The stench of the dead scavengers still clung to the air. Kael, his small body weary, stood over the motionless forms. His hands, still stained with fresh blood, tightened on the rusted blade. Elian, in the sling across his chest, stirred, a soft, sleepy sound.
His first kills. Two lives ended by his hand. He felt no remorse. Only a cold, stark clarity. This was what Dirtspire demanded. This was what survival meant.
He retrieved the meager supplies from the dead men. A few dried, tasteless rations. A small pouch of grimy water. Scraps of crude fabric. Every item was a hard-won prize.
The ruins of Dirtspire felt heavier now. More oppressive. Staying meant more fights like this. More desperate struggles against those who had nothing left to lose. He knew, with an instinct far beyond his years, that this was not a path to sustained survival for Elian.
His gaze lifted. Beyond the shattered skyline, a faint, bruised glimmer. The distant city. Unscathed by the Cleansing, a beacon of order in this chaotic realm. A place of relative safety. A place with resources.
And a place that might hold clues to Carn Malach. The dark, towering figure that haunted Kael's waking thoughts. The monster who had stolen everything.
He began to walk. Not back to their small, makeshift burrow. But towards that distant glimmer. Towards the promise of something different. His bare feet, bruised and cut, found a new, determined rhythm on the rubble. Each step was a silent declaration.
The journey was arduous. Days blurred into weeks of relentless travel. He moved like a wraith, a shadow threading through the forgotten paths of the devastated landscape. He skirted around the most destroyed sectors, occasionally spotting other survivors – a lean, fast Aspectual with slightly blurred vision, a bulky Beastkin moving with surprising quiet, all ghosts of a forgotten world. He avoided the few patrols of Upper Realm enforcers, their Arcane signals crackling faintly in the distance.
He kept to the deepest shadows, moving with a practiced, silent grace that belied his young age. Clutching Elian close, he became acutely aware of every rustle, every distant sound.
He ate whatever he could find – desiccated fungi, stray rodents he managed to corner with his growing cunning, even insects. He drank from muddy puddles, filtered through scavenged cloth, or licked the dew off rusted metal surfaces in the pre-dawn chill. His small body, wiry and toughened by constant hardship, grew leaner, more resilient. His single eye, constantly scanning, missed nothing, absorbing every detail of his bleak surroundings.
One evening, after what felt like an eternity of relentless travel, they saw it clearly. The outer wall of a city. It rose impossibly high, a towering rampart of gleaming, reinforced composites, untouched by the Cleansing's fury. Lights flickered on its surface, a stark, almost blinding contrast to Dirtspire's perpetual gloom.
This was not an Upper Realm city. It was still the 9th Realm, but a civilized, privileged enclave. A trade hub, built by those who had amassed enough wealth and power to carve out their own order amidst the chaos. A bastion of false peace in the Scorned Abyss.
Kael approached the towering gate. It was heavily guarded. Two hulking figures, clad in crude, reinforced armor, stood watch. These were Gromms, their skin a mottled, rough grey like ancient stone, their faces broad and impassive, their strength legendary. They were known for their unwavering loyalty and formidable physical might, often employed as enforcers in the 9th Realm's few organized bastions. Their massive, sharpened axes gleamed faintly.
He paused just out of sight, observing. He saw others approach – rough-looking merchants, a few desperate-looking families. A Techborn, his arm replaced with whirring chrome, tried to negotiate. A small Arcanian, cloaked and shivering, offered meager charms. They were questioned. Some were allowed entry after presenting glowing passes or exchanging heavy sacks of coin. Most were turned away, their desperate pleas met with cold indifference.
He knew what he had to do. He had to try.
He walked out of the shadows. A child of barely three, clutching an infant, a rusted blade too large for his small hand. His left eye socket was a grim, empty hollow, a stark testament to his recent past. His single, visible eye, wide and unnervingly cold, stared directly at the Gromm guards.
The Gromms eyed him. Surprise flickered in their stony gazes. Then, quickly, contempt.
"Look what the dust dragged in," one grunted, his voice like grinding stone. "A lost whelp. And a brat."
The other guard, a larger Gromm with an old, jagged scar across his brow – he seemed older, perhaps a veteran – stepped forward. His shadow loomed over Kael, engulfing the small figure. "Where is your tribe, child? You cannot enter without a sponsor. Or coin. This city does not feed the destitute." His voice was deep, devoid of pity.
Kael didn't speak. His throat was dry. He simply stared. Unblinking. His small body radiated a strange, unyielding stillness. He didn't understand "sponsor" or "coin" in this context, only that he was being rejected.
The first Gromm scoffed. "No coin, then. Get out of here, child. You'll only starve outside anyway. This isn't Dirtspire anymore. We don't need your kind." He made a shooing motion with a massive hand, dismissing Kael as if he were vermin, a nuisance to be swatted away.
Kael stood his ground. He didn't move. He couldn't. Not when Elian's survival depended on finding a way into that glittering, unattainable world. His mind, though young, was already singularly focused.
The larger Gromm, Gorok, watched Kael. He saw the child's defiance. The unblinking eye. The way he clutched the infant. Gorok had seen despair. He had seen fear. But this child showed neither. Only a cold, unyielding resolve. Something resonated within him. A flicker of something ancient, something honorable.
"Hold," Gorok rumbled, raising a hand to stop his impatient comrade. He knelt, his stony face brought closer to Kael's level. "You have spirit, boy. A kind of strength not often seen. Unbroken."
Kael continued to stare. His eye was sharp, distrustful.
"The city does not take pity," Gorok continued, his gaze piercing. "But it respects strength. Bring me the fang of a Frostfang Ravager from the Northern Peaks. A full, unbroken fang. One that has claimed a dozen lives. Do that, and you will have earned your entry. Honorably. Without owing any man."
He gestured towards the colossal, jagged peaks to the north. A place of legend and terror. A place where beasts of immense power roamed freely.
Kael's gaze flickered to the mountains. Then back to Gorok. He understood the challenge. A Frostfang Ravager. A monster known even in Dirtspire's whispers. An impossible feat for a child. But it was a way. The only way. He had no money. No sponsor. This was the only door into the city he could open.
His small head didn't shake in refusal. Instead, a grim, terrifying comprehension settled in his eye. He understood the terms.
Gorok watched Kael's expression, a flicker of surprise in his ancient eyes. The child didn't flinch. He didn't cry. He simply understood.
"As you wish," Gorok finally stated, his voice a low rumble. "My offer stands until it is met. Until then, you are not permitted at these gates." He rose, his massive form casting a long shadow.
Kael turned. He looked at the vast, jagged silhouette of the Northern Mountains. The Frostfang Ravager's fang. A symbol of impossible strength. A proof of worth.
He tightened his grip on Elian. He turned from the gate. He walked. Not back into the ruins. But towards the mountains. Towards the north. Towards the unknown dangers.
He would earn his way in. Not through their gates by paying coin, but by a challenge that would demand every ounce of his burgeoning, unyielding will. He would find another path. A harder path. A path carved with his own hands, owing nothing to anyone. He would gain resources there. He would kill monsters and sell their parts. He would return, not as a beggar, but as one who had earned his place.
The distant city lights shimmered, a tantalizing illusion of safety he could not reach. Yet. His resolve hardened. His single eye fixed on the looming, dark shadows of the Northern Mountains. This was the next battleground. And he would survive it. For Elian. And for the vengeance yet to come. His legend, not of power, but of unyielding will, had found its new, brutal training ground.