Somewhere within the territories of the great Wesland Kingdom.

There lies an island called Marisol Isle—a place of exile for those deemed unwanted, nameless refugees, and runaway slaves who are only recaptured and enslaved once more. The crime rate on this island is extremely high due to its poverty and lack of attention from the kingdom's authorities.

Here, the law does not belong to the king or the kingdom. The law belongs to those strong enough to enforce it—the mafia, local ruling nobles, bounty hunters, and wealthy merchants.

And among them, the weak are nothing but slaves, and they will always remain slaves. Escaping poverty is a struggle that takes several generations, but falling into its depths takes only one.

In the heart of the city, hidden beneath the ground, lies an arena where brutality is a spectacle. Dim oil lamps hang from stone walls, casting flickering shadows on the bloodstained, sand-covered floor.

Evran stood at the center of the arena, his body tense. Around him, iron bars formed a cage that locked him in with his opponent. Roars of excitement echoed beyond the fence, creating a symphony of cruelty. Bets were placed, and the bloodthirsty spectators howled, eager for a savage display.

This wasn't his first fight, but it could always be his last.

A single defeat meant death—or, if lucky, survival with permanent injuries. Here, being crippled was just another way to die.

A drumbeat signaled the start of the fight.

In front of him stood another young boy, a fellow slave fighter. He was slightly larger than Evran, which could be troublesome—but not impossible to deal with. Muscle mass affects punching power, but in a street fight, unpredictability is everything.

The boy lunged forward, striking first. He was fast and strong, but Evran was ready. He ducked and swung to the side, narrowly avoiding the attack. His opponent struck again, this time even faster and more brutal. A fist aimed for Evran's jaw—he dodged just in time. Protecting vital points was the key to survival!

Evran countered, launching a jab at his opponent's head. Pain shot through his knuckles upon impact. This guy's skull was hard!

'Stubborn bastard!' Evran cursed in his mind.

Not stopping there, Evran unleashed a flurry of jabs, followed by a combination of hooks and uppercuts. The two slaves exchanged brutal blows, their fists colliding with flesh and bone. The crowd roared in delight as they watched two boys tear each other apart.

Sweat and blood dripped to the ground. Evran's arms ached from throwing so many punches. His condition was bad—his face was bruised, his nose bled, and a gash on his forehead dripped crimson. But his opponent wasn't doing any better. The larger boy was covered in bruises and cuts, his breath ragged from exhaustion.

'The martial arts from my past life are proving useful in this world,' Evran thought.

The boy paused for a moment, catching his breath. Then, he charged again. Evran, still quick on his feet, dodged most of the incoming punches and retaliated with powerful strikes. Each time his fists connected, the opponent's flesh trembled under the impact.

Then, Evran saw an opening. His uppercut landed squarely on the boy's chin, sending him stumbling backward. Without hesitation, Evran lunged forward to finish him—but at the last second, his opponent pivoted and delivered a powerful kick to Evran's head. The force sent Evran reeling to the side.

Both of them collapsed to the ground, gasping for air, gathering what little strength they had left.

"Damn it… that bastard still had enough fight left to counter me even while half-conscious," Evran muttered through gritted teeth.

The larger boy was the first to rise. He changed his strategy.

Realizing he couldn't win in a punching exchange, he closed the distance and grabbed Evran, attempting to lock him in a grapple.

Evran struggled but couldn't break free—the boy was stronger. Eventually, his opponent wrapped his arms around Evran's neck, applying a chokehold and dragging him to the ground, pinning him under his weight.

"Shit… looks like I have no choice but to do it again," Evran muttered before his strength gave out.

With swift precision, he pulled a small needle hidden in his waistband and stabbed it into his opponent's neck. The movement was quick, unnoticed in the chaos of battle.

The boy tightened his grip, choking Evran harder. Evran struggled desperately, tucking his chin to his chest to slow the strangulation.

Now it was a race against time.

Would the poison work before he lost consciousness? Or would he black out first?

'Damn, I should have stabbed him sooner!' Evran thought.

The boy held on, his arms tightening. Evran's lungs burned. It felt like being hanged from a noose—his vision blurred, his body weakened.

'I can't die here… just a little longer…' he told himself, clinging to the last shreds of consciousness.

One minute passed…

The crowd erupted. "Kill him! Kill him!" they screamed.

Three minutes passed…

Finally, the larger boy began to move, attempting to stand in victory.

But it was Evran who got up first.

"Shit… I really almost died this time. I've had close calls before, but this was the closest," Evran muttered as he pushed the body off him.

The audience gasped in shock before cheering once again. They didn't care who died—they only cared about their bets.

Evran limped out of the arena, his body aching from head to toe, his neck red with strangulation marks.

Waiting for him was Noah, one of the mafia members managing the underground arena.

"Damn, I thought you were finished this time. You always have some tricks up your sleeve, huh? But you know, one day those tricks won't be enough," Noah smirked.

"I know that better than anyone," Evran replied flatly.

"Good. Now, let's talk business. That fight was worth 15 gold coins. You get 20%—so here's 3 gold."

Evran took the three gold coins. After a brief pause, he asked, "How many days do I get to rest?"

"No more than two. Any longer and the old man will kill me," Noah said nonchalantly.

"Fine," Evran sighed, turning to leave.

He had to tend to his wounds himself—no one in the syndicate cared about a low-ranking slave fighter.

If he didn't recover quickly, he'd be forced back into begging. And he hated begging. He despised being pitied.

'In my past life, I had pride. Now, I'm nothing but a slave. What a joke.'

Frustrated, he hid his gold coins carefully, ensuring no one could rob him. In this hellhole, even fellow mafia members wouldn't hesitate to steal from him.

Finally, he reached his small room. He had earned this space after working under The Butcher Gregor, one of the syndicate's higher-ups in charge of the underground arena, illegal weapon trade, and recruitment.

Evran wasn't officially part of the mafia yet. As long as he kept bringing in money, he had some freedom. But was his life only worth three gold coins?

"Damn it… I'll deal with this frustration later. No point in wasting energy being angry."

As he was about to treat his wounds, his door suddenly slammed open.

A young girl stood in the doorway. Around 168 cm tall, with long, unkempt black hair and piercing red eyes. Fatigue and worry were etched in her gaze. Her slim frame was covered in dirt, her pale skin reddened from the sun.

"Vale?"