In the Kingdom of Ashley, law did not rule strength does.
The weak were torn apart in silence, their lives crushed beneath the boots of those who possessed weapons or influence. The nobles and aristocrats, once meant to be pillars of order, allowed their greed to run uncontrolled . Even the ruling family itself—the House of Ashley—had lost its authority and prestige, becoming a name rather than a true power.
In the far south, at the kingdom's edge, stood a city known as the Southern Border.
A city not built for life, but for oblivion.
Here, murder was routine, theft a necessity, and starvation a constant companion. It was home to those the world had cast aside the oppressed, the forgotten, and those whose fates no one bothered to ask about anymore.
In one of its poorest districts, a small boy stood before a blacksmith's shop.
His gaze was fixed upon a sword hanging by the door not displayed for sale, but as a sign of its owner's business . Dark eyes clung to the metal, filthy white hair fell over a thin face, and old scars were visible beneath ragged clothes that barely covered his body.
There was no curiosity in his stare.
Only greed.
The blacksmith noticed him and stepped outside angrily, gripping his cane.
"Get away from here, you filthy brat!"
The boy flinched and fled into the alleys, yet his eyes never truly left the sword, as though refusing to part with it. To him, it was more than a piece of iron it was a meaning to survive, perhaps something more.
The boy was an orphan.
No one had ever given him a name.
He named himself Arion, after hearing once the tale of Arion Ashley, the founder of the kingdom, a man who had begin poor, just like him, and rose through strong will and strength until he reshaped the world around him. The name was a silent promise he made to himself, even if he did not yet understand its full meaning.
Arion ran through the narrow alleys until he reached a ruined house barely worthy of being called one. He slipped inside through a narrow opening, where an old man stood, his eyes harsh, surrounded by several children of similar age.
"What did you gather today?"
His tone was commanding, intolerant of delay.
Arion pulled a few battered copper coins from his pocket.
"Five pieces."
It wasn't much, but in these districts, it meant everything. The man took the coins, a satisfied smile forming on his face.
"That's why you're my favorite."
He laughed, then tossed him a piece of bread.
"Consider it a reward."
The man's name was Beiro. He claimed to run an orphanage, but in truth, he enslaved the children sending them into the streets to gather money, rewarding those who succeeded, and breaking those who failed.
That was Irion's life.
He wasn't content with it, but neither did he possess a goal strong enough to truly hate it. Ignorant of the world beyond the alleys, he accepted his reality as it was, day after day.
Until something began to change.
Whenever he saw a knight pass through the city with a sword at his side, or a mercenary laughing as he boasted of his strength, something stirred within him. He witnessed how the weak were killed, how their rights were torn away without resistance.
And he didn't wanted… to be like them.
One day, while begging near a tavern crowded with mercenaries, he overheard one of them say:
"Today's hunt was good, wasn't it, captain?"
A massive man replied, a mug of beer in his hand:
"Indeed. The number of monsters is increasing, and the more there are, the more cores we collect."
Arion earned little money that day, but he gained something far more valuable: a glimpse of another world a world with no place for the weak.
That night, he made his decision.
He would leave the city.
After finishing his begging, he did not return to the den. Instead, he veered toward the outskirts of the slums, to a place even the poor despised approaching. Filth was piled high, and the stench was suffocating, as though the city had dumped everything it no longer wanted there.
The moon began to rise as the sun faded behind the clouds.
Arion searched through the heaps.
It should be here…
He found a rusted box and opened it.
Inside lay a small, ancient dagger, its hilt shattered, barely fit for killing.
He grasped it.
"That will be enough."
A cold smile appeared on his face.
"I'll take the sword today."
He hid the dagger and headed back toward the blacksmith's shop.
But the sword was no longer hanging outside.
"Damn it…"
he muttered.
He approached the door quietly. Inside, the sound of hammering rang out. The blacksmith was working, fully absorbed in forging another blade. The sword Arion desired lay on a table beside him.
He took a breath and entered.
The blacksmith didn't hear his steps.
Arion advanced, his heart pounding violently, his hand trembling around the dagger. He had never killed anyone before.
But hesitation was no longer an option.
He lunged.
The dagger pierced the blacksmith's back.
A scream. Blood. Chaos.
The man spun around in fury, raised his hammer, and struck. The blow hit Irion's hand it was burning hot. Irion screamed, but the pain did not stop him.
The blacksmith's body convulsed. That moment was enough.
Arion stabbed him in the stomach, and the man collapsed to the ground.
"Why…?"
the blacksmith asked as he bled out.
"The sword."
Irion answered without hesitation.
"You could've… taken it…without taken my soul…"
the man murmured, then breathed his last breath.
Arion stood there, staring at the blood on his hands.
One question passed through his mind… then vanished.
He picked up the sword.
Felt its weight. Its coldness.
"I finally have you."
He set the shop ablaze, took a coat to hide the blood and the evidence, and fled.
He passed through the gates of the Southern Border City without anyone stopping him.
The sword on his back, the coat concealing his poverty.
Outside the walls, he stopped and took a deep breath.
"So this… is the taste of freedom?"
He smiled and walked down the road.
He did not know what is waiting for him is it freedom…or a new hell.