The market buzzed with activity. Vendors shouted their wares, children darted between stalls, and the hum of conversation filled the air. Ryne sat hunched by the side of the road, his outstretched hand trembling slightly as he pretended to beg. His mind was far from the hunger gnawing at his stomach, or the chill that crept into his bones.

He was thinking of the future—the future he had already lived.

"I have to quickly escape from this hell hole," he thought, eyes scanning the crowd. His memories of this place were clear, the suffering etched into him from years spent groveling for scraps.

But as he watched the people passing by, he extended his hand to them in hopes of gaining a coin or two. He had learned to perfect the art of begging, knowing when to look pitiful, when to lower his head, and when to flash a fleeting, desperate glance. The coins came slowly, but every one counted.

"Not like it matters," he thought bitterly, rubbing his hand over the few copper coins he'd earned today. "I won’t be here much longer."

He had plans. This slum was only temporary, a stepping stone toward a larger goal.

His eyes flicked to a group of guards patrolling nearby, their armor glinting in the late afternoon sun. His jaw tightened. "Avoid them," he reminded himself. The guards in this district were corrupt, always looking for someone to exploit. He’d seen them drag away beggars before, never to be seen again.

"I need to find a quiet place" Ryne thought, his gaze lingering on the guards as they passed. He put a dirty cloth on his face, masking his face further from their sight. "Soon. I just need to hold out a little longer." The familiar scent of roasted meats and baked bread wafted through the market, teasing his empty stomach, but he pushed the hunger aside. He had been through worse.

Gathering the meager coins he'd collected, he slipped away from the bustling market, weaving through narrow alleys lined with crumbling brick and rotting wood. The streets here were a labyrinth, but Ryne knew them well.

Finding a secluded corner behind an abandoned shop, Ryne sat in the shadowed corner, crossing his legs and settling into a meditation pose. His back pressed against the cold, crumbling wall as he closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply. He let the noises of the market fade into the background, trying to focus on sensing the flow of prana within him.

But now, in this frail body, it was like trying to grasp smoke.

"Was my old body this useless?" he thought bitterly, his hands clenching momentarily before he forced them to relax. His old self had been powerful—invincible, even—at least until everything had been stripped away. Now, in this life, it felt like starting from scratch, trapped in a body that lacked the strength.

His breathing slowed, and he reached inward, searching for even the faintest flicker of prana. For a long moment, there was nothing—just the dull ache of his stomach, the dirt caked on his skin, and the weariness that weighed down his limbs.

"I need to build the semi-core quickly," he reminded himself, "that's the only way I can start my journey once again."

He remembered the process well—years of practice in his past life had drilled the steps into him, but this body… it felt foreign, as if it resisted the flow of prana he sought to create. His breathing deepened as he channeled what little energy he could into his core. He envisioned it: a tiny spark, on his solar plexus. It wasn't enough to form a semi-core but

it was a start. That faint flicker of prana, though minuscule, gave Ryne a sliver of hope. It was the foundation upon which he would rebuild himself, no matter how fragile it seemed right now. He had done this once before, but this time, the stakes were different—higher.

"It will grow," he told himself. "I just need time."

He opened his eyes, breaking the meditative trance, and sighed in frustration. His stomach twisted with hunger, a reminder that his time was limited. Meditation wouldn't feed him, and his body needed nourishment if he was going to survive long enough to fully rebuild his power.

Ryne stood up, brushing off the dust from his ragged clothes. His eyes sharpened as he scanned the alleyway. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself yet, not with his strength so depleted, but he also couldn’t afford to starve.

He slipped back into the bustling streets, his mind already formulating a plan. If he couldn't rely on his strength yet, he'd rely on his cunning.

As he walked past a stall selling cheap bread, his hand darted out, quick and practiced, snatching a loaf when the vendor's back was turned.

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As he ran with the bread loaf, the vendor saw him and started to throw things at him.

The vendor’s angry shout pierced the market’s din as Ryne darted away, clutching the stolen loaf to his chest. The sound of pottery shattering behind him echoed through the narrow streets as the vendor hurled objects in his direction.

"Thief! Stop that boy!" the man bellowed, drawing the attention of several passersby and nearby guards.

Ryne’s heart raced as his feet pounded against the cobblestones. He wove through the crowd, ducking between carts and stalls, his lean body slipping easily through gaps too narrow for those chasing him. But he knew he couldn’t outrun them forever.

The guards—greedy for a bribe or just bored—joined the pursuit. Ryne could hear their armor clinking as they pushed through the market after him. He needed to lose them, fast.

Ahead, the alley split in two. Without hesitation, Ryne veered left, diving into the darker, more labyrinthine streets of the slums. Here, the buildings were taller, casting deep shadows that cloaked him from view. His breath came in ragged gasps as he clutched the bread tighter, refusing to let go

He darted around a corner and found a low wall, just tall enough to block someone’s view if they weren’t looking too closely. Without a second thought, he vaulted over it, landing in a heap of discarded crates and rags. The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for him to crouch between the walls, but it was hidden.

He pressed his back against the wall, struggling to catch his breath as he listened for the sound of footsteps. They were close—too close. The heavy clank of the guards’ boots echoed, growing louder, then quieter as they passed his hiding spot.

Ryne stayed still, waiting until he could no longer hear them before exhaling in relief. His hand reached for the loaf of bread, now slightly crumpled, and tore into it hungrily. The bread was stale and dry, but to Ryne, it might as well have been a feast.

As he ate, he saw the sun setting, it is about time that he need to return to the old woman.

Ryne stood up, brushing the dust off his worn clothes once more, and set off in the direction of the woman’s home. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the alleys. The dimming light made it easier to move through the streets unnoticed, but it also meant that the more dangerous figures of the night would soon emerge.

As he approached the small shack she called home, the smell of damp wood and mold greeted him. The door creaked open at his touch, and the inside was just as dark and cramped as always. The old woman sat near the small hearth, she knew he was there the moment he stepped inside.

"Did you bring coins? Or rice?" She asked, when he looked up he saw children with broken arms and fresh burn marks lying around. On her left hand he saw a small iron stick which was glowing in red colour.

"Just like my previous life huh?" He said to himself, then he take out a small cloth bundle from his dress and toss it over the old woman.

"Here this is today's howl" he said.

The old woman caught the bundle mid-air with surprising agility, her gnarled fingers unfurling the cloth to reveal the few coins Ryne had gathered. She inspected them with a scowl, her pale, cloudy eyes narrowing as she muttered something under her breath.

"Not enough," she gnawed, "get on the floor" she said that to him as she take a big stick from the corner of that room.

Ryne’s body tensed, but he kept his face impassive. His eyes flicked momentarily to the children lying on the floor, their faces hollow and expressionless, conditioned to silence in the face of cruelty. The old woman gripped the heavy stick in her hand, her twisted features darkening with displeasure.

"On the floor," she repeated, her voice icy. "You think you can give me this pittance and walk free? You’ve grown lazy, boy."

Ryne didn’t move immediately, his mind racing. The sting of humiliation rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down. He had to endure, just a little longer. Once he rebuilt his strength, this old hag wouldn’t have any power over him. But for now…

Slowly, he lowered himself to the floor, hands and knees pressing into the dirt. He could feel the children's eyes on him, their silent fear echoing through the small, suffocating room.

The old woman loomed over him, raising the stick. "This’ll teach you to bring more tomorrow."

Her voice grated like nails on stone. She swung the stick down with surprising strength for someone of her age, landing a heavy blow on Ryne's back. Pain radiated through his body, but he clenched his teeth, refusing to make a sound. He'd experienced worse in his previous life, and this, compared to what was at stake, was just a minor inconvenience.

The stick came down again, harder this time. His muscles tensed, but he stayed still, his gaze fixed on the ground. He could hear the old woman breathing heavily above him, grumbling as she struck again and again.

"Lazy… good for nothing…" she spat between hits, her anger like poison.

"When I rebuild my semi-core, I'm going to kill you first you fucking old hag." He said that in his mind, while she was continue to beat him.

The old woman’s breath came in ragged gasps as she slowed, her fury spent. She tossed the stick aside, sneering down at him with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction.

"Get up," she hissed. "And don't think you can come back here tomorrow with the same excuse. More coins, or next time, I won’t be so merciful."

Ryne pushed himself up slowly, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He stood, his head lowered to hide the smoldering rage burning in his eyes. "Yes, of course," he muttered, his voice deliberately meek.

Without another word, the old woman turned and limped back toward the hearth, her stick clattering against the floor as she went. Ryne stood there for a moment, the firelight casting long shadows across the dingy room. His gaze shifted to the children, who had watched everything in silence, their eyes hollow and resigned. They were trapped here, just as he had been.

Ryne turned on his heel and left the shack, stepping out into the night. The cool air hit his face, and he inhaled deeply, trying to push the seething anger to the back of his mind. He would escape this wretched place. He would grow stronger. And when the time came, he would make the old woman pay for every strike, every word of disdain.

Walking through the darkened alleys, Ryne could feel the prana inside him, faint but present. He clenched his fists, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Just wait," he thought. "I’ll be free soon."