"Could you show me your entrance card for the Higher Zones, young man?" asked a middle-aged bald man in a navy suit. His voice was practiced and official.
"Sir, aren't we headed to the Lower Zone?" Kethan asked, his tone neutral, though his eyes never left the man's face.
"I still have to confirm whether your stay in the High Zones was legal," the man replied. His patience thinned quickly. "Now, could you please show me an entrance card?" Kethan realized he had severely overestimated the man's tolerance. He exhaled quietly and reached into his coat. "Here you go, sir," he said, handing over the card. Its metallic surface caught the light as he held it out, the military stamp etched deep and unmistakable.
The effect was immediate. The man's eyes widened, his posture stiffened, and whatever confidence he had dissolved in an instant. "M–my apologies, s–sir," he stuttered, suddenly unable to meet Kethan's gaze. "I didn't realise you were an imperial soldier."
"Well," Kethan said after a pause, "I'm technically still a cadet. But… thanks, I suppose."
The man nodded far too many times. "Y–yes. Of course. Have a pleasant day, sir."
"You, too." Kethan replied back. The man moved on quickly, avoiding eye contact as though proximity itself carried risk.
Kethan leaned back into his seat, exhaling slowly. He hadn't expected soldiers to be treated like that. Or perhaps he had and simply didn't want to admit it.
Was it respect they commanded, or was it carefully disguised fear?
The question gnawed at him as the train continued forward.
He turned his gaze toward the window.
Outside, the capital unfolded in layers of white and light. Buildings of marble, stone, and steel rose in careful symmetry, every structure formed from the same materials, painted in the same pale colors, and yet none were identical. Every building was carved with excessive care. Columns curved differently, domes rose at varying heights, and pediments bore reliefs of forgotten victories and ancestral myths. Every structure told a story, just as every person beneath them did.
It was beautiful, undeniably so.
And yet, over that city of light loomed a shadow visible from every corner of the capital.
The Imperial Palace.
A colossal structure of black stone, steel, and rezanium stood at the city's heart like a wound that refused to heal. It towered above everything around it, its summit vanishing into the clouds, leaving a smear of darkness across the capital below. No matter where one stood, it was always there — impossible to ignore, impossible to escape.
Kethan wondered, not for the first time, what the inside of that building looked like.
Does the emperor truly reside there?
In the most noticeable building in the country… no, in the entire planet?
The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the android voice announced smoothly, "we have arrived at the Western Area of the Lower Zone: Sharjia."
Kethan stood up from his seat, slinging his bag over his shoulder as the train doors hissed open.
The air hit him immediately.
It was thick, heavy, and polluted in a way that no filtration system bothered to hide. It burnt faintly in his lungs and tasted metallic on his tongue. He had grown up breathing it, yet after a year away, it felt almost foreign, as though his body rejected it now.
He hadn't been here in a year. And it showed.
He stepped onto the platform and pushed forward, exiting the station without hesitation. He remembered this place well. People gathered near the entrances to smoke, to deal, to forget—only worsening the already poisoned atmosphere. Every breath felt heavier than the last.
As he was walking in these slums again, memories surfaced without warning.
That alley, ten years ago.
He had beaten three boys there: older, bigger, desperate to remind him of his place. Broken knuckles, split lips, blood in the dirt. Even as a child, he'd had to fight for space to exist. The slums had a hierarchy too, but unlike the empire's, it was built on strength rather than blood. Power wasn't inherited; it was taken.
At least that meant someone could climb up in that hierarchy.
The streets were filthier than he remembered. Trash littered the ground, more than before, or perhaps the academy had dulled his tolerance. Buildings were showing their age with crumbling facades, stripped of dignity by time and neglect. The elegant architecture of the Higher Zones was nowhere to be found.
The light of the Higher Zones was always surrounded by the shadow of the slums.
Yet for all its decay and filth, the slums were not empty. Not lifeless.
Criminals and addicts walked these streets, yes, but so did labourers, parents, people who worked themselves into exhaustion just to survive another day. Even the criminals didn't deserve this, Kethan thought. They were products of environment, not monsters born evil.
A voice rose above the noise of the street.
"People of the Lower Zones," an old man preached, "sons and daughters of our empire, come before me. Repent to the Three-Eyed Lord, for only He shall grant you prosperity."
Kethan stopped just long enough to see him.
The priest stood draped in white and red robes, pristine despite all the filth surrounding him. He was quite thin, with only a few strands of hair clinging to his scalp. A heavy moustache obscured half his mouth as he spoke. Imperial guards bearing the symbol of three overlapping eyes stood at his side. Sanctified Blades, the knights of the Church.
"Your suffering is a test," the priest continued. "Return to the Lord, and He shall guide you to greatness."
Disgust twisted in Kethan's chest. He despised them. These priests, the whole damn Church, used religion like a chain on people's necks. They were all hypocrites in his eyes.
Then the priest handed out holy flames — candles meant to cleanse sin — while performing the Lord's symbol with ritual precision: two fingers skyward, then beside the shoulder, then between the brows. The Eye Above. The Eye Among. The Eye Within.
Kethan quickened his pace. He turned sharply into an alley, eager to put distance between himself and that priest. Suddenly, something shifted. His instincts, honed by years of experience in places like these, were screaming at him to stop. His footsteps echoed once, twice and then stopped, swallowed by the silence.
Danger.
He turned slowly, eyes scanning exits that were no longer exits.
Men stepped into view one by one, blocking every way out. Faces hidden behind masks, their were bodies loose but ready, they had the kind of posture that came from repetition rather than confidence. Thugs, not professionals, but dangerous enough in numbers.
'Damn it, I should've sensed this sooner,' he thought.
A voice broke the silence. "You don't look like you belong here, boy," said a slightly short, lanky man with brown hair, dressed in black from head to toe. "This ain't a place for someone dressed like that." He took a step forward, tilting his head slightly. "Just hand over those nice clothes and boots, and we'll be civil. No need to hurt yourself. This can all be over quickly."
Kethan's jaw tightened. That voice – he knew it. He would never forget it.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised his eyes. "Don't you remember me, Luca?" he said. "You always enjoyed beating on the younger orphans. Thought it made you important. You never managed to touch me," Kethan continued, his voice low, venomous. "Not once. And yet here you are, still preying on scraps. You're still the same piece of shit."
Luca froze instantly.
Then his gaze sharpened as he studied him properly now. Surprise flickered across his face, then excitement followed. A grin spread across his face as he pulled his mask down.
"Well, would you look at that," Luca laughed. "Kethan. You're even prettier than I remember." His eyes lingered on the clothes. "Those yours? Or did you steal 'em? At least then we'd be honest thieves."
"I earned them," Kethan replied. "Through my own work."
Luca scoffed. "How? You're not even eighteen. How would a brat like you crawl out of the slums already?"
"I've got my ways." Kethan took a step forward instead of back. "Now move. I've got somewhere to be." Something in his tone made the alley tighten.
Luca chuckled, then slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small knife. The blade was chipped and worn. To Kethan, it was almost insulting.
"Luca," Kethan said calmly, "you don't want to do this. Neither do I. These clothes were expensive, and I'd rather not get blood on them."
Luca answered without words. He lunged forward; the blade shot toward Kethan's neck, fast but sloppy. Kethan dropped his bag instantly, and he slipped inside the strike. His eyes were now fixed on this threat, and he had already mapped out a strategy. His hand caught Luca's arm and twisted it without any hesitation.
Snap.
Luca screamed as his elbow dislocated, the knife clattering to the ground. Kethan kicked it into the sewer without looking, then hooked Luca's leg and threw him over his hip. Before Luca could even hit the ground, Kethan drove a punch into his temple. Lights out.
"That's one." Ketham whispered. He barely had time to breathe before movement flared around him: two attackers.
One rushed from the front, aiming a kick at Kethan's thigh. He blocked it easily and countered with a brutal kick to the stomach. The man flew back, crashing into the wall.
A blade whistled behind him. Kethan turned just in time as the second attacker slashed for his throat. He dropped low, rolling beneath the strike, but the follow-up came fast, the blade flashing back toward his temple. He barely dodged.
This one's trained, Kethan realised. Bigger too. "So," Kethan said, stepping back into range, "you've had some lessons. That makes this more interesting."
The man slashed again, predictably. This time Kethan didn't just drop low, he swept the man's leg. The attacker staggered but didn't fall. His strong base was supporting him well.
Kethan seized the opening and kicked the knife out of his hand. Now it was fair fight.
The man ripped off his mask. Kethan recognised him instantly. Another orphan. One of Luca's dogs.
"You joined the military, didn't you," the man spat. "That's the only way you know how to fight like that."
Kethan didn't answer. He stepped back in; three rapid punches snapped into the man's guard, forcing it high. Then came the leg kick, aimed at his thigh. It landed like a hammer, with the sound of thunder.
The man dropped to one knee. Before he could recover, Kethan's knee drove into his face at full speed. All that remained visible to him was darkness.
He heard the other thug from earlier, rushing at him. Kethan remained calm and before the man landed his strike, Kethan had already dropped low. An elbow, to the jaw, followed up immediately afterwards. The blow sent him sprawling across the floor.
"They were weaker than I thought" said Kethan while breathing heavily.
He stood over the bodies for a moment longer, his chest rising and falling.
A familiar surge of triumph pulsed through him. They were nothing but thugs. Still, a victory was a victory, and it deserved acknowledgement. He did not deny himself that.
They always looked down on me, he thought. Even when they were the lowest of the low. Hierarchy was everywhere. In palaces and slums alike. It could not be erased, not truly. It could only be climbed.
So, Kethan chose to climb, in hope of someday seeing what's beyond that hierarchy.
After a few seconds, he bent down, retrieved his bag, and stepped out of the alley. A spell of sunshine was shining upon the streets of the slums. Even so, the light could not erase the darkness embedded in cracked stone and broken lives.
Yet that darkness held something the Higher Zones never would. Community. No, solidarity.
People here endured together. They watched over one another, shared what little they had, and survived not because of the system, but in spite of it. Even men like Luca could not extinguish that single, stubborn virtue.
Kethan walked on, memories stirring. Many were bitter, but some, though they were few in numbers, carried warmth. This place had shaped him and scarred him. And now, it was time to confront it.
He stopped suddenly. The sign stood crooked above a sagging entrance, one of its metal brackets bent inward.
Sharjia Zone Orphanage.
The building looked worse than he remembered. The beams looked like they could barely hold on, and parts of the steel were rusting. The structure seemed tired, like it no longer wished to stand.
Two orphans around Kethan's age stepped out of the building. When their gazes landed on him, they froze.
"K–Kethan? Is that really you?" the taller one asked, a blond-haired boy. "We thought you left for the Military Academy. Don't tell me you didn't even pass."
The other spoke quickly, nervously. "Hey—look, don't beat yourself up. They're always biased toward nobles anyway. But, wait … where did you get those clothes? That coat, those boots—did you steal them? People like us can't afford leather."
I am not one of you anymore. Not anymore. I moved up, while you two chose to accept being at the bottom, Kethan thought, but he didn't say it.
The only answer they received was silence. He walked past them without slowing, toward the closure only one person could grant him.
As he marched through hallways inside, as filthy as ever, he felt the eyes of countless orphans and staff on him, watching him with confusion and curiosity. Whenever anyone tried to approach him, he answered only with silence. He climbed the final stairs and suddenly stopped in front of a large door.
The name on the door burned into his memory.
Director Draeven.
Just seeing it awakened countless memories that gave him a rush of fury. Mr Draeven, the man who stole state funds meant for children. Who beat those who disobeyed. Who silenced anyone who noticed. He had been entrusted with lives of innocents and rewarded with wealth, power, and immunity.
This damned system rewards and protects monsters like him, Kethan thought. It only rewards those who seize everything for themselves and make up their own rules, not those who play by the rules, not those who endure the rules.
People like him were the kind of people to create and benefit from hierarchies.
I'll have to create my own rules as well, he told himself. This prison won't reward anything else. He decided what the situation required, and he acted.
The door flew open, letting out a deafening shriek. Kethan stormed inside.
Draeven looked up from his desk—a handsome man, blonde, composed. His expression twisted into anger when he recognised him.
"You," he barked. "I remember you. What the hell do you think you're doing, barging in here? Get out of my office right now, before I beat the—"
The kick hit his jaw like a cannon.
Draeven raised his hands too late. The punch that followed felt like it was meant to punch through him. Draeven's face was bashed in, his nose flattened, blood everywhere but Kethan didn't stop there. He couldn't stop there.
He kept going, landing strike after strike. Every strike stirred up a darker memory, which gave him the will to strike harder with each hit. He had become raw, furious and unrestrained. His vision tunnelled, his expression twisted into pure hate.
He could barely recognize himself and lost all control.
Then ... he noticed the gazes of the other orphans watching him. They stood there frozen, and that's when he understood.
This wasn't the closure he was looking for. This was something else.
He forced himself to stop.
Breathing hard, he glared down at the once-proud man: his nose was barely there, his face was covered in blood, his jaw was shattered. Kethan looked at his own hands, knuckles slick with blood, veins standing out.
He had gone too far, but he wasn't finished.
He grabbed what remained of the man and slammed him against the wall.
"Listen carefully," he said, voice low and lethal. "You've poisoned this place long enough. By tomorrow, you resign. You repay every credit you stole, every single one. You ensure your replacement isn't another parasite."
He leaned closer.
"If I come back here and every problem in this place isn't fixed by then, if even one child is still suffering because of you..."
His grip tightened.
"You won't live long enough to regret it. Do you understand?"
"Y–y–yes," Draeven rasped. "I–I'm sorry."
Kethan looked down at him, not just a victim, but a vile memory from the past that he had finally crushed. He released him from his grip.
When he left the office, countless eyes followed him. His exit was nothing like his entrance. This time, not a single person dared approach him. His exit was nothing like his entrance; no one dared approach him now.
Outside, the sun had sunk low. In the distance, the red moon began its ascent, its light bleeding across the sky. It gazed down upon him, and Kethan felt a heavy weight slowly lifting from his shoulders.
The guilt, the crushing weight of leaving this place behind, finally began to fade, slowly. He would still return. He would still watch over the orphans, but he would not be chained by regret anymore. This place would become a home to them.
Something he had never had.
He had closed the door on his past. Now he could face the future without looking back, climb higher than he ever believed possible, and shine brighter than he ever dared to imagine.
Still, the path ahead was long. And before those dreams, his next destination awaited.
The shopping district.