The slums of the Outer District reeked of forgotten lives.
Dilapidated buildings leaned like dying trees, their wooden frames brittle and flaking with rot. The streets were little more than cracked stone alleys, flooded with muddy water from last night's rain. Children with hollow eyes scavenged for bread crumbs. Rats were kings here, and hope was currency no one could afford.
Jorik Vaelgard sat alone on a crumbling stairway, elbows resting on his knees. His small frame was wrapped in ragged clothes barely fit to call rags.
But his eyes—those eyes burned with experience no child should ever have. They studied the world not as prey, but as a hunter.
He had spent two days since awakening in this body.
Two days of silence. Watching. Remembering.
The boy's memories were clear now—painfully so. His life had been a chain of commands, beatings, poison training, and silent assassinations. The name "Father" was only spoken in reverence by those too ignorant to know the truth. Malric Sythros was not a parent. He was a puppeteer.
And this puppet had snapped its strings.
Jorik's hand drifted to his chest.
"Still no pulse acceleration. No heat spikes. Not even a whisper of mana." He muttered.
The body was weak. Malnourished. The elven side gave him sharp instincts and high mana affinity, but the human side... it dulled everything.
"Unbalanced hybrid physiology," he diagnosed grimly. "I need strength. Soon."
Suddenly, a shout echoed from a nearby alley.
"GET BACK HERE, THIEF!"
A young girl—perhaps six—bolted past him, clutching a moldy loaf of bread. Behind her, a burly shopkeeper and two street enforcers chased her down.
Jorik's fingers twitched.
Let it go. She'll get caught. It's not your business.
But something else—something deeply human—rose inside him.
He stood.
He didn't run. He simply walked—measured, silent, precise—until he intercepted the enforcers mid-charge.
"Move, brat!" one of them barked.
Jorik raised his hand calmly.
The enforcer tried to shove him.
Wrong move.
In one clean motion, Jorik twisted the man's wrist, redirected his momentum, and slammed him face-first into the cobblestones.
Gasps echoed.
The second enforcer lunged.
Jorik dropped low, swept his legs with a perfect pivot, and stood before either man hit the ground.
The crowd—filthy and voiceless moments ago—stared in awe.
"Run," Jorik said to the girl.
She did.
The shopkeeper growled. "You damn half-breed—"
Jorik's stare cut him off.
Cold. Regal. Absolute.
Not the look of a slum orphan.
The look of a monarch.
---
That night, Jorik sat atop a ruined bell tower, looking over the slums under moonlight.
"This body is fragile. My swordsmanship is shackled by atrophied muscles. And I lack mana flow… Still, the core of who I am remains."
He clenched his fist.
"I will rise again. No matter the world. No matter the odds."
And as if answering that vow…