"I don't even remember how I got here... I just remember his words echoing in my head..."
"If you disappoint me... I'll kill you myself."
And now\... I'm awake.
A ceiling, pure white with golden trims, stared back at me.
No cracks. No mold. No rotten smell like the alleys.
This... was another world.
I slowly sat up.
The mattress was soft. Too soft. It felt like it was trying to swallow me whole. I had never... never felt anything like this before.
Looking around, I saw an enormous wardrobe, a polished wooden dresser, heavy curtains blocking the sunlight, and a full-body mirror.
And right next to the bed... a table.
With fresh bread, cheese, fruits, and a jug of milk.
Real food.
I stood up and walked to the mirror.
For a second... I didn't even recognize the person staring back.
Black hair, now clean, falling over hollow eyes. A pale, thin face marked by deep dark circles... but no dirt. No grime. No scars of hunger.
On the chair... clothes.
Not rags.
Real clothes. Black, with golden linings. Light fabric... smelling of something I didn't even recognize. Soap.
I ran my hands across the fabric.
My chest tightened.
"Food... a bed... clothes... money..."
My gaze shifted to the family crest hanging on the wall.
A crow holding a sword stabbed into the ground, wrapped in thorns.
"...And power."
I clenched my fists.
A fire started burning inside my chest. Not fear.
Something else.
"If all I need... is to please that old man... then fine. Easy."
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Three sharp knocks on the door.
— "Get dressed." — A cold, firm voice came from the other side. — "Your training starts now."
I took a deep breath.
Looked at my reflection one last time.
Grabbed the clothes.
"Let's see..." — I muttered. — "...how far I can go."
---
The path to the training yard was short.
Two servants led the way in absolute silence.
Neither looked at me.
Not even a hint of acknowledgment.
"Just a rat in fancy clothes."
When the doors opened... the smell of sweat, metal, and blood hit me.
There they were.
Waiting.
▪ Combat Master.
Tall, broad-shouldered, completely bald. Scars lined his face and arms, screaming that this man wasn't just an instructor... he was a killer.
He looked at me. A crooked smile. Pure disdain.
— "So you're the... improvised heir..." — he spat on the ground. — "If you think a surname makes you strong... you'll die quick, boy."
▪ Magic Master.
A skinny old man in a dark blue robe, lined with golden runes. His eyes, hidden behind thin glasses, dripped with contempt.
— "Never seen trash turn into gold..." — he adjusted his glasses. — "But life's alchemy sometimes plays tricks."
▪Etiquette and Politics Mistress.
A tall blonde woman, elegant dress, sharp gaze, bitter expression.
— "Everything about you screams... street rat." — she crossed her arms. — "How you walk, talk, breathe. We'll start by fixing that... before I puke."
I didn't reply.
Didn't smile.
Didn't look away.
"If this is how you want to play..."
"Then let's play."
---
— "We'll start with the basics." — The combat master cracked his neck. Bones snapped loudly. — "Let's see if you can... at least stand."
No warning.
He rushed.
BAM! — A kick to my stomach.
I flew back, crashing to the ground, lungs screaming for air.
Gasping, I forced myself up.
My body screamed.
But before I could fully rise...
POW! — A punch to my jaw.
Back to the ground.
— "Get up, worm." — His voice cut like steel. — "If you can't even handle this... better dig your grave now."
I spat blood.
But I stood.
Another kick. Another fall.
Another punch. Another fall.
Again. And again. And again.
My body burned. Ribs felt like they'd snap. Legs trembled.
But... I wouldn't fall forever.
On the tenth try, he came with another punch.
I raised my arms, blocking it.
It hurt. Nearly shattered my bones.
But... I didn't fall.
For the first time... I stayed on my feet.
The master raised an eyebrow.
And smiled. Small. Cold. Barely noticeable.
— "Hmph. At least... you're not complete trash."
---
By the time training ended, I was on my knees.
My whole body shaking.
Sweat. Blood. Pain.
Then... a shadow loomed over me.
I looked up.
A butler. Black suit, white gloves, expressionless face.
He tossed a set of formal clothes into my lap.
— "Get up." — His voice was dry, arrogant. — "The Duke... and a guest... are waiting for you."
He adjusted his gloves, staring down at me like garbage.
— "And I suggest..." — he narrowed his eyes. — "Don't embarrass yourself more... than you already do... just by existing."
He turned and walked away.
I stayed there.
Chest heaving.
Blood dripping.
But holding on... because I knew, clearer than ever:
If I slip... I die.