Lucian Voss stood amid the wreckage of his battle, his chest heaving as he surveyed the fallen thugs. The morning sun had fully risen now, bathing the filth-ridden alley in golden light, but there was no warmth to be found.
Blood trickled down his knuckles, his muscles screamed for rest, but a deep satisfaction settled in his bones.
He had won.
Not because he was stronger. Not because he was faster. But because he refused to lose.
But the fight was not over. Not truly.
The slums were a battlefield, and the moment he bested one enemy, another would come crawling from the shadows, ready to devour him.
He needed to move.
Lucian knelt beside the unconscious leader, searching his tattered coat. A few copper coins, a rusted dagger, and a small vial of dark liquid. Poison, perhaps?
He pocketed it all. Survival meant taking every advantage.
The other two had nothing of worth except their boots—better than his own, which were barely holding together. He yanked them off without hesitation, slipping them onto his feet.
A thief stealing from thieves.
Such was the law of the streets.
Blood Draws the Vultures
Lucian did not linger. The marketplace would soon be filled with people, and if someone found these men before he was gone, questions would be asked—questions he had no interest in answering.
Slipping through the alleyways, he kept his head down, blending into the filth and grime. The city was waking, but the slums never truly slept.
As he rounded a corner, he felt eyes on him.
Not the casual glances of passing merchants or the wary stares of beggars. No—these were hungry eyes, sharp and focused.
Someone had seen his fight.
Lucian did not look back. He had no time for more scavengers, no strength for another battle. He needed rest, food, and a place to think.
The stolen coins jingled softly in his pocket. Not enough to buy a feast, but enough to buy time.
There was an inn near the outskirts of the slums—The Rusted Nail—a place where no one asked questions as long as you paid. It was the kind of place where the air stank of sweat and old ale, where the floorboards creaked under the weight of too many desperate souls.
Perfect.
Lucian slipped inside, throwing a few coins onto the counter. The barkeep, a burly man with a face like a beaten slab of meat, grunted and tossed him a key.
Lucian took it without a word and climbed the stairs.
The room was small, barely more than a closet with a bed, but it was enough. He locked the door, pressed his back against the wall, and exhaled.
For the first time in days, he allowed himself to close his eyes.
The Path of Strength
Sleep did not come easily. His body ached, his mind refused to quiet.
He pulled the scroll from his tattered cloak, its ancient words pulsing with something beyond ink and paper.
The first stage—Tempering the Vessel—demanded complete destruction and rebuilding of the body. He had begun, but he was far from finished.
Pain had become his teacher.
But pain alone was not enough.
He needed more.
More strength. More knowledge. More power.
Lucian's fingers tightened around the scroll.
He would not be a rat scurrying in the filth forever.
He would rise.
He would conquer.
And this city, this world—everything in it—would one day bow before him.