Raven moved through the narrow streets of Jhaari's Grey Area, keeping to the edges where the dim streetlights barely reached. Buildings leaned toward each other, their walls cracked and crumbling, casting long, jagged shadows across the ground. Trash littered the alleys, and the air smelled of mildew and old smoke. Even the rats seemed hungry, their small eyes watching him warily from the dark.
Behind him, Rashkal murmured softly to himself, his voice just a low hum of strange, almost musical words. Wisteria trailed a few steps behind, her footsteps light, glancing up at the buildings as if expecting something to burst from the broken windows. The three of them moved like a silent line of ghosts through the grey streets.
Up ahead, a young boy crouched by the wall, picking something off the ground and popping it into his mouth. Raven slowed, looking at the boy's thin frame and the way he held each small morsel as if it were a treasure.
He walked over, crouching down to the child's level. "What's that you've got?" he asked, his tone casual.
The boy froze, wide-eyed, his gaze darting between Raven and the two figures looming behind him. "F-food, sir," he stammered, holding up a small beetle between two fingers. "It's… it's good. I found it myself."
Raven studied him, a faint smile flickering at the edge of his mouth. "Yeah? Bet you did." He glanced over his shoulder at Rashkal and Wisteria, then back at the boy. "You know, there are better things to eat than bugs."
The boy just stared, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Raven shifted, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a small but lively apple. He held it out.
"Here," he said. "Not much, but it's better than beetles."
The boy hesitated, eyes wide with a mix of fear and surprise, before he snatched the fruit and shoved it into his mouth without a word. Raven stood, brushing off his knees, and gave the kid a nod.
"Take care of yourself, alright?" he murmured, almost to himself, before turning to rejoin Rashkal and Wisteria.
As they walked on, Wisteria leaned over, giving him a curious look. "Didn't know you had a soft spot for kids," she teased lightly.
Raven shrugged. "Everybody starts somewhere." His eyes lingered on the dim streets stretching ahead, and he let out a quiet sigh. "Just didn't think anyone should have to start there."
"Surviving's the easy part. You keep moving, keep breathing, go through the motions. But it's the pieces you leave behind that get heavy. Faces, voices… people who knew you, really knew you. Out here, you're nobody—just a shadow slipping through broken streets. But every now and then, you get a choice… a moment where you can be more than that. Maybe giving a kid a scrap of food doesn't change the world. But for one second, it reminds him, and maybe even you, that we're still human. And sometimes, that's enough." said Raven his face looking above at the sun, his hand touching his hair,
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"Truly the Messenger of Gods," muttered Rashkal
It wasn't long; Akshran as Raven dominated the gray street. His name became a burning flame for outcasts who yearned to have somebody to follow.
He wandered in the dark, feeling the weakness of other mobs. One evening he shouted through the doorways to street cursards who promised to deliver them from squalid lives. They came in, lit by fickle candle flames. He spoke of power and what should be theirs, which fed their loyalty.
Akshran attacks local shops with rough strokes, winning the smallest of victories and thrill of escapes. The strength of his powers grows with each victory, feeding him an advance from the resistance.
Spies cropped up in the agile children while making street observations. Vendors began to thrive and every success sent their morale soaring.
Now nothing towered above the gray street. It was Aksharan's: it mirrored his will; and he had hardly begun.
Akshran stood at the entrance of the hall dimly lit by the Kami, the ruling council of the grey area. Their glares weighed on him like a storm echoing in whispers. For now, being a newly acknowledged ruler of Grey Area comes with heavy expectations. He hadn't much time to engage in politics; what he needed most was strength.
He nodded ever so slightly and made his excuse and stepped out of the assembly. Outside, air was full of aromatic fragrance of spices coming from the market just nearby in what said a lot for what awaited him. He walked through narrow roads; cacophony of the Shaded Quarter familiarly buzzed around him.
The thieves of Akshran were of the resourceful kind. Soon, he could gather a few books on the art of combat and physical conditioning. Worn and yellowed, spattered over with the jottings of past masters, their pages claimed secrets. The promise of power lay almost visible on their pages.
One determined man would wake up early in the morning to begin training. Agility exercises started with dashing through winding alleys and jumping over barrels and ducking under low rooftops. Adrenaline was his fuel as he practiced acrobatics, flipping off walls, landing with precision. Every movement brings him closer to being a master.
Then, strength training arrived, a brutally rewarding challenge. He looked around for makeshift weights-stone slabs and wooden beams-and lifted them over and over until the burning in his muscles screamed at him. Push-ups, pull-ups, body squats filled his mornings, pushing him to the limits of his endurance. Day after day, he transformed into a formidable force.
Food became his travel buddy during that journey. Merchants wanting to befriend Akshran provided him with satisfactory foods to be taken along. He loved roasted meat, freshly baked bread, and fruit bursting full of sweetness. Each morsel returned strength to him, fanning that fire raging within his soul.
Weeks streamed into days, and Akshran's practice pounded him inside as well as out. He sparred with his combat moves with wooden swords, parrying fellow thieves who apprenticed him. They mocked and challenged each other; camaraderie sealed bonds forged in the crucible of struggle.
He could feel the pressure rising, every cold drop of sweat falling off, power inside him stirring, building to let loose upon a world that had so unstintingly ignored him. He rose, stronger than ever he had been.