People like to believe suffering builds character.
That's a lie.
Suffering doesn't build anything.
It either breaks you… or teaches you how to break everything else first.
I learned that lesson the hard way. Six years ago. The day I woke up in a body that wasn't mine. The day I realized that the world doesn't care, and survival isn't a choice. It's a law written in blood, hunger, and bone.
My name is Vashryn. I am fourteen years old. My companion, my anchor, my reminder that I still have a reason to breathe, is Zion, also fourteen but somehow softer, more human than the both of us should be at this age. His brown hair is perpetually messy, his blue eyes bright like shards of crystal reflecting a sky he's only glimpsed from the streets, and he possesses a stubborn hope that doesn't belong in a place like Winchester City.
The city never sleeps. Not truly. Even at night, when the alleys are quiet, there's a rhythm—a low hum of footsteps scraping against stone, the clinking of merchant carts, the distant bark of guards, drunken laughter spilling into shadows, and someone always screaming, somewhere, because someone always has something taken from them.
The Avalon Empire calls Winchester a jewel, a prosperous center of trade and influence. I call it a feeding pit, a place where only the strong eat and the weak vanish without anyone ever noticing.
Zion walks beside me, clutching the sleeve of my worn tunic with fingers too thin for his age. He keeps the pace silent but steady, his eyes darting, searching, always calculating. I don't notice anyone. I never do. My focus is survival, and that means the environment, the threats, and where the next meal might be hiding.
"Vash," Zion whispers, "the bread stall's open."
"I know," I reply without turning my head.
"Are we… stealing?"
"We're eating," I say.
"That's stealing."
I glance down at him. He flinches. "…We're reclaiming misplaced food," I clarify.
He sighs, exasperated. "You always say that."
"And I'm always correct."
We slip into the crowded street. I move first, a shadow among shadows. Zion follows precisely three steps behind—close enough for me to grab if danger strikes, far enough that he doesn't get caught in the initial chaos. The stall owner is yelling at some unruly child, and we exploit his distraction. Bread vanishes into my sleeve, smooth, precise, clean. No one notices us.
Then a shadow looms. A thick hand clamps down on my wrist. I look up. Heavy armor. Lazy eyes. A guard. One of those who finds joy in small, meaningless displays of power.
"Got you, rat," he sneers.
Zion freezes. I don't. My knee drives upward—desperate, not skilled. The guard grunts, and I twist free. "Run."
Zion doesn't hesitate. Good. We sprint, weaving through the crowd, boots pounding the cobblestones. People scatter, shouts pierce the night, and I take a hard turn into a narrow alley. Zion almost slips; I yank him upright. Survival is instinct. Instinct is everything.
By the time we reach the collapsed warehouse near the slums, our lungs burn, our hearts pound, but we are alive. We collapse behind a pile of broken crates. Silence. Then breathing. Then laughter. Zion laughs first, high and nervous, relief bleeding through every note. I don't laugh. I count. Bread: one loaf. Enough for today. Not enough for tomorrow.
Zion looks at me. "You didn't have to punch him."
"He grabbed me."
"He's a guard."
"And?"
He opens his mouth, then closes it. That happens a lot. We sit beside each other, break the bread, and I give him the larger piece. He pushes it back toward me. "…Half," I mutter. He smiles. Small victories. Necessary illusions.
I glance around the streets. Humans mostly, a few Beastkin mercenaries, elves are rare, dwarves almost never. The Avalon Empire paints a picture of equality and coexistence, but this city doesn't lie. The rich, the nobles, the guards, they are predators, predators hiding behind laws and customs that only serve themselves. The slums? We are prey, but prey with teeth.
Vastoria, Drakoryn, Lunaris, Borealis, Pyros, Edenreach, Astryx. Continents sprawling and untamed, each with its own powers, empires, and dangers. I know these names from overheard drunken scholars or merchants boasting of their travels. It doesn't matter. Power decides everything. Strength decides everything. And I intend to have enough of it that no one, and nothing, can dictate terms to me.
Zion is my only tether to anything resembling empathy. My only reminder that this existence is not just about cold calculation and survival. He is soft, expressive, hopeful—but he also learns from me, silently, in ways I cannot admit. When he flinches at the cruelty around us, I notice, and when he stands resolute, I take note. We are two halves of a necessary whole: one ruthless, one soft, both unwilling to die.
We settle beneath the warehouse for the night. The crawlspace shields us from rain and most vermin. Zion arranges our few possessions meticulously, a ritual to maintain a sense of human order. I allow it. He needs illusions of control; I do not. I watch the city from our hidden vantage point, noting movements, noises, and opportunities. Every shadow could conceal danger or salvation.
We speak sparingly. Every word counts, every observation is recorded mentally. "Vash, do you think people are born evil?" Zion asks.
"No."
"So they become evil?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"They choose what benefits them."
"That sounds sad."
"It's efficient."
He frowns but doesn't argue further. His innocence will erode eventually. I only hope it's not entirely by my hand. For now, he is my brother, my responsibility, my one constant.
Night deepens, but we do not sleep fully. Eyes open, ears listening. I make mental maps of every route, every hidden corner, every escape path. The world will demand more than bread and shelter; it will demand calculation, ruthlessness, and patience. We prepare.
And when morning light seeps through cracks, we are ready to move again—hungry, cautious, and alive. Tomorrow, the city will try to take something else from us. And tomorrow, we will be ready. We are Vashryn and Zion, the boy who refused to break and the boy who believes in him, surviving a city that sees no mercy.