Chapter 3: The Struggle to Survive
The world was cruel.
Elias had known hardship before—long nights bent over equations, the pressure of scientific discovery, the loneliness of a mind that operated in a realm beyond ordinary comprehension. But this... this was suffering of an entirely different kind.
His stomach twisted in agony, a hollow ache gnawing at his insides, a pain so deep and constant that it blurred the edges of his thoughts. Hunger. True, unrelenting hunger. The kind that stripped a person down to their most primal instincts.
He sat against the splintered wooden wall of the shack, legs pulled up against his chest. The rags he wore provided little warmth, and the cold, damp air that crept through the cracks in the walls seeped into his bones. The faint stench of rot and mildew clung to the place, mixing with the acrid scent of unwashed bodies and stale air.
His body was weak, frail, an unfamiliar vessel barely holding together. Every movement was a struggle, every breath an effort. The boy who had lived in this body before had not been well-fed. He had been dying long before Elias had woken up in his skin.
His mind, still adjusting to the fragmented memories left behind, tried to piece together what had led to this moment. The boy had lived in the slums, an orphan scraping by on scraps, constantly on the brink of starvation. He had stolen when he could, begged when he had no other choice.
But he had not been lucky.
A fever had taken him, leaving him helpless in the dirt. Had it been days? Weeks? Long enough for his body to wither, for his strength to leave him. Long enough that when Elias had opened his eyes, he had been closer to death than life.
Now, he had to survive.
Garrik—the old man who had dragged him in from the river—had given him a place to rest, but there were no handouts in a world like this. Elias knew that much already. If he wanted to eat, he had to find a way to do it himself.
He pushed himself to his feet, legs shaking beneath him. The hunger made him dizzy, made his vision swim. The door creaked as he nudged it open, the outside world a harsh contrast to the dim shelter.
The slums stretched out before him, a maze of narrow alleys and crumbling structures, the kind of place where the desperate gathered, where the forgotten eked out an existence in the shadows of a city that did not care if they lived or died. Mud and filth caked the ground, the air thick with the mingling scents of smoke, sewage, and unwashed bodies.
People moved through the streets, hunched figures wrapped in tattered cloaks, children with hollow eyes watching from doorways. There was no kindness here. No safety. Only survival.
Elias stumbled forward, feet dragging through the dirt. He needed food. He needed strength. His mind, still sharp despite his body's condition, scanned the surroundings, analyzing, calculating.
Food sources were limited. He had seen a communal firepit where scraps of discarded vegetables and bones simmered in a makeshift stew. But that was for those who belonged. Strangers did not eat without a price.
The alternative was to steal.
His fingers clenched at his sides. He had never stolen before—not out of desperation. But he had never been this close to starving, never felt his ribs press so sharply against his own skin, never known what it was like to be one meal away from collapse.
His eyes flicked to a merchant cart parked at the edge of the slums, a wooden stall with a faded awning, its owner distracted as he bartered with a customer. Loaves of bread sat in a woven basket, alongside a few shriveled apples.
His stomach clenched.
He had to act.
Slow steps carried him closer, each one careful, calculated. The crowd provided cover, bodies shifting around him, obscuring his approach. His fingers curled around the edge of the basket, heartbeat pounding in his ears.
One swift motion. Take it and disappear.
He grabbed an apple, tucking it beneath the rags draped over his body.
A hand shot out, iron-strong fingers clamping around his wrist.
Elias' breath caught in his throat.
The merchant turned, face twisting in anger. "Thief!" he bellowed.
Panic surged through Elias' weakened limbs. He jerked, twisted, tried to break free, but his body was too weak, his strength nothing compared to the man's grip.
A fist struck his stomach, driving the breath from his lungs.
Pain. Sharp, consuming.
His knees buckled, vision flashing white.
The ground rushed up to meet him.
The next thing he knew, he was lying in the dirt, the taste of blood on his tongue. The merchant stood over him, scowling, the apple rolling away into the street.
"Filthy little rat," the man spat, turning away. "Be grateful I don't break your hands."
Elias gasped for breath, curling in on himself as he struggled to push through the pain.
He had failed.
He was still starving.
A shadow fell over him. A pair of boots, scuffed and worn, came into view.
Garrik.
The old man crouched, eyes sharp beneath his thick brows. "Thought you'd last longer before pulling something stupid."
Elias said nothing.
Garrik sighed. "Get up."
Elias forced himself to his hands and knees, body shaking as he struggled to rise. Garrik didn't offer a hand, didn't help. He simply waited, watching.
When Elias finally stood, the old man grunted. "You're too weak to steal. Too stupid to beg properly. If you want to eat, you work."
Elias swallowed, the taste of blood still on his tongue. "What work?"
Garrik's lips curled into something that might have been amusement. "The kind that keeps you alive."
He turned, walking away. Elias had no choice but to follow.
The hunger burned inside him, but beneath it, something else took root.
Determination.
He would survive.
End of Chapter 3