Somewhere within the vast territory of the Wesland Kingdom.

There was an island called Marisol Island—a dumping ground for the unwanted, nameless refugees, and runaway slaves who were eventually recaptured and forced back into servitude.

The crime rate on this island was sky-high due to rampant poverty and the kingdom's lack of attention.

Here, the law did not belong to the king or the kingdom. Law only applied to those strong enough to enforce it—mafia, ruling nobles, mercenaries, and wealthy merchants.

And among them, the weak were nothing but slaves, and they would always remain slaves. Escaping the clutches of poverty required generations of struggle. But to fall into it, only one generation was enough.

At the heart of the city, hidden underground, there was an arena where cruelty became entertainment. Dim oil lamps hung on stone walls, casting dancing shadows over the sand-covered floor, stained with blood and sweat.

Evran stood in the center of the arena, his body tense. Around him, iron bars trapped him with his opponent. Wild cheers echoed from outside the cage, creating a symphony of brutality. Bets were placed, and the bloodthirsty audience roared, demanding a vicious spectacle.

This wasn't his first fight, but it could very well be his last.

One loss meant death. If lucky, you'd only lose a limb or be left crippled—which, in the end, still meant death.

Drums rumbled, signaling the start of the fight.

Before him stood a boy, another slave fighter. He was slightly larger than Evran, which could be a problem—but not an impossible one.

Muscle mass did affect the strength of punches, but in street fights, unpredictability was everything.

The boy attacked first. He was fast and strong, but Evran was ready. He ducked and swung to the side, dodging the first blow. His opponent struck again, this time faster and more vicious.

A fist shot toward his jaw—Evran narrowly avoided it. Protecting vital points was key to survival!

Evran countered with a jab aimed at his opponent's head. Pain shot through his knuckles as his fist collided with the boy's hard skull.

'Stubborn bastard!' Evran cursed inwardly.

Not stopping there, he launched a flurry of jabs, combined with hooks and uppercuts. The two slaves exchanged brutal blows, driving the crowd into a frenzy as they watched them tear each other apart.

Sweat and blood dripped. Evran's hands began to ache after throwing so many punches. He was in bad shape—his face was bruised, his nose bleeding, and his forehead split open from his opponent's fist. But his opponent wasn't in much better condition, his body covered in cuts and bruises from Evran's attacks.

'Some martial arts from my past life really help in this world,' Evran thought.

His opponent paused to catch his breath before lunging again. But Evran was quicker, dodging most of the strikes and retaliating with powerful blows. Every time his fists landed, the boy's flesh and fat rippled violently.

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Then, a perfectly timed uppercut slammed into his opponent's chin, sending him staggering backward. Evran rushed in to finish him, but just before his punch landed, the boy spun and delivered a powerful kick to his head. Evran stumbled and crashed to the side.

Both fell to the ground, struggling to gather strength.

"Damn it, this bastard still managed a counterattack even when half-conscious," Evran muttered, wincing from the pain.

His opponent got up first and immediately attacked again. This time, he changed his strategy.

Realizing he couldn't win in a striking match, he closed the distance and tried to grapple Evran.

He eventually managed to wrap his arms around Evran's neck, bringing him down and pinning him under his weight.

"Shit… looks like I'll have to do it again," Evran mumbled before his strength was completely drained.

With a swift, nearly imperceptible motion, Evran pulled a tiny needle from his pants and jabbed it into his opponent's neck. No one noticed amidst the chaos of the battle.

His opponent tightened his grip on Evran's throat, forcing him to struggle desperately. His vision blurred.

'Damn, I should've stabbed him sooner!' Evran thought.

The crowd continued to chant wildly. "Kill him! Kill!"

One minute passed…

Three minutes passed…

Finally, his opponent's body weakened. He moved as if he was about to rise as the victor.

But in the end, it was Evran who got up first, shoving his opponent off him.

"Shit, I really almost died this time."

The audience fell silent for a moment before erupting into deafening cheers. They didn't care who lived or died—as long as their bets were placed.

Evran staggered out of the arena, his body battered, his neck red from strangulation.

Outside the arena, Noah, one of the mafia members managing the underground fights, was already waiting.

"I thought you were done for. Turns out, you always have your little tricks, huh? But you know, one day, those tricks won't be enough to save you," Noah said casually.

"I know that better than anyone," Evran replied flatly.

"Good. Now, onto business. That fight was worth 15 gold coins. You get 20%, so here's 3 gold for you."

Evran took the coins and asked, "How many days can I rest?"

"Two days, no more. If you ask for longer, that old bastard will kill me."

"Alright," Evran muttered, leaving to tend to his wounds.

If he couldn't recover quickly and start earning again, he'd be back to begging like before. And he hated that. I don't like receiving pity from others!

"I used to be a man of pride, but now I'm nothing but a slave. Damn it."

Frustrated, he carefully hid his gold coins, ensuring no one could rob him. In this hell, even fellow mafia members wouldn't hesitate to steal.

Finally, he reached his cramped room. He had secured this place by working under The Butcher Gregor, a high-ranking mafia enforcer who controlled the underground arena, illegal weapon trade, and recruitment. By working for Gregor, Evran had the chance to fight in the arena. It was dangerous, but for him, it was still better than begging and stealing.

Evran wasn't officially part of the mafia. He was still a slave. As long as he kept making money, he had a bit of freedom—like now. He earned 3 gold coins and got two days off. But was it worth it? Was his life really only worth 3 gold coins?

"Damn… I'll deal with this frustration later. There's nothing I can do to fight these mafias now. No point wasting energy on anger."

Once inside his room, Evran pulled out the 3 gold coins from his ass—yes, he hid his gold there. At least it was the safest place he could think of. The thieves and muggers never searched his ass when they frisked him—at least, not yet.

Taking out the coins, Evran carefully stored them in his stash. His savings now amounted to 9 gold, 11 silver, and 20 bronze. A decent amount for a slave.

Over his four months here, he had learned the currency values:

1 gold = 20 silver1 silver = 50 bronze

'And there's also a higher denomination called platinum. From what I've heard, 1 platinum = 10 gold. I don't know—I've never even seen a platinum coin before.'

Just as he was about to treat his wounds, his door suddenly slammed open.

A girl stood in the doorway, 168 cm tall, with long, messy jet-black hair and blood-red eyes. Her gaze was filled with exhaustion and worry. Her body was slender, her skin flushed pink from frequent exposure to the sun.

"Valeria?"