Chapter 5: Strength Rules All
The slums were a harsh teacher. A lesson carved into the flesh of the weak, a doctrine reinforced by every bruised rib and stolen morsel. Elias had witnessed the truth unfold before his eyes—power dictated everything in this world. There was no fairness, no justice, only the ruthless hierarchy of strength.
He stood at the edge of a crumbling alley, his gaze locked onto the scene before him. A man knelt in the dirt, his face swollen and bloodied, his trembling hands clasped together in supplication. Two figures loomed over him—city enforcers clad in patchwork armor, their boots caked with the filth of the streets. One held a wooden club, idly tapping it against his palm, while the other inspected a small pouch of coins.
"You know the rules," the enforcer with the club muttered, almost bored. "You pay, or you suffer."
"I—I have nothing left," the man stammered. "Please, give me more time."
The enforcer sighed. "Time doesn't feed men, does it?"
The club came down, a sickening thud echoing through the narrow alleyway. The man crumpled, curling inward as another strike followed, then another. The sound of flesh meeting wood, the desperate gasps of pain—none of it stirred the bystanders. Those who had gathered quickly averted their gazes, unwilling to draw attention to themselves. Elias did the same.
This was the reality of the world he now inhabited. The weak begged. The strong took.
When the enforcers finished their grim work, they left the man groaning in the dirt, stepping over him as though he were nothing more than refuse. The other onlookers dispersed as well, melting into the shadows. The man would live, for now. But the lesson was clear—without strength, he was nothing.
Elias turned away, his mind racing. He had no intention of ending up like that man. He had lost everything once. He would not lose again.
By the time he returned to Garrik's shack, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long, creeping shadows through the slums. The old man sat outside, a whetstone in one hand, a dull blade in the other. The rhythmic scrape of metal on stone was the only sound between them as Elias approached.
His stomach ached, empty for too long. The hunger had dulled, turning into a quiet gnawing that never truly left him. He had thought he would grow used to it, but he had been wrong.
Garrik didn't look up as Elias neared. "Well? See enough of the city?"
Elias hesitated before nodding. "It's worse than I thought."
The old man snorted. "You've only seen the surface. This place is a graveyard for those without strength. You want to survive? Learn fast, or you'll be just another body in the gutter."
Elias clenched his fists. He had no intention of dying here.
Garrik eyed him for a moment before sighing. "You're still weak," he muttered. "Not just in body, but in mind."
Elias narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
The old man set the blade aside. "You think too much," he said. "That'll get you killed."
Elias bristled. "Thinking is what's kept me alive."
"Maybe," Garrik admitted. "But it won't be enough." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You saw what happened today, didn't you? The enforcers. The man they beat."
Elias nodded.
"And what did you do?" Garrik asked.
Silence stretched between them.
Elias looked away. "Nothing."
"Exactly," Garrik said. "Because you knew you couldn't change anything. Because you're weak."
Elias exhaled sharply. "Then how do I change that?"
Garrik studied him for a moment before standing. "Come," he said, motioning for Elias to follow.
They walked through the slums in silence, weaving through the winding alleys until they reached an abandoned lot—a stretch of dirt and rubble where the remnants of an old marketplace stood. The stalls had long since rotted away, leaving only broken wooden beams and shattered cobblestone paths.
"This is where the forgotten fight," Garrik said.
Elias furrowed his brows. "Fight?"
Garrik nodded toward a small gathering in the distance. A makeshift ring had been drawn into the dirt, and within it, two men circled each other, fists raised. They were lean, hardened by survival, their movements sharp and efficient.
Elias watched as one of them lunged, his fist connecting with the other's jaw in a brutal strike. The opponent staggered, but he didn't fall. He countered, driving his knee into his attacker's ribs. The crowd murmured their approval, a few exchanging small wagers.
"This is how men earn respect here," Garrik said. "You don't have coin? You fight. You don't have status? You fight. You don't have strength? You fight until you do."
Elias frowned. "And if you lose?"
Garrik smirked. "Then you learn."
The fight ended a few moments later. The loser lay on the ground, groaning, while the victor collected his winnings—meager though they were. Elias felt a strange pull in his chest, a whisper in the back of his mind.
He had never fought for survival before. He had fought for knowledge, for understanding, for progress. But not for his life.
Could he do it?
Garrik turned to him. "You asked how to change," he said. "This is where it starts."
Elias hesitated. He was still weak, his body frail, his stamina nonexistent. But that could change. He could make it change.
Without another word, he stepped forward.
The ring awaited.
The first blow sent him sprawling.
Pain blossomed across his jaw, his vision swimming as he hit the dirt. The taste of blood filled his mouth, the metallic tang sharp against his tongue. Around him, the crowd let out a mixture of cheers and laughter.
"Too slow," Garrik called from the sidelines. "Get up."
Elias forced himself to his hands and knees, his body screaming in protest. His opponent—a broad-shouldered man with a crooked nose—grinned down at him. "Not used to getting hit, are you, boy?"
Elias spat blood onto the ground. "Not yet."
The man's grin widened. "Let's fix that."
The next strike came fast, but this time, Elias saw it coming. He moved—too slow, but enough to take the hit on his shoulder instead of his face. Pain lanced through him, but he stayed standing.
Progress.
The fight continued, each exchange teaching Elias more than any lecture ever had. Pain was a teacher, and he was an eager student. His body protested, but his mind adapted. He learned when to move, when to endure, when to strike.
By the time the fight ended, he was on his back, gasping for breath. He had lost. Badly.
But he had learned.
Garrik crouched beside him. "Painful, isn't it?"
Elias let out a weak chuckle. "A little."
The old man grinned. "Good. That means you're alive."
Elias stared up at the night sky, his body aching, his breath ragged. Strength ruled all. He had seen it, felt it, tasted it.
And then, something else. A warm hand pressed something into his palm. He blinked, looking down.
A loaf of stale bread.
"Earned your first meal," Garrik said. "Don't let it be your last."
Elias clutched the bread tightly. His stomach growled, his hunger momentarily stronger than the pain. He bit into it without hesitation, the rough texture scraping against his throat.
Food had never tasted so good.
He would become strong.
This was only the beginning.
End of Chapter 5