Social Darwinism, that's what life in Wyolands had become. Human rights had taken a nosedive since the outbreak of war with the United Nations of Novgovia. Salaries had been cut in half, and inflation was through the roof. People were surviving, not living, even in areas far from the front lines.

Marshall Merson was no exception. As he did every day, he carried a heavy bag of gravel on his shoulders to mix concrete. Then another bag, and another, and another. The work was undoubtedly soul-crushing, but it was the price of survival. A massive fifty-meter statue was in the works to celebrate the fiftieth birthday of King Richard VIII. It depicted the king, sword in hand, holding the severed head of the Hegemon - the enemy.

"I'm so freaking done with this shit!" Marshall grumbled. God only knew how much money the state had spent on this behemoth of a statue. Did it make sense? Not to Marshall, but maybe to the fat cats who had so much dough they could literally wipe their asses with it. Someone like his employer: a middle-aged man named Harvey O'Connell. A man of average height, but so pot-bellied he looked like he had a globe for a stomach. He lived for power and was one of those people who would do anything to get it.

"Move, slave!" He shouted at Marshall. "Or I won't pay you!"

Marshall snorted. He had slowed his pace and Harvey quickly called him out. For a split second, he felt like throwing the bag of gravel right into Harvey's bloated belly. For Harvey, belittling his workers felt more rewarding than seeing the statue's progress. Anyone who toiled for his construction company was his personal lackey and should be treated like a god.

"Does this guy start his day with a bowl of malevolence?" Marshall muttered to himself as he got back to work. The statue wasn't going to build itself, after all.

The project had been in the works for two decades. A construction of this magnitude took time, and the war had delayed it even more. Originally, the statue was supposed to depict the king in a triumphant pose, but the design was later changed. A symbol to glorify the state and boost the morale of the citizens was what the Wyolands needed.

They would do whatever it took to drive out the invaders. The Hegemon had marched across seas and mountains, conquering neighboring states. Within a few decades, it had grown from a small, insignificant southern state on the continent of Pangea to a global superpower. The Wyolands had found itself caught in the vortex of Novgovia's path. Thus began a war that had already lasted a decade. Against all odds, the small mountainous state of Wyolands had held off the invaders and halted Novgovia's rise on the continent. The war had been fought on the borders; in ten years, the enemy had never made it to the capital, not once. Every bomb and every enemy drone had been intercepted in time.

Everyone wondered how Wyolands had managed to hold out. Besides the strategic advantage of the mountain range surrounding the state, it was undoubtedly the Social Darwinism imposed by the government. The wealthy had to pay high taxes, but in return received higher quality education, first class health care, protection services to feel safe even in the midst of war, and legal protections that put them above the law. The result was enormous social inequality. Those who couldn't afford to contribute money to the war effort were destined for misery. The war practically marked the rise of the wealthy class. The rich were kings and the poor were servants. It's no coincidence that this billiard ball of an O'Connell made everyone call him "Baronet".

"Lift the sack, fill the thresher, operate the thresher. Carry the next sack, fill the thresher, operate the thresher." Marshall murmured to himself like a mantra. This was his role. He moved like a draft animal, his actions automated. Suddenly his attention was caught by a figure approaching from a distance, not toward him, but toward O'Connell.

"Baronet." A faint voice introduced herself. "I apologize for disturbing you..."

"Huh? Who's disturbing--oh, look what we got here."

Marshall recognized her. A good-looking woman, dressed to turn heads, and her face was so covered in makeup it looked like she had plastered it on. The staff knew her well - Lady Marilon, commonly known as the boss's whore. In addition to being a slave master, O'Connell had a penchant for women. He pretended not to have a wife and children, and all the employees kept their mouths shut. Marshall included. Who knows what O'Connell would do if one of his "slaves" spilled the beans? They didn't even dare imagine. This was the elite class of the Wyolands. They did whatever the hell they wanted with no consequences.

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Marshall watched the scene unfold; it wasn't the first time he'd seen it. O'Connell put his arm around the woman and led her away. Paid sex was one of the ways the state was funding the war, having legalized prostitution as long as a hefty cut went to the state coffers. This, too, would contribute to the war effort in a small way.

Marshall wasn't the kind of man to resort to prostitutes. However, he had to admit that this was the life he craved - a life where he didn't have to scrimp and save just to eat, where he didn't have to break his back to make ends meet or be treated like a slave by some bastard entrepreneur. Being rich was everyone's dream in Wyolands.

"Dude, what are you looking at?"

"What do you want?!" Marshall growled. He had activated the autopilot and answered this question without even looking. Maybe he should have turned it off.

Before he knew it, two intimidating figures were blocking his way. They were Bill and Jones. Bill was a towering giant, dressed in a tailored dark suit, his face partially obscured by a fedora and sunglasses. Jones was the smaller of the two, dressed in jeans and an unbuttoned leather jacket that revealed a holstered gun. His hair was slicked back with gel, and a lit cigarette hung from his mouth. Marshall broke into a cold sweat the moment he saw them. They were loan sharks, notorious for lending money to anyone willing to pay their exorbitant interest rates. Marshall thought he'd get away with it because he'd only borrowed 500 Wyodollars - not a huge amount, considering that's barely enough to buy a decent smartphone these days. They wanted 1,000 Wyodollars back within a week, and double that every week after that.

"I'll pay you... tomorrow! I swear!" He shouted in desperation. All the workers watched, then slowly began to disperse. No one would help him. Social Darwinism also applied to criminals.

"Hey, Marshasshole, what's up?" Jones sneered. "We've been telling you to pay for a long time. You keep saying 'tomorrow' and 'tomorrow,' and guess what? The debt keeps piling up."

Bill took a step forward. "You. Must. Pay. Now."

Before they could get too close, Marshall saw his chance.

Now or never!

He threw the sack at them to buy time and took off.

"Where the hell are you going?!" Jones yelled. Marshall was fit and fast. His move was so sudden that the gravel caught Bill and Jones off guard. Bill was closer and immediately gave chase, while Jones drew his Smith & Wesson Model 500 and tried to aim. Marshall was already too far away, so Jones cursed, flicked his cigarette on the ground, and ran after him.

Marshall had hit rock bottom with gambling, hoping it would miraculously improve his financial situation. He was forced to take out a loan to continue gambling. Banks were out, but these loan sharks were all too willing.

He ran. There was no other choice. A month had passed and the amount had grown to 16,000 Wyodollars. Even if he had a car to sell, it wouldn't have been enough to pay them back.

Couldn't they come tomorrow?

Yes, because that night he was betting on a game he was sure he'd win.

Marshall's speed was not in question. Pancrazia, the capital, was a large city characterized by a labyrinth of tunnels and passageways. He knew it well. He would use his agility and familiarity to navigate the depths of the cityscape.

"Oh! What's he doing?!" Someone shouted as they saw Marshall pushing through the crowd. People began to move to avoid being knocked over. Some began to hurl insults as they saw Bill and Jones following. Everyone knew them and no one wanted any trouble. At that point, everyone fell silent.

Marshall had been running like crazy for several minutes. He looked around: Bill and Jones were gone. He found a construction site where a house was being renovated. Piles of rubble were scattered about. He saw a pit just big enough for him and jumped in. He looked out and searched nervously for them. No sign of Bill or Jones, so he sighed in relief, then immediately tore his hair out in frustration.

"Damn it! How did I end up like this?" He cursed himself, feeling like a complete fool for having to run from loan sharks. But deep down he felt he had no choice.

A construction worker spotted him. The man was wearing a reflective yellow safety vest and a hard hat, and he was holding a shovel. As soon as he saw Marshall, he slowly approached the pit.

"Excuse me, what are you doing here?" The worker asked with a mixture of curiosity and concern on his face.

"Shh! I'm running from some guys. Don't yell, let me stay here for a few minutes. I'm not bothering you, am I?" Marshall nervously avoided eye contact.

The worker burst out laughing, leaving Marshall confused.

"Why are you laughing?" He asked. Immediately, he felt a cold shiver run through him, numbing his brain for a moment.

That's when Marshall realized he was screwed.

"Ah, so it's you? Nothing personal, buddy."

With a quick and violent move, the worker tensed all his muscles and brought his shovel down hard on Marshall's head. At that moment, Marshall blacked out.