On a narrow road deep within the slums, where the poor and desperate gathered like flies to decay, a boy of about fifteen walked briskly. His grey shirt was worn thin, patched over countless times, and his brown trousers had been stained by so much dirt that telling fabric from filth was nearly impossible.
Slung across his back was an old, battered skin bag.
Despite his ragged appearance, he didn't seem bothered in the slightest. His stride was steady, his expression relaxed, and a faint, almost amused smile curved his lips as he made his way down the cracked stone path.
But under that smile, his stomach twisted sharply with hunger, an old, familiar ache that never truly left. The dried root he'd chewed on that morning had done nothing but mock his empty belly. He could almost feel the acidic burn in his throat. Two days without a proper meal. Maybe three. Hard to tell anymore. The ache was constant. Hunger had become part of him, like the old blindfold tied around his eyes.
People spared him the occasional glance, but beyond his poverty, it was that blindfold that drew attention. It was a tattered strip of cloth, brownish-red, like a rag soaked in blood and left to dry under the sun. There was no smell of rot, though—perhaps because whatever blood once stained it had long dried, leaving behind nothing but questions for those curious enough to wonder.
And they did wonder.
They whispered behind closed doors and in quiet corners of ramshackle taverns.
"That kid... saw something he shouldn't have, years ago near the ruins. Light brighter than lightning, but silent. Fried his eyes. They say he screamed for hours."
"Nah. He blinded himself. Cultivation gone wrong. Happens to trash bloodlines like his."
"Could be he's cursed. No one loses their eyes to light unless it's punishment. You ask me, he saw something meant to stay buried."
Whispers like this only further added to the mystique surrounding Lucian.
And only Lucian knew what he'd actually seen that day, a truth locked behind the scarred fabric covering his ruined sight, and a memory that burned sharper than his hunger.
"Oi, brat! You kill another mutated rat again?"
A mocking voice cut through the street's usual murmur.
"Haha! It never stops being funny how this slum rat only ever goes for other slum rats," another voice followed, laced with cruel laughter.
Two figures stepped out to block his path—two older boys, seventeen or eighteen at least. Their clothes were nearly identical to his, but theirs were cleaner, with fewer patches and tears.
"Open your bag. Let's see what you caught today," the one on the left ordered, already reaching for the strap without waiting for a reply.
Around them, the passersby slowed, then stopped entirely, wearing expectant smirks like an audience waiting for a show to start. No one moved to intervene though. Why would they? This was Yellow-Vale, a slum town in the Outlands, a fringe settlement pressed up against the edge of an ancient ruin.
Out here, anything went, and scenes like this were as common as dirt. But the amused expressions on their faces weren't just because they wanted to watch someone get beaten up.
The seasoned residents of Yellow-Vale knew this blind boy called Lucian. He had built a small reputation in Yellow-Vale.
They knew he might have been blind—but he sure as hell wasn't weak and he definitely wasn't the type to roll over and die.
Nobody bothered with sympathy in a place like this. Violence was currency, and fights were entertainment. Some in the crowd were already placing quick bets, murmuring odds on whether this would end with blood, bruises, or broken bones.
CRACK.
The sudden sharp sound echoed as the blindfolded boy neatly sidestepped the older youth's outstretched hand and drove his fist directly into the boy's nose. Blood sprayed, and the youth staggered backward, clutching his face in shock.
"You little shit… you'll pay for that!" the bleeding boy growled, casting a quick glance at his partner before they both lunged forward together.
Lucian's body shifted automatically. His stance wasn't elegant, but it was solid enough. Both fists rose to eye level out of instinct, not sight.
The two older boys charged, hoping their superior size and numbers would overwhelm him.
A swift step to the left took Lucian under a wild punch, and his uppercut snapped the first attacker's head back, eyes rolling slightly as his brain scrambled for focus. Without hesitating, Lucian shoved him sideways, straight into his partner's path.
The other youth dodged, teeth clenched, hoping to catch Lucian exposed. For a second, it looked like he might land a blow.
But Lucian was already gone.
Using his smaller frame to his advantage, Lucian had darted to the side, twisting around both of them. His foot lashed out in a clean roundhouse kick that caught the second boy square on the temple. The youth crumpled like wet paper, unconscious before he hit the ground.
In one smooth motion, Lucian spun again, delivering a brutal roundhouse to the recovering first boy, who barely got his hands up before the kick smashed into the side of his head, sending him to join his friend in a heap on the broken stones.
Silence.
Lucian stood for a heartbeat, listening to the sounds of breathing and shifting feet from the onlookers, then gave his head a small shake and smiled.
The hunger still gnawed. The ache still burned. It was frustrating, how even small victories never seemed to fill that emptiness. But frustration was pointless. Either you starved or you fought. That was Yellow-Vale's only lesson.
Above, the sky had darkened to a strange, washed-out grey, streaked with faint yellow veins like bruises beneath sickly skin. The weather had been off for weeks now, rumors spoke of unnatural storms deeper in the ruins, wild energy from machines waking up after centuries of silence. Old machines that still worked. Mutated beasts had started showing abnormal behaviour.
With that, he slung his old skin bag back into place and continued down the road, whistling a tuneless melody to himself.
The crowd dispersed like nothing significant had happened, except for a few muttered curses from those who had bet against him. One sharp-eyed old man grinned, pockets slightly heavier now after betting on the blind kid.
Out here, ancient ruins were the broken bones of civilizations long past. Whatever era they came from was a mystery spoken of only in bedtime stories and drunken tavern ramblings. But every so often, fragments of those ancient worlds rose again. A ruined city, a floating spire, a cracked machine still humming with forgotten power... Power beyond human imagination.
And Yellow-Vale was more than just a slum it was a scavengers' camp, a parasite feeding on the corpse of the ancientcity behind it. The old ruins stretched for miles, dangerous and wild, but filled with wealth for those brave or rather stupid enough to enter.
Stories told of beggars becoming kings after fateful discoveries, of forgotten families rising to prominence overnight after stumbling upon relics no one else could claim. Of powers so vast they could shatter empires, if only you could drag them out of the broken ground.
That was why settlements like this existed, to catch those moments of fortune like fishermen waiting for a rare, golden catch. A haven for the desperate, the greedy, and the brave.
In a place like this, cruelty was entertainment, and hope was a gamble.
Lucian knew that better than anyone as he walked back home.
Or at least, to the place he slept. Home was something other people had.