Ale left his apartment, clutching the few silver and bronze coins in his pocket. The night had been long and uncomfortable: the cries of a baby through the thin walls, the constant creaking of floorboards under his neighbors' feet, and worst of all, the hard mattress that felt more like a rock than a bed. His fatigue made his hunger even more persistent, and he headed toward the small bakery he had spotted the day before.

The sun barely pierced the gray veil of the winter morning, casting a pale light over the slums. Ale walked past the dilapidated buildings until he spotted the worn sign of "Henry vs Martha Bakery."

A small line had already formed outside the chipped wooden door. Through the dusty window, Ale could make out a man with a broad frame, a shiny bald head, and wide shoulders, slowly kneading dough. Behind him, a lively, chatty woman moved between the counter and the oven, her face showing the signs of exhaustion despite her energetic demeanor.

When it was Ale's turn, the woman greeted him with a warm smile.

"Ah, a new face! Good morning, young man. Looking for some good bread to start your day?" she asked with a light laugh.

Ale, still a bit quiet, nodded. "Yes, just a loaf of black bread, please."

The baker, who had been focused on his dough, glanced up for a moment. His eyes, though tired, were sharp and observant, as if he could guess each customer's story with a single look. "Black bread, five bronze coins," he grumbled, his deep voice echoing in the small shop.

As Ale fished out his coins, Henry resumed his usual complaint. "I'm telling you, Martha, if prices keep rising like this, we'll have no choice but to turn to the black market for flour. The main square market is bleeding us dry."

Martha rolled her eyes while keeping her smile. "Ah, Henry, always grumbling! Who knows what they put in that black market flour? Probably sand or ashes. I'm not poisoning our customers. Come on, speed it up with those loaves! We've got people waiting!"

Henry shrugged in resignation, kneading the dough with the slow weariness of a man burdened by life. Ale slid his coins onto the counter, and Martha, ever cheerful, handed him a warm loaf of black bread.

"Here you go, young man," she said with a wink. Then, in a lower voice, she added, "When there are leftovers, I sometimes give them to regulars, so don't hesitate to come back."

Ale smiled faintly, touched by her unexpected generosity. He took the bread, feeling its warmth against his hands in the cold air. As he walked away, he heard Henry's voice call out behind him.

"Prices are going up again, I'm telling you! We'll have to…"

Ale sighed, making his way to a small grocery store nearby to buy some rillettes. A bell tinkled softly as he entered, announcing his presence in the modest shop. Behind a heavy wooden counter, a round man in his fifties was busy organizing products. Though small in stature, the man radiated boundless energy, his quick movements contrasting with his otherwise calm appearance.

The grocer froze as soon as Ale stepped in, eyeing him from head to toe, his small eyes gleaming with curiosity. After a brief silence, he spoke with a wide smile:

"Ah! A new face, huh? You're not from around here, are you?" His voice was clear and friendly, brimming with disarming familiarity.

Ale nodded. "Yes, I just moved into the neighborhood. I'm looking for some rillettes."

"Rillettes, you say?" The grocer stroked his chin thoughtfully before gesturing toward a shelf behind him. "I've got some, but they're not cheap these days. Prices have been climbing. Tough times, even for honest merchants like me, you know." He winked as if sharing a secret with Ale.

Ale watched the man handle the products behind the counter with swift and precise movements. Finally, the grocer handed him a jar of rillettes.

"That'll be fifteen bronze coins. Best you'll find around here. But keep an eye on the prices... I'm telling you, if things keep going this way, I might retire early! Sell the shop, find myself somewhere sunny... if I can find a buyer, that is, with all the thieves running around these days."

Ale handed over the coins, noticing the grocer's chatty but sincere demeanor.

"And let me give you a bit of advice, kid," the grocer added, placing the coins into an old drawer. "Be careful around here. You've got honest folk like me, but then there are… the others." He lowered his voice, glancing toward the door. "There are people you want to avoid if you don't want trouble. The Red Band—you've probably heard of them already, haven't you?"

Ale nodded.

"Yeah, well, they're not to be messed with. They control a lot around here, y hey'll make you pay for everything, even for breathing if you give them the chance. And there are some places you don't want to be." He narrowed his eyes, his expression serious. "Stay away from the bottom of the slums, where real trouble brews. You'll see things there… things you don't want to get involved in."

Ale remained silent, absorbing the information.

The grocer then leaned in slightly, as if ready to share another secret. "And one last thing... Be careful with that church over on the square. It may not look like much, but the people running it… they're not exactly saints, if you catch my drift. The priest there, he's got a strange taste for money. Rumors say he's tied up with the Red Band. They claim to help the poor, but we all know it's not that simple. Just keep your eyes open."

Ale frowned. "Are they connected to the Red Band?"

"No one says it out loud, but if you ask me, it's fishy. A lot of poor souls who go through that church end up in some nasty situations. Be careful."

Ale nodded, unsettled by the revelation. The grocer, still smiling, tapped the counter lightly before adding:

"I'm telling you all this because you seem like a good kid. But watch where you step. This neighborhood can be treacherous."

Ale thanked him, and as he was about to leave, the grocer introduced himself.

"By the way, name's Renan. If you ever need anything, feel free to drop by. I like chatting with my customers, even if it's just to complain about prices!"

Ale smiled back. "I'm Ale. Thanks for the advice, Renan. I'll definitely stop by again."

Ale then went to the place, he sat by the fountain, pulling out the black bread from his bag and carefully spreading a thin layer of rillettes on it. He cut it into three equal parts—one for each meal of the day. Chewing slowly, he savored the brief moment of calm.

As Ale took another bite, a man approached quietly. He appeared to be over sixty, his white hair and beard wild and unkempt, showing signs of years spent neglected. He wore mismatched layers of tattered clothing, a mix of worn fabrics and blankets to shield himself from the biting cold.

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The beggar hesitated before speaking in a raspy voice, his eyes barely meeting Ale's.

"Excuse me, young man… Do you have a coin? Or maybe some bread? I haven't eaten all day."

Ale hesitated for a moment. His own resources were meager, and he didn't know how long his provisions would last. But looking at the old man's condition, he couldn't bear to send him away empty-handed. With a sigh, he broke off one of the pieces of bread he had saved for later and handed it to the beggar.

"Here."

The old man's eyes lit up with silent gratitude. He sat next to Ale, eating slowly, savoring each bite as though he understood the value of every crumb.

As Ale gazed at the imposing church a few meters away, a question nagged at him.

"Why don't you ask the church for help? Aren't they supposed to help people in need?"

The beggar swallowed a mouthful with difficulty, glancing around cautiously before lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.

"The church..." He shook his head. "It's not as charitable as you'd think. Beggars like me, we're not welcome there. We've got nothing to offer in return, so they ignore us. We hold no value to them."

Ale furrowed his brow, intrigued. The old man continued.

"You see, the church only helps those who can give something back. And even those they do help… they squeeze them for everything they've got." He lowered his voice even more. "They offer loans to struggling families, but the interest rates are so high that people end up owing ten, sometimes a hundred times what they borrowed. When they can't pay anymore… that's when the thugs, the Red Band, come knocking. I've seen whole families end up on the streets because of them. The poor lose everything, and they end up here, in the darkest corners of the slums."

Ale felt a chill, not from the winter air, but from the darkness of what he'd just heard. The old man kept speaking in hushed tones, casting worried glances around.

"Be careful, young man. Everyone talks about the church as if it's a divine institution, but in truth, it's just as corrupt as the Red Band. They work hand in hand."

The beggar finished his piece of bread, chewing slowly before turning to Ale with a bitter smile.

"My name's Chance. Funny, right? 'Cause I've never had any chance in life." He chuckled softly, though his laughter was filled with bitterness. "I once had a family, a job, but fate took it all away. Now I'm too old to work and too tired to beg more than I need."

Ale nodded, respecting the silence that followed. Then Chance added:

"But I know things. A lot of things. Even as a beggar, you learn things, just by listening here and there. If you ever need information about the slums, just come find me. A piece of bread or a few bronze coins, and I'll tell you what you want to know."

"Thanks for the information, Chance. My name's Ale. And... I'll be back. I'll bring you something to eat."

Chance nodded slowly, his wrinkled face softening a little at those words.

After parting ways with Chance, Ale continued to circle the square, his eyes drawn to an imposing building directly across from the church.

On the side of the two-story building hung a faded sign that read "Tavern of the Saints." The irony was not lost on Ale, who smirked at the sight. The ground floor housed a bustling tavern, but unlike regular taverns, this one seemed to be a den for mafiosos. Through the open windows, Ale glimpsed men wearing red scarves—the distinctive uniform of the Red Band. Their loud, raucous laughter and lively chatter spilled into the streets, accompanied by the smell of hot food and alcohol that warmed the otherwise freezing air.

The tavern entrance was heavily guarded by two hulking figures with their arms crossed, their sharp eyes watching every passerby. No civilian dared to get too close. Ale could feel the weight of their scrutiny pressing down on the square. From behind thick curtains on the second floor, he could make out faint silhouettes, keeping a close watch on everything that transpired below.

After leaving the square behind, Ale ventured deeper into the narrow alleys of the slums, heading towards his apartment. As he walked through the poorly lit streets, he came across a forge that stood in stark contrast to the otherwise crumbling surroundings. A wooden sign above the door depicted a hammer and anvil, and the rhythmic sound of clanging metal echoed from within. The sign read: "Ironhearth Forge."

Curious, Ale stepped inside, drawn by the warmth and the scent of iron. Inside, he was greeted by a group of dwarves—renowned blacksmiths in all of Eldoria. The forge blazed with life, weapons and armor proudly displayed along the walls. Ale briefly glanced at the prices. A simple steel sword cost at least 20 silver coins, and a basic but sturdy leather armor went for 50 silver.

Ale sighed quietly. These prices were far beyond what he could afford right now. He gave the blacksmiths a respectful nod of thanks before leaving, his mind now fixated on the need to earn money quickly if he was going to properly equip himself.

Continuing his journey, Ale passed by another tavern, far more modest than the Tavern of the Saints. The laughter and chatter spilling out of this place had a much lighter, more cheerful tone. Inside, it wasn't mafia members, but regular townsfolk gathering to momentarily forget their worries. The worn wooden facade exuded a sense of simplicity, but the atmosphere seemed far more welcoming.

He kept walking, eager to discover the deeper parts of the slums. But the further he ventured, the more the landscape shifted. The already fragile homes became little more than makeshift shelters. Rudimentary wooden shacks and scrap-built huts were stacked haphazardly atop one another, creating a labyrinth of narrow, twisting alleyways. The paths were muddy and poorly maintained, and the few faces Ale passed bore the heavy toll of life in this part of the city.

Ale sensed that he had gone far enough. The atmosphere was growing increasingly oppressive, and there was still much he needed to learn about this district. For now, it was best to turn back.

As he retraced his steps, he cast furtive glances around, trying to commit the winding streets to memory. It would take time to understand the slums, but one thing was clear: here, the law of the street and the rule of the Red Band reigned supreme, and every shadowy corner likely concealed more secrets than Ale could ever imagine.