Chapter 6: The Orphan's Code
The slums had a pulse, a rhythm, a language of its own. Elias had been here long enough to understand it—the hushed deals in dark corners, the unspoken truce of beggars on their territories, the sharp-eyed merchants who knew exactly how much could be stolen before they made an example of someone. The entire district was an unsteady balance between survival and decay, and he was just another soul learning to exist within it.
But learning the rules wasn't enough.
He had to become them.
He had spent too many nights curled in the shadows, stomach clenched in hunger, limbs weak with exhaustion. He had tried to adapt, to carve out his own existence in this place, but the slums did not allow hesitation. Every mistake had a cost, and he was running out of things to lose.
He learned by watching, by listening, by becoming one of the unseen. The slums had no place for the bold, only for those who could move between the cracks unnoticed.
The first time he tried sleeping behind the market stalls, he learned the law of territory.
A sharp kick to his ribs jolted him awake. Pain flared through his side as he gasped, blinking blearily at the shadow standing over him. A boy, a little older, lean but hardened, with sharp, distrustful eyes.
"This ain't your place, rat," the boy sneered. His voice carried the confidence of someone who had fought for every scrap of food, every night of shelter. "Get lost."
Elias tried to sit up, his ribs protesting. He wanted to argue, but he could already see it—this boy belonged here. Elias did not.
Without a word, he got to his feet and walked away.
A part of him hated himself for it.
In another life, in another world, he would have fought back. He would have stood his ground. But here, strength wasn't measured in willpower. It was measured in who walked away still standing.
That night, he slept in the wreckage of an old shack, the roof caved in, the walls barely holding together. It was miserable, damp, and cold, but at least no one kicked him out of it.
His fingers dug into his palm, nails biting into his skin as he clenched his fists beneath his tattered cloak. He could still feel the boy's foot against his ribs, the weight of powerlessness pressing down on him.
He hated this.
But he had to survive.
The hunger was constant. A gnawing, insatiable thing that coiled in his gut, a parasite that hollowed him out from the inside.
He watched the marketplace carefully, memorizing routines. The vendors dumped their waste in the alleys behind their stalls, throwing out bruised fruit and stale bread. It wasn't much, but it was food.
But he wasn't the only one watching.
When he reached for a half-rotten apple, a hand snatched his wrist.
"This is ours," a voice growled.
He looked up to see a boy with a scar cutting down his cheek, his arms thick with muscle despite his malnourished frame. There were others behind him—silent, watching, waiting.
They didn't need to say anything. Elias understood immediately.
This was their feeding ground.
If he tried to take from it, he would suffer for it.
So he let go. He turned, walked away, biting down the frustration, the hunger, the shame that came with every defeat.
His stomach twisted as he stepped into the shadows of the alleyway. His body begged him to fight, to take, but his mind knew better.
He needed to be smarter.
That night, he watched from the rooftops. He saw which vendors left their scraps unguarded, which ones didn't lock their storage properly. Then, under the cover of darkness, he made his move.
He didn't take much—just enough to survive. A few wilted vegetables, a hard chunk of bread.
But he didn't get caught.
And that, he realized, was its own kind of victory.
The moment that changed him came days later.
He was skulking through the alleyways when he heard a scuffle—the sharp, quick sounds of fists meeting flesh, a grunt of pain.
A boy, younger than him, thin and trembling, was curled against the wall of a dead-end alley. Cornered.
Three others loomed over him, their postures predatory.
"Give it," one of them snapped.
The boy clutched something close to his chest. A loaf of bread.
Elias's stomach twisted violently.
He could feel the boy's fear, the sheer desperation in his grip. It was the same feeling Elias had known when his own body had been starving, when every day had been a struggle just to keep going.
His feet wanted to move.
He wanted to stop this.
But he didn't.
His nails dug into his palm. His throat felt dry.
The boy let out a soft whimper as the first punch landed.
Elias turned away.
His stomach lurched as he walked in the opposite direction, his entire body revolting against what he had just done.
He had always believed in fairness, in right and wrong. He had once thought that people stood up for each other, that justice meant something.
That was before.
That was a different world.
Here, mercy was weakness.
He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles ached. His vision blurred for a moment, but he swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep walking.
When he reached Garrik's shack, the old man was waiting.
Garrik's sharp eyes flicked over him, reading him the way a veteran reads the battlefield.
"You saw something," the old man murmured. "And you walked away."
Elias stiffened. He didn't answer.
Garrik grinned.
"You're learning."
Elias hated the way that made his stomach turn.
That night, he lay on the cold wooden floor, staring at the fractured ceiling.
The wind howled through the slums, cold and sharp as a blade. It slipped through the cracks in the walls, whispering like the ghosts of those who had failed to survive before him.
He clenched his fists.
He would not fail.
He would not be weak.
Because in the slums, weakness was death.
End of Chapter 6