Thunder rumbled nonstop across the night sky, while the rain continued to drip steadily onto the muddy ground. Amidst the chaos, a frail, pale-looking young man sat under a tree, outside a rundown tavern, soaking wet, and feeling every bit as miserable as he looked. His hair was a mess, his clothes torn in places, and his stomach ached from hunger. Most of all, he was standing barefoot on the cold, wet soil.
Alator looked down at his calloused, bare feet, now covered in freezing mud. Two years had passed since the refugee wardens threw him out of the iron gates. He could still hear the clattering sound of the gate as it shut behind him, followed by the harsh voice of the head warden.
"You're sixteen now, boy. You're old enough to take care of yourself. So get out."
Standing outside the refugee camp that no longer welcomed him, he watched a group of kids his age through the fence as they huddled inside the camp, enjoying the warmth and care.
They were still being taken care of. But he was the one that was kicked out without pity. Since that day, Alator had lived a life worse than death. He had lived on the street without a place to call home or even a shelter to lay his head. He only sleeps from one tavern to another, and that's if he wasn't kicked out before midnight.
He rubbed his thin arms, feeling the lack of muscle and traces of his bones peeking out from his skin. Sixteen years is the peak age for every lucky kid in the Wastelands to participate in the Bloodline Awakening Ritual and awaken their Soul Essence, then embark on the path of a Mage. But Alator wasn't that lucky. He was an orphan, with no memory of who he is or where he came from. He only had the hunger gnawing at his ribs.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips, turning into a cloud of mist in the cold air.
"If only Old Han was still alive."
He closed his eyes and for a second, he wasn't in the mud anymore. He felt as if he was back in the dirty yard of the camp, watching Old Han's steady hands move through a martial arts form as him and other kids followed each of his moves.
The old man had been the closest thing to a guardian he had ever had. He took care of Alator and some other kids at the refugee camp, teaching them martial arts and survival skills. They used to sit around the campfire with the old man, telling them stories of the Awakened and Legendary Mages. That story had given Alator a strong sense of purpose, and he strongly clung to his desire of awakening his Soul Essence one day, hoping to become a Legendary Mage so people would tell his stories too. But after Old Han died, things became extremely difficult for Alator.
After Alator grew up, he went to the edict hall of the refugee warden to inquire about his personal information, which should contain his name, hometown, family name, or at least, the name of the person who brought him to the camp and why he was brought here. However, when Alator got to the edict hall, he was shocked to discover he was the only one without a single piece of information on his tab, except his name that was written with a disgusting handwriting. Not even a surname was attached to it.
"How the hell did I end up here? Did I really fall from the sky or what?" Well, that was Alator's thought at that moment.
He glanced at the steel pendant around his neck, shaped like a crescent moon. He had been wearing this pendant ever since he was a child, so he believed it might have some connection to his family.
As Alator was sitting under the tree, two drunk men walked out of the tavern and made their way towards him. One was slim while the other was a bit chubby.
"Hey kiddo, why are you always sitting here? And where are your parents?" the chubby one said, swaying slightly.
"Maybe his parents abandoned him because he was useless. Just look at him. He looks like trash," the slim one said.
"Hahahaha!" The two burst into laughter.
"It must have been tough, kid, living such a miserable life at such a young age. Why don't you consider committing suicide? At least your trashy parents will be proud of you for once," the chubby man mocked.
"Hahahaha!!" This time, their laughter was even louder than before.
Alator slowly got up and took a step forward, planning to walk away from the two drunk men. But the chubby man suddenly grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back.
"You dare walk out on me?" the man said and swung his right hand forward to slap Alator. But before his hand could reach him...
Alator caught his hand before it could even reach his face. He roughly twisted the man's wrist unnaturally.
"Crack!"
Breaking his wrist and holding it in place.
"Ahhhhhhhhh!" The man screamed at the top of his lungs from the excruciating pain assaulting his hand.
"You..." The slim one was startled, and it seemed like he had gotten a hangover all of a sudden after seeing his colleague in that situation.
"Let him go!" He yelled and punched towards Alator's face.
Alator raised his left hand and grabbed the useless punch.
"No... no... no!!" The slim man pleaded, anticipating what Alator was about to do. Alator smirked and equally broke his wrist as well.
He raised his leg and kicked them aside. The two crashed on the wet dirty ground, crying and writhing in pain.
He purposefully stepped on their injured hands, eliciting a miserable cry from them.
Alator began to walk away from the tavern as his feet splashed against the puddles left by the rain.
He still desired to become a Mage, but his current problem right now was money. He was broke as hell, and he needed money so badly right now. Not that he couldn't get money through the usual way, but he had decided not to engage in dangerous activities anymore. He wanted to do something better with his life. Hence, he was planning on joining the Scripers to earn money and probably actualize his dream of becoming a powerful Mage.
As Alator was walking, a cold wind blew past him, and he shivered a bit. He reached into his wet coat, pulled out a dirty hip flask, and took a sip. A taste of sour alcohol burned his throat and warmed him just enough to remind him he was still alive.
"Ahhh!"
He grimaced at the sour taste that hit his tongue.
"That should do the job."
He suddenly smiled as he just remembered the two drunk thugs insulting him earlier.
"Idiots," Alator shook his head. "Yeah… I guess I'm no better."
He was no different from them after all. He was practically a drunkard, a thug, and a gamb... Well, he wasn't a gambler, though. He never used his hard-earned money to gamble. But in actual sense, it should be. He never used the money he stole from people to gamble.
Survival had forced him into the same life he mocked—stealing, hustling, doing whatever it took to keep living. Even then, life was brutal enough that he sometimes wondered if he had been better off dead.
Alator was currently living at the outskirts of Raven's Peak Domain. So it was normal to find these kinds of people all around.
Right now, Alator was on his way, heading to the Storm Scripers camp. But he knew he had not even Awakened his Soul Essence yet, so joining the Storm Scripers is impossible. But he still wanted to give it a try.
Alator continued to walk ahead, through the narrow path with bushes on either side of him. As he raised his head, he saw a shadow standing far ahead in the distance.
"Yeah... that useless shadow stalker."
Alator was familiar with this shadow, which has been stalking him ever since he was a child, but it has never said anything to him or tried to approach him. Even when he wanted to approach or talk to it, it would suddenly disappear. The weirdo was only hiding and following him around. However, Alator had grown used to it; hence, he wasn't affected by its presence anymore. As long as the shadow didn't try anything funny, he was okay with it.
And just as he expected, before he could get close, the shadow vanished into the bushes without a trace.
"Well, I would like to learn that trick anyways."
After like thirty minutes of walking, the Storm Scripers Garrison, stationed in the outskirts, finally came into his view. He stopped in his tracks and gazed at the structure in the distance, thinking of his next move.
He smiled as he thought of sneaking into the garrison through the sewers, but the smile on his face was soon wiped off when he realized how hilarious the idea was. If people learned about his thoughts right now, they would probably laugh him to death. A Dormant sneaking into a Mage Garrison and hoping not to get caught. In fact, before someone like Alator would even approach the Arched Gates, he would be spotted immediately.
A loud horn suddenly rang out from the garrison. Scripers began to rush out of the buildings; sharp voices and yells filled the air. Within a few seconds, everywhere had descended into chaos.