Jett was now on the main avenue once more, this time walking in front of the buyer, every bone in his upper torso felt a fiery pain.

Every step accentuated his sluggish state.

"Alright, I won't run," Jett defeatedly huffed as he turned his head backward. "What's your name, old man? Let's get to know each other."

"Old man? How insolent," the man's tone took a dark shift. "You amuse me, but you should hold your tongue before it runs dry. And I have no need for a chatterbox."

"Why should I? You're going to kill me anyway, might as well have some amusement of my own before I die." Jett said.

"Oh? And why do you think that I'd kill you now?"

"Because you're a military man, and I have nothing else of value but my Soul."

Jett could tell from the man's clothes hidden beneath the cloak, his power, the way he carried himself.

From Jett's knowledge, that could only mean he was part of the Kingdom's forces.

In Shacktown there were long tales of those who could wield powers, that which could push far past the boundaries of mankind.

They weren't to be feared for the power they had.

No. They were feared for all the men they had killed to obtain such a power.

The man laughed. "Quite an intuitive deduction, but you severely overestimate your Soul's value."

'So he's not going to kill me?'

They continued down the avenue's sidewalk, quickly approaching the gate to the Upper City.

While this alarmed Jett, he was more focused on learning about his buyer and his intentions.

"So? What's your name mister? And why did you buy a boy of low birth such as myself?" Jett said, intentionally exaggerating his politeness.

"I'm Maros, a Storm Warden. As for your outcome, we'll get to that later. Do you even have a name?" Maros said.

'Storm Wardens? He's part of the city guard, maybe he's high-ranking?'

"Jett," he said, slightly annoyed at the insinuation.

"Well, Jett, take this, wrap it around your face, do not let the guards see your face," Maros said, handing Jett a large black cloth.

With the cloak and mask, Jett was unrecognizable. Maybe the raggedy pants and shoes he was wearing would give him away, but it was obviously not an issue worthy for Maros to point out.

'But why would a high-ranked guard need to hide me from... the guard? Is he scared of getting caught for going to an illegal auction? No, that can't be it.'

Maros approached the guards stationed at the gate to the upper city, bringing down his hood to reveal his face.

The Upper City gate was completely unlike the other entrances, which were more normal gateways in the walls of the layered city.

Instead, it came equipped with a single drawbridge and a massive moat to pair with absolutely towering walls, only rivaled by the outer walls.

"Greetings Captain. Is this one with you…?" the guard said, looking at Jett in confusion.

"Ah, yes," Maros said before walking up to the guard, whispering something into his ear with a conceited, downward gaze.

"Of course sir, understood," the guard said, motioning to the other Storm Wardens.

The pair stepped through the massive archway.

Just like that, Jett became one of—if not the only—Shacktown native to step foot in the Upper City.

***

The Upper City itself was a massive upgrade to the middle and lower cities.

Stores were increasingly extravagant, larger than any building in the middle city.

Massive mansions filled with color, land, gates, windows, and servants, were common and 'normal.'

It was in complete opposition to anything else Jett had ever experienced.

The streets were filled with carriages, military men, and nobles in extravagant outfits, flaunting their wealth.

Everything was pristine. It was the antithesis of Shacktown.

Now Jett was here. More specifically, he was in a smaller neighborhood, in a less extravagant mansion, owned by Maros, on the outskirts of the upper city.

This mansion still made every piece of architecture Jett had ever experienced look like garbage.

Perfectly shapen stone walls, massive glistening windows, supporting beams, and a triangular rooftop.

It maintained a geometric simplicity that many other mansions ditched for a gross amount of decorative curves and adornments.

The manor had a sizeable lawn with a thin but still protective metal gate.

The front entrance had two paths that branched out.

The right path went straight to a stable far off to the side while the other path on the left looped around the mansion.

Maros unlocked the massive front door and entered. Jett followed.

Shutting the door may signal reprieve, but if anything it was akin to a trap for Jett.

Something about this whole ordeal made him anxious.

"What are you going to do with me?" Jett said confrontational. His stance was wide and expressive of nerve.

Maros sighed. "Here. Sit down on the floor and cross your legs."

While tentative, Jett knew better than to resist.

He complied, slowly sitting on the carpeted floor that led to a wide staircase, in the large foyer where they stood.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"You aren't going to die. Quite the opposite. You will thrive. I will make you thrive." Maros said as he slowly paced around.

The statement piqued Jett's interest, but he had learned that these types of deals always came with a catch.

"How can I trust you?" Jett said.

"You can't. I wouldn't trust me either. But you don't exactly have a choice. This is your life now, but it will still be much greater than your old one, I assure you."

Maros's stern words echoed throughout the hall, and through Jett's mind.

'Was that meant to be inspiring?'

"Your first duty is to sit here and search for your Soul Realm. The only tip I can give you is to visualize from your heart. Think about the lives you've taken."

Maros began to walk away before then turning back around.

"If you really need something, my housekeeper Joanne will be around. But you are not to move until you can do it reliably."

With that, Maros left the room, leaving Jett on his own.

'What? He leaves me alone, just like that?'

Jett sat in the empty foyer, his legs touching the soft carpet.

While he looked at the door, he had learned his lesson.

This was all a facade to test his loyalty; Jett couldn't escape if he wanted.

As for his task, Jett wasn't very familiar with the term 'Soul Realm'.

Thinking back, at the auction the suited man called him 'Soul Released' and 'Storm-Blessed'.

At least for 'Storm-Blessed' he could infer that it was the result of him being swept away by an insurmountably deadly natural force of the Soul Storm and surviving.

The other term he would probably have to ask.

Jett closed his eyes, visualizing the inner workings of his own being.

He placed himself from the perspective of his heart, looking up and reaching at his brain which stood at the top of his body's mountain.

'The lives I've taken…'

…

…

…

His first was as a child.

A sickly old man in an alley approached, his lanky fingers tried to grasp for his legs, arms, anything.

Jett remembered the savagery in his crazed eyes, the primal fear it induced in his own, frightened and shivering core.

The man crawled, his claws digging into the muddy alley, forcing Jett into a dead end.

He seized the heaviest rock he could muster, raising it above his head with every ounce of energy his little frame could exert.

When he brought the rock down, the broken man was then chipped; the back of his skull bled.

The fear never went away.

Jett continued to chip away at the broken man, till the beast's head was shattered entirely, his corpse twitching in a deathly torpor.

Blood, bone, brain matter. A slosh of red painted a monochrome canvas.

A feeling of euphoria, birthed from the dousing of adrenaline, the removal of fear gave way to a sensation of power.

…

He remembered when he was nearly a teen.

A child of his age straddled atop him, beating Jett with all his might as he curled in a protective ball.

When the boy finished beating on the bruised Jett and walked away with his victory, all the fury and rage Jett had ever felt boiled and released.

Jett rose to his feet and snuck up behind the clueless youth.

A straight to the back of the boy's head caused his body to go limp.

Half his body slowly sunk into the mud, the one visible eye of the boy was glossy and lifeless.

Ecstatic power drowned out his fear and disgust.

…

A girl much older and stronger than he stole a rat Jett had hunted himself.

A gutting stab of a shiv left her bleeding out on the roadside.

Only Jett walked free with the spoils, indifferent to her plight.

…

As he observed his life's timeline, he came to understand his inner workings.

He had become numb, distant, disconnected to the simple act of empathy, and the value of a life.

After he killed the man in the alley, he became hooked on that feeling.

When he killed the boy with a single blow, he became addicted to that feeling.

He thought he was better than everyone.

After all, he had never been the perpetrator, it was always to protect himself and nothing more.

Jett believed that this simple action was of infinitely more compassion than the rest of the vermin of Shacktown could ever have shown or understood, or be capable of.

And it may have been true. But that didn't absolve his crimes. It made him more prideful.

This conscious effort towards virtue led to his disconnect from morality. It acted as a dam, preventing his mind from bursting under the strain of a nefarious environment.

Yet it also kept those feelings of power and euphoria inside that dam of emotion.

But what even was the difference between a perpetrator and another acting in self-defense?

At the end of the day, both walked free, while the victim descended into the mud, never to take another breath of this world's air.

***

Jett opened his eyes, not to the foyer, but to a white world surrounded by bright radiance.

The air gave him a pleasant, cold shiver.

The entirety of the ground beneath him was of an impossibly comfortable mud.

He was entirely engulfed in a world of white mist.

Above him was an ethereal white sky, littered with tiny black specks.