---
For the next few days, Kaito kept close to Ren, learning the brutal, unspoken rules of the slums. Simple truths, harsh and unforgiving, that everyone here lived by.
Rule one: Never trust anyone.
Rule two: Never show weakness.
Rule three: If you have nothing, you are nothing.
The slums of Orario weren't a place for mercy. No one would save you. No one cared if you starved, bled, or disappeared. The strong preyed on the weak, and the weak had two choices—become strong or die forgotten.
Kaito wasn't about to die.
He spent his days watching and listening, studying the savage rhythm of this place. The pickpockets slithered through the crowds, nimble fingers plucking coins and trinkets with practiced ease. Thieves traded stolen goods without a second thought. The enforcers of the local gangs bullied civilians into paying for "protection"—a tax on their existence. Ren had been right: this was a world ruled by strength, and there was no room for weakness.
And Kaito? He had none.
That cold truth hit him hardest when trouble finally came for him.
It happened fast.
One moment, Kaito and Ren were weaving through a crowded alley, the cacophony of the slums thrumming around them. The next, a rough hand jerked Kaito by the collar, slamming him into the nearest wall.
"Well, well," a low voice purred, "look what we have here."
Kaito's head swam, the world spinning. He blinked to focus. A man loomed over him—tall, muscular, with a cruel, predatory grin stretching across his face. Two more thugs flanked him, their eyes glinting with dark amusement.
Ren froze, his body going rigid. "Shit."
Kaito clenched his jaw, his thoughts racing. "You guys got nothing better to do?"
The leader's grin only widened, revealing yellow teeth. "New faces always attract attention. And you?" He tapped Kaito's chest, his nails biting into the fabric. "You've been snooping around, watching too much. Makes people nervous."
Damn.
Kaito had underestimated how quickly he'd stand out. The slums had eyes everywhere, and he'd been too focused on survival to notice how easily he was being tracked.
"Don't worry," the leader sneered, tightening his grip on Kaito's collar. "We'll take real good care of you. Someone out there pays well for fresh bodies."
Slavers.
The word hit Kaito like a fist to the stomach. It made sense now—the group that had tried to grab him when he woke up, and now these guys?
Ren's eyes flicked between Kaito and the slavers, his face shifting from tension to cold calculation. Kaito didn't need to guess—Ren wasn't going to help him.
Of course not. In the slums, no one helped anyone. Everyone was for themselves.
The leader drew a knife, the blade gleaming in the dim light. "Let's make this easy—"
Kaito didn't wait for him to finish.
Instinct took over.
With no weapon, no training, and no experience, Kaito relied on nothing but desperation. He stomped down hard on the man's foot, feeling the sickening crunch of bone beneath his heel. In the same movement, he twisted, slamming his elbow into the man's gut. He didn't hit the right spot, but the thug grunted, more irritated than hurt. The grip on Kaito's collar loosened just enough.
It was enough.
Kaito wrenched himself free and bolted.
"Get him!" The command came in a roar, and Kaito didn't dare look back.
Move. Move!
His heart thundered in his chest, his legs burning as he tore through the maze of alleys. The stench of rotting garbage and sweat assaulted his senses, but none of it mattered. Every step, every breath, was focused on survival. He pushed harder.
A hand snapped around his wrist.
Kaito spun, ready to fight, but it wasn't one of the slavers.
It was Ren.
"Here!" The boy hissed, his voice urgent. He shoved Kaito toward a pile of discarded crates. "Hide!"
Without thinking, Kaito dove behind the junk, squeezing himself into the narrow gap between the crates and the wall. His back pressed against the cold stone as he forced himself to stay as still as possible.
Ren didn't hesitate. He grabbed a loose plank from the ground and tossed it over the opening, covering Kaito's hiding spot. The boy didn't spare him a second glance, moving like he'd done this a hundred times.
Seconds later, the slavers stormed past, their boots echoing off the walls.
"Where is he?!"
Ren shrugged, his tone casual. "Dunno. Maybe he's smarter than you thought."
The leader growled, his voice low with venom. "Don't let him get away. Search everything."
Kaito's breath caught in his throat as the slavers moved past him, the air thick with their menace. The heavy footsteps came so close, Kaito was sure they could hear his heart beating. Ren stood unmoving, his face expressionless, a mask of indifference.
After what felt like an eternity, the thugs finally gave up, swearing and cursing as they stalked off.
Kaito didn't move until the last echo of their footsteps had faded into silence.
Slowly, he crawled out from behind the crates, his chest still tight with fear, his pulse racing.
Ren stood just outside, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in a glare. "You really are an idiot."
Kaito let out a shaky breath. "Yeah. I noticed."
Ren didn't look satisfied by the answer. He stepped forward, his gaze sharp and cutting. "You're weak. You don't know how to fight. You don't have a weapon. You've made enemies already. And if you don't change something, you're gonna end up dead."
Kaito stared at his hands, clenched into fists. His palms were slick with sweat, the muscles in his arms trembling. The grip felt… fragile. Useless.
Ren was right.
The slums weren't going to wait for him to catch up. They would swallow him whole if he didn't find a way to fight back.
If he wanted to live, he had to stop being prey. And that meant learning how to hunt.
—---------
Kaito sat on the cracked rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, eyes scanning the slums below. The city sprawled beneath him like a festering wound—endless rows of crumbling buildings, narrow alleys, and the ever-present stench of desperation. His fingers dug into the rough stone of the roof, feeling the weight of the decision that had been gnawing at him for days.
The near-capture by slavers had been a wake-up call. He couldn't keep running forever. He couldn't rely on his luck, or on Ren, or on some fragile hope that he'd slip through the cracks next time. The truth was staring him in the face: Luck always runs out.
Strength doesn't.
And if Kaito wanted to stop being prey—if he wanted to survive—he needed power. But not just any power. He needed the kind that could change the odds. The kind that could make him something more than a faceless orphan, just another shadow drifting through the gutters of Orario.
Power. He chewed the word over in his mind like bitter medicine.
Orario was a city built on power. Adventurers roamed the streets, their strength and skills flaunted for all to see. Power wasn't some abstract concept here—it was real, tangible, something you could build and grow. Through the Falna, the blessing of the gods, anyone could become stronger. Adventurers weren't just hired swords—they were heroes, wielding skills and magic that could cut through steel, that could reshape the world itself.
But Kaito had none of that. No god would bless him—he was just another lost kid in the slums, a nobody with no standing and no future. But gods didn't just give power to anyone. They gave blessings to those who earned them. And if that meant crawling through the mud, scraping and fighting his way to the top—however dirty it got—then so be it.
He turned his gaze to Ren, sitting nearby with his back pressed against the crumbling stone wall. The kid was chewing on a stale piece of bread, looking about as interested in the conversation as he was in the crumbs on the ground. His disheveled hair and half-squinted eyes made him look perpetually bored, but Kaito knew better. Ren had his ear to the ground in this godforsaken city. In the slums, that kind of knowledge was worth more than gold.
"Tell me about the criminal groups here," Kaito said, his voice low but deliberate. "The strong ones."
Ren paused mid-bite, glancing up at Kaito with a raised eyebrow. There was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by skepticism. After a long moment, he swallowed and smirked.
"Why?" Ren's voice was thick with amusement. "You planning on making a deal with the devil?"
"I'm planning on surviving," Kaito replied, his gaze still fixed on the maze of streets below. "If I can't fight my way up, I'll be smart about it. And if I can't be smart, I'll be useful."
Ren's lips curled into a half-amused sneer. "That's a nice way of saying you want to use people."
Kaito didn't flinch. In Orario, you either got strong enough to stand on your own, or you found someone to stand with. And when you had nothing else? You learned how to play the game.
But even as he spoke, a flicker of doubt crept into the back of his mind. Was this the right path? Once he stepped into the world of criminals, there'd be no going back. Would he be ready for what it would cost him? The thought lingered, but only for a moment—because the truth was, he had no better options.
Ren sighed dramatically, tossing the bread crust into the dirt like it was the most inconvenient thing in the world. "Fine. There are a few heavy hitters in the slums. Small gangs pop up every season, but the real players?" He raised one hand, ticking off names on his fingers.
"The Jackals," he started, "they're brutal, territorial, and mostly deal in extortion and smuggling." He dropped a finger. "Stay away from them unless you want a knife in your back."
Ren flicked his thumb to the next finger. "The Vultures. They run the slavers and assassins, and they're into all kinds of other shady stuff. You don't wanna mess with them—they'll bury you before you even know what hit you."
Kaito nodded, taking in the information. The Vultures were dangerous, but they were also too big, too obvious. They were a threat, but they weren't the kind of threat that fit his needs. Not yet.
Ren lowered his third finger, his gaze flickering over to Kaito with a sharper edge, as though sizing him up. "And the Crows… they're different. Thieves, informants, spies. If something's going down in the slums, chances are they know about it, or they're behind it."
Kaito's mind began to turn, calculating. Information was power, and the Crows had it. If he could get in with them, learn to move in the shadows, he could shift the balance of power without ever having to swing a sword.
"The Crows," Kaito said slowly. "They sound like the best bet."
Ren's smirk was quick, but his eyes sharpened. "Best bet for what?"
"For finding an opening," Kaito replied, his voice taking on a new, determined edge. "Strength isn't just about fighting. It's about knowing where to strike. The Crows are connected. They know where the power lies, and they know how to get it."
Ren studied him for a long moment, chewing on the last of his bread. Then, his lips quirked into something that could have been respect—or maybe it was just recognition. But there was a warning there too. Something unspoken. Something Kaito needed to understand.
"The Crows play their own game," Ren said, his voice softer now, almost too quiet. "If you think you're using them, you better hope they don't decide to use you first."
Kaito stiffened, but didn't back down. He'd heard the rumors about the Crows, about how they manipulated everyone, how they'd use a person up and throw them away once they were done. But Kaito wasn't here to play by their rules—he was here to bend them to his own.
"I'm done being weak," Kaito said firmly.
For a heartbeat, Ren didn't speak, just stared at him, measuring him. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—something like understanding. Then Ren shrugged, a lazy gesture that somehow spoke volumes.
"You're either gonna rise fast… or die trying."
Kaito smirked, the weight of his decision settling deep in his chest. "Let's make sure it's the first one."
—----
Kaito moved through the narrow, crumbling streets of the slums with purpose, the weight of his decision settling heavy on his chest. His destination was clear: the Crows. If he wanted information, they were his best bet. If he wanted connections, they were his best bet. And if he wanted out of the suffocating grip of the slums, they were the first step.
Ren had given him a name—Marek. A mid-level informant for the Crows. Someone who traded in secrets, bribes, and favors. Someone who knew the pulse of the city and who might be willing to talk… if the price was right.
But Kaito didn't have money. Not a scrap. What he did have was his mind—his ability to listen, to observe, to make connections others didn't see. That would have to be enough.
The meeting place was an old, abandoned warehouse at the very edge of the slums, far enough from the city guards' watchful eyes. The building's shattered windows and crumbling brickwork stood like a silent testament to forgotten years. It was the perfect place for dealings that needed to stay hidden.
Kaito pushed open the rusted doors and stepped inside, his boots scraping against the dust-covered floor. The air was thick with the smell of mildew and rot. He spotted Marek almost immediately, lounging against a stack of crates in the corner, his posture lazy but his eyes sharp—always watching, always calculating.
"You're the stray asking around about us," Marek said, his voice smooth like oil. The grin on his face never quite reached his eyes, a hollow curve that was more predatory than friendly. "Dangerous thing to do, kid."
Kaito didn't flinch. He had been through worse. "Information is valuable," he said, his voice steady, his words deliberate. "And I have something valuable for you."
Marek raised an eyebrow, his gaze sliding up and down Kaito like he was a piece of meat. "Do you now? And what would a no-name rat from the slums have that I want?"
Kaito's lips twitched into a smirk. "An opportunity."
He knew this game. Kaito had spent weeks watching the city's underbelly, listening to the rumors, the whispers, the small things that people overlooked. He knew the Crows had enemies—a rival gang was making small, deliberate moves against them. Nothing major yet. Just a few shifts, some backdoor deals, and a handful of whispers about betrayals in the making.
Kaito's offer was simple, but it was enough to pique Marek's interest. He didn't give the whole picture—just enough to make the man want more. He spoke with quiet confidence, his words calculated.
"I've heard things," Kaito continued. "A rival gang is moving in on your turf. They're starting small—shifting loyalties, spreading distrust. Nothing you can't handle yet. But it's coming. And you're not the only one who can smell it."
Marek's grin stretched wider, revealing a flash of sharp teeth. "Not bad," he murmured, his voice low. "Maybe you're not just another street rat after all."
Kaito held his ground, his gaze never wavering. "I don't need money. I need knowledge. I need skills. A way to survive in this city without ending up dead or worse."
Marek chuckled, the sound cold and mocking. "You want power, don't you?"
Kaito didn't flinch, didn't deny it. Marek saw through him, and Kaito wasn't about to lie.
The informant studied him for a long moment, his eyes calculating, assessing. Kaito felt the weight of the silence between them, the unspoken tension thickening the air.
Finally, Marek gave a slow nod. "Alright, kid. I'll throw you a bone. Let's see if you can handle it."
Kaito's pulse quickened, but he kept his face impassive. This was it—the first real step toward something bigger, something that could pull him out of the dirt and grime of the slums.
And he wasn't going to waste it.
——
Kaito had expected his first job for the Crows to be something simple—gathering information, delivering a message, maybe even running a minor errand. Something low-risk. Something that wouldn't stain his hands.
He was wrong.
Marek tossed him a knife.
"Tonight, you're going to prove you're worth keeping around," the informant said, his usual smirk sharper than the blade in Kaito's hands. "There's a man—a traitor. You're going to take care of him."
Kaito turned the weapon over in his grip. The blade was crude but sharp, its weight foreign in his palm. It felt heavier than it should have, as if carrying the weight of what it was meant to do.
"You mean kill him."
Marek chuckled, amused at the hesitation in Kaito's voice. "Of course. What, you think this is just about trading secrets? You want in? This is the price."
Kaito's mind raced. He had thought about violence before—defending himself, surviving—but this was different. This wasn't self-preservation. This was execution.
Marek leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur. "If you can't do it, walk away now. But don't expect another chance."
Kaito tightened his grip on the knife. Walk away? And go back to starving in the alleys, scraping by with nothing? No. He didn't have the luxury of hesitation. If he wanted power—if he wanted to survive—he had to be willing to step forward, no matter the cost.
This was the first real step. And he wasn't going to stop now.
The target was a man named Ludo, a former Crow who had sold information to the Jackals. A traitor, according to Marek.
Did he deserve to die? Kaito didn't know. In the end, it didn't matter. What mattered was whether Kaito had the resolve to do it.
Ludo was cautious, always looking over his shoulder, moving through the slums like a man who knew death was on his heels. But even the careful made mistakes.
Kaito followed him, waiting for the right moment. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his grip tightening around the knife. Could he really do this? His heart pounded as his mind screamed at him to stop. But then he thought of Marek, of what failure meant. He couldn't afford hesitation.
Night swallowed the city in shadow. The air was thick with the stench of damp stone and rotting garbage. In the distance, the muffled sounds of Orario's underbelly carried through the alleys—drunken laughter, the clatter of dice, the occasional scream that no one would investigate.
Ludo turned down a narrow passageway, his steps quick, anxious. He was alone.
Kaito moved.
He struck fast, the blade sinking into flesh. Ludo gasped, eyes wide with shock, his hands scrambling to stop the blood spilling from his gut. He wheezed, mouth opening as if to speak—but Kaito didn't let him. He couldn't.
He drove the knife in again. And again.
Ludo's body jerked, then slumped against the wall.
Silence.
Kaito stood over the corpse, breath sharp and ragged, his heart hammering like a war drum. His hands trembled, his stomach churned. He wiped the blade against his sleeve, but the blood felt like it had already seeped into his skin.
Marek was waiting when Kaito returned.
"Well?" the informant asked, leaning back in his chair, expression unreadable.
Kaito said nothing. He simply tossed the bloodied knife onto the table between them.
Marek grinned.
"Welcome to the real world, kid."
—----------
Kaito sat alone in the dimly lit corner of the warehouse, his fingers tracing the edge of a rusted metal barrel. The air was thick with dust, but it couldn't mask the faint, iron scent that clung to him like a second skin. Even after scrubbing his hands raw in the sink, he could still feel the blood—the warmth, the way it had seeped between his fingers, like a stain that went deeper than skin.
Killing Ludo had been necessary. He knew that.
But knowing and feeling were two very different things.
He'd expected something. Guilt, maybe. Regret. Or satisfaction, perhaps—a twisted sense of accomplishment, a reminder that he wasn't as weak as he once was.
But all he felt was… nothing.
It wasn't emptiness. It was something deeper, something colder.
A realization.
This world demanded strength—strength Kaito hadn't had before. But tonight, he'd taken a step toward it.
He wasn't the same Kaito Fujimura who had arrived in this world, lost and powerless. That version of himself had died in the alley, right alongside Ludo.
And now, sitting in the shadows, he felt it: the weight of a blade, heavier than the one in his hand, settling on his soul.
The door creaked open.
Marek's silhouette appeared, framed by the dull light outside. He strolled in with his usual lazy confidence, tossing a glance toward Kaito, who didn't even bother to look up.
"Still brooding?" Marek's voice had that amused, almost teasing edge.
Kaito didn't answer. His gaze remained fixed on the bloodstains on his hands that wouldn't wash away.
Marek didn't seem to mind the silence. He plopped down on the opposite side of the room, kicking his boots up onto the table with a casual ease. "You did good, kid. Efficient. No hesitation."
There had been hesitation. Kaito could feel it now, gnawing at the edges of his mind. But he didn't correct him.
"You'll get used to it," Marek continued, eyes scanning him with a sharpness that Kaito hadn't yet gotten used to. "The first one's always the hardest. After that, it gets easier."
Kaito's jaw tightened. "I don't want it to be easy."
Marek smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Then you're already different from most. That's good. You're not some mindless killer. That makes you valuable."
Kaito met his gaze, eyes steady but untrusting.
Marek reached into his coat and pulled out a small pouch, tossing it onto the table. It clinked softly. "Consider this your first payment."
Kaito eyed the pouch but made no move toward it. The coins were no more than a token. His survival didn't hinge on a few valis.
"You did the job," Marek prodded, his tone light, almost too casual. "Take the reward."
After a moment, Kaito finally reached out and picked it up, fingers brushing against the cold leather. He had nothing in this world—not a home, not safety. If he wanted to stay alive, he'd need resources. And this was a start, no matter how small.
"Good," Marek said, satisfaction lining his voice. "Now, let's talk about your next step."
Kaito raised an eyebrow. The weight of the valis in his palm was an oddly tangible reminder that he wasn't done here yet.
Marek watched him for a moment before speaking again, voice low. "You're smart. You've got nerve. But you're still weak. If you want to rise, you need to learn how to fight."
Kaito's lips parted to speak, but Marek cut him off.
"Don't tell me you already know how to fight. I've seen enough street rats to know what that looks like." His eyes sharpened, a flicker of something more serious behind the flippancy. "If you want to play in the big leagues, you need to be something more. And I'm not talking about brawling like an animal."
Kaito felt a flicker of defiance—he hadn't asked for this. But Marek was already one step ahead of him.
"Fortunately for you," Marek said, standing up with a half-smile, "I know a guy."
The "guy" turned out to be an old mercenary named Garrik.
The moment Kaito laid eyes on him, he understood why they called him a "mountain of a man." Garrik was thick with muscle, his body hardened by years of combat. A grizzled beard covered most of his face, and a scar ran down his left cheek, disappearing beneath the patch where his eye should have been. The other eye, a dull, bloodshot orb, seemed to take in everything without blinking.
"That's the brat?" Garrik grunted, his voice like gravel.
Marek's grin widened. "He's got potential."
Garrik snorted, unimpressed. "We'll see about that."
Without waiting for Kaito to react, Garrik tossed him a wooden training sword, the weight of it unfamiliar in Kaito's hand.
"Come at me."
Kaito blinked. "Shouldn't you teach me something first?"
Garrik cracked his knuckles, a sound that made Kaito's stomach tighten. "Lesson one: If you wait for permission to fight, you're already dead."
Before Kaito could react, Garrik moved with terrifying speed. The world flipped on its axis, and suddenly, Kaito was flat on his back, gasping for air. His vision spun as the taste of blood filled his mouth.
"Too slow," Garrik said, his tone almost bored.
Kaito scrambled to his feet, shaking off the disorientation. His pulse hammered in his chest, but there was no time to dwell on the sting of humiliation. He lunged again.
And again, Garrik threw him down, without so much as breaking a sweat.
This repeated over and over. Kaito's arms screamed for mercy, his body aching with each failed attempt, but he refused to stay down. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his vision blurred with exhaustion.
Finally, after the umpteenth time he was knocked to the ground, Garrik grunted in approval, wiping his hand across his face as if he'd just done a light warm-up.
"You don't give up," Garrik said, a grudging respect in his voice. "That's good. But you fight like a street rat."
Kaito wiped blood from his lip, staring up at Garrik with defiance. "Then teach me how to fight like something else."
Garrik let out a dry laugh, a sound that held no kindness. "Alright, kid. Let's see if you can keep up."
And so, Kaito's real training began.