disguise.
A merchant's clothes. A stolen identity. A way to blend in.
But that meant finding the right target, someone who wouldn't be missed. Someone desperate enough to be robbed — or better yet, someone who could be manipulated.
Alexian rubbed his temples. The plan was risky, but so was everything in this world. He had been given a second chance, and he wouldn't waste it by rotting in these streets.
The silence of the ruined shop wrapped around Alexian like a cocoon.
For the first time since he had awakened in this body, he allowed himself to rest.
His back pressed against the cold wooden floor, arms folded across his chest as exhaustion finally claimed him.
The slums of this world were unlike anything he had ever known.
Filth, desperation, the ever-present threat of violence — it was a world where only the strong survived. And yet, as he closed his eyes, he felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Purpose.
He wasn't like the others who had given up on life in these streets. He had a way out.
Darkness took him soon after.
The first rays of dawn were dull through the cracks in the broken ceiling. Alexian woke with a start, his senses instantly alert.
A deep breath. No threats nearby. No footsteps outside.
He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and rose to his feet.
The floor beneath him creaked as he stretched, rolling his shoulders. Sleeping on the ground wasn't comfortable, but his body felt fine — his endurance had improved more than he'd expected.
The slums were beginning to stir outside. The distant murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet against dirt roads.
Another day of struggle for the people who had no future here.
Alexian stepped to the shattered doorway, peering out from beneath his hood.
And then, his eyes landed on him.
The merchant.
The same man who had shot him the day before.
A well-fed, middle-aged man in fine, flowing robes — too clean, too pristine for these streets.
His posture was stiff, his walk measured, as though he despised every step he had to take in this filthy district.
There was no mistaking it — this man wasn't from the slums.
He was from the Noble District.
Alexian's gaze darkened.
He had no personal vendetta against the man — he barely remembered the moments before his body had collapsed into that gutter. But this man had unknowingly handed him an opportunity.
A Noble District merchant. That meant an identity.
The man rounded a corner, stepping into a quieter section of the slums.
His expression twisted in disgust as he sidestepped a pile of garbage, clearly regretting ever setting foot in this part of the city.
Alexian moved.
Silently, swiftly, he followed.
The alley was narrow, flanked by crumbling brick walls. It was the perfect place — no prying eyes, no interruptions.
The merchant had no idea he was being hunted.
As he passed the center of the alley, Alexian struck.
A single movement — quick, efficient.
He lunged, driving his elbow into the merchant's back. The man let out a strangled gasp, stumbling forward, but Alexian didn't let him recover.
A hand shot up, covering the merchant's mouth as he yanked him further into the shadows.
The merchant struggled, but Alexian's strength was beyond human now.
With a swift motion, he slammed the man's head against the wall… once… twice until the body slumped against him, dead.
Alexian wasted no time.
He dragged the man deeper into the alley, ensuring he was completely out of sight. Then, he crouched down, patting the merchant's robes, searching.
Fine fabric. Silk. This man was well-off.
His fingers brushed against something smooth — thin, rectangular.
An ID.
Alexian pulled it out, inspecting it.
Simple, engraved with a single name: Jorad Elthar.
Perfect.
Next, he removed the merchant's outer robe, slipping it over his own ragged clothes.
It was slightly loose, but that was fine — no one would question the fit, only the symbol it represented.
When he stepped out of the alley a moment later, he no longer looked like a starving orphan from the slums.
He looked like a merchant.
He looked like someone who belonged in the Noble District.
The slums stretched behind Alexian like a decayed corpse, its foul stench lingering in the air. But he didn't look back.
Dressed in the merchant's robe, ID in hand, he walked toward the slum gates with a measured pace.
Too fast, and he'd look nervous.
Too slow, and he'd appear suspicious. He needed confidence, needed to be Jorad Elthar.
The towering iron gates loomed ahead, separating filth from wealth, suffering from privilege.
Beyond them, the Noble District shimmered in the distance — a world of marble streets, fragrant air, and people who never had to wonder where their next meal would come from.
But first, he had to get through the guards.
Two armored men stood on either side of the gate, both armed with weapons, their bored expressions sharpening as they noticed him approach.
Alexian didn't hesitate. He met their eyes with the kind of detached impatience a noble merchant would have when forced to step foot in the slums.
The taller guard, a burly man with a thick scar running across his cheek, was the first to speak.
"Business in the slums, sir?"
Alexian let out a slow breath, as though speaking to a commoner was a waste of his time. "Brief," he replied, voice steady. "I would rather not linger here longer than necessary."
The shorter guard, younger and leaner, glanced him over. His gaze lingered on Alexian's face, his brow furrowing slightly.
Alexian's grip on the ID tightened, but he kept his expression neutral.
The IDs in this city were flawed — just names, no portraits, no detailed descriptions. It was an outdated system, but that was what made impersonation possible.
Unless the guards had a reason to suspect him — or had seen Jorad recently — he was safe.
The younger guard's eyes dropped to the ID in Alexian's hand. He took it, scanning the name before nodding.
"Jorad Elthar."
Alexian said nothing. A merchant of status wouldn't bother confirming something so obvious.
The taller guard handed the ID back. "You know the drill, sir. One silver to re-enter the Noble District."
Alexian barely reacted. He had expected a price.
He reached into his pocket, feeling the few coins the real Jorad had carried. He pulled out a single silver piece and dropped it into the guard's outstretched hand.
The taller guard gave a satisfied nod before pocketing the coin.
As the younger one stepped aside to unbar the gate, he cast a casual glance at Alexian. "Slums getting worse?" he asked.
Alexian didn't hesitate. "They always are."
The guard scoffed. "No surprise there. That place should be burned to the ground."
Alexian only nodded, giving the impression that he had no interest in a prolonged conversation.
The gates groaned as they swung open, revealing the pristine streets of the Noble District beyond.
Alexian stepped forward, never looking back.