Above Dusk City, hidden beneath a ceiling of heavy clouds, the sky suddenly cracked open.
No sound. No thunder. Just a black line splitting the heavens, revealing a void without end.
People looked up. For a moment. Then continued on their way, as if nothing had happened.
The rift vanished, as though it had never been. And with it—so did memory.
Everyone forgot.
Everyone… except one child.
He watched the fracture through a fogged-up window. The house was warm. The room bright. But he felt cold.
And then… he knew.
He didn't remember—he simply knew: somewhere in this city, a princess had appeared. And with her—three others. Heroes.
He didn't know where the knowledge came from. But it lodged itself deep in his mind, as if it had always been there.
Even though it hadn't existed… until now.
...
In the streets of a Dusk City swallowed by darkness, a child sat — filthy, emaciated, as if forgotten by the world itself. His pale skin hid beneath dried mud, his jet-black hair clumped together in greasy knots.
His eyes, just as dark, stared blankly ahead — weary, empty, as though he had lived too long for someone so young.
Wrapped in rags, he sat motionless on the cold stone, trembling from hunger and the bitter cold.
People passed by without a glance — as if he were part of the pavement.
«Why would they even look at me?» he thought.
This was the fate of those who had no use for the city or its people. Sitting on the cold concrete, the boy forced a smile.
«Am I really going to die of hunger? I didn't expect much from life, but to go out like this... pathetic. Maybe I should've just wandered past the walls and let the abominations finish me off. But even that sounds worse. Dying without ever tasting real food... I actually thought someday I'd try what second-level kids eat. Not tavern scraps… real food. Guess that was a stupid dream.»
The city was divided into three levels:
The First Level belonged to the warlords—the ones who commanded soldiers.
The Second Level was for the soldiers who fought outside the city walls. They were knights who fed their people and their families through combat.
And the Third Level… was for everyone else. The idle. The useless. "Leeches," they were called — people with no knightly lineage or talents to offer.
The Third Level was dangerous.
It was a place ruled by chaos.
Here, lawlessness reigned. These were dark times — people had lost their minds.
Murder, violence, theft—such things happened every day.
Naturally, the boy lived on the Third Level.
«If it weren't for the old man at the stall, I'd probably be dead by now.»
There were four food stalls on the Third Level that handed out meat once every five days.
Each gave out fifty kilograms — cold, stringy stuff, earned through sweat and blood. In total: two hundred kilos. That was called mercy...
Yes, the King's mercy. That was its form — harsh, measured, and exact.
And still, people waited for it — like drought-stricken peasants for rain. Like famine-ridden beggars for bread.
They waited… because there was nothing else to wait for.
The boy had grown up in an orphanage. At six, he'd been kicked out. The orphanages had started letting the kids go — hunger was growing, and there wasn't enough food. Now everyone had to fend for themselves.
Then one of the King's men—a butcher named Jack, old and kind—took the boy in.
The child helped Jack butcher monster meat, and in return, Jack occasionally fed him and protected him from the worse sort. Under Jack's name, no one touched the boy.
But a week ago, Jack was found dead. All the meat was gone.
People blamed the child, but they couldn't prove it before the King's knights.
The King was far too busy to concern himself with every incident on the Third Level. Officially, the case was reviewed, but in truth, it was treated with indifference.
Rumor had it that years ago, the King had hosted important guests from another kingdom, and together they'd begun cleansing the areas outside the city. Until recently, at least. Even if the King wanted to find the culprit, he wouldn't have been able to without using artifacts. And then there were the monsters... There simply weren't enough free knights to maintain constant order on the Third Level.
So, in the end, no evidence was found.
«What else did I expect? I know it was one of the thugs. I'm not sure it was Hale... but definitely someone like him.»
After the incident, the boy became unwanted by all, and some even tried to kill him. Maybe the official investigation confirmed his innocence, but the rage and ignorance of the townsfolk knew no bounds…
People didn't believe in the justice of the investigation. In their eyes, he was guilty by default—weak, nameless, unprotected. An ideal target.
But the boy wasn't stupid. He often fled toward the nearest knights.
They were harsh, but under the King's rule, they dared not touch anyone without cause.
The King's authority was absolute.
He was the embodiment of strength, justice, and nobility. Even among the people of the Third Level.
There were patrol knights with dark reputations too.
But the boy simply tried to avoid them and keep his distance.
«If only I were a knight myself… hunting for food on my own,» he thought sadly.
The people's rage on the Third Level had subsided over the week.
All thanks to the King—he handed out two hundred kilograms of meat and temporarily tightened control during the food distribution.
The boy once again surveyed the Third Level streets, and seeing no familiar faces, he scooped dirt from the ground and smeared it across his face, trying to conceal his features.
«What have I come to… Covering my face with dirt so no one recognizes me. And in the end, no one gives a damn. No one even notices me because I'm a kid. Guess I overdid the disguise.»
At that moment, his thoughts were interrupted by a shadow.
He barely managed to lift his head and looked up at the figure standing before him. It was a young woman, tall—around 180 to 185 centimeters. She was clad in a white cloak with a hood that concealed her face. Slowly, she pulled the hood back, and golden strands of hair flared in the torchlight that trembled in her right hand. A cold wind tousled her hair, and her features were inhuman—she looked like an angel descended into the mortal world. Her gray eyes stared at the boy with pity as he smeared dirt over his face, and in her left hand was a basket that gave off a delicious aroma strong enough to carry for several meters. She sighed. The boy couldn't understand why—but he could feel it: she was exhausted.
The woman knelt down and, with a light but strangely weighed smile, asked,
— What's your name?
The boy was stunned. The people around them, who just moments ago hadn't spared him a glance, were now watching with intense curiosity—too much of it. Especially the thugs he wanted nothing to do with.
Whispers hung in the air—apparently, she was quite well known.
«Hopefully in a good way.»
The nameless boy spoke rarely, and his throat was dry, so his voice came out hoarse:
— I... I don't know. I don't have... a name.
«I think I used to have one... but I can't remember it. And honestly, I don't want to talk about it. Not with her. Not now.»
The golden-haired woman gave him a strange look, then offered a tired smile and said,
— Well then, let me introduce myself. I'm Alice. Here, take this—it's my gift to you.
With those words, she set the basket down beside him and rose, preparing to leave.
«That name… I've heard it before somewhere.»
The boy was overjoyed by the sight of real food after so long, but he couldn't understand—why would she help someone like him?
«Maybe she's just a kind soul?.. No. I'm not buying that crap.»
Driven by curiosity, he asked in his hoarse voice:
— Why?
Alice was already turning away but hesitated. After thinking for a moment, she smiled and simply replied,
— You see... the person I prepared this for... is no longer alive. I thought it would be a shame to throw the food away, so I wanted to do something kind. That's really all there is to it. But if your curiosity's still not satisfied... well, you're just lucky. I like feeding nameless stray kittens — she said, winking at him.
Then she turned and walked away, her steps slow and unhurried. The crowd parted before her with reverence… and fear. The latter was unclear, but it seemed she was either very influential or from a powerful family.
«Well, she's definitely not a knight. Looks way too delicate for that. Wait… kitten? That better not be some kind of monster.»
The boy was glad someone had finally acknowledged his existence, even if he couldn't quite grasp the meaning of the strange word she'd used. He assumed it was some obscure term and let it go. His stomach rumbled loudly in response to the scent of food. The smell made it all the harder to wait.
Inside the basket, there was plenty of bread, some kind of yellow liquid, and another piece of bread stuffed with meat and a sticky sauce. The aroma was divine. If he still had any saliva left in his mouth, it would have been pouring out by now.
Just as he was about to begin his first real meal, a shadow loomed over him.
Then another.
And another.
It was them—the people he least wanted to see.
The Third Level thugs. Notorious for stealing and beating the weak.
Most knights were busy keeping order on the First and Second Levels, so only a handful were assigned to the Third—except on food distribution days. Of course, some knights served as sentinels on the massive walls surrounding the Third Level, but they didn't care about what happened inside.
Worse still, some of the soldiers patrolling the city had close ties with the thugs.
The thugs were of various ages, but mostly grown men who were too cowardly to fight monsters.
Knights had privileges, yes—but the risk was enormous.
Every five days, they hunted monsters outside the city in teams.
The leader of the thugs was a former knight. Standing over the boy, he spoke with a menacing voice:
— Rats from the gutter don't deserve gourmet meals, do they?
His eyes met the boy's.
The boy didn't look away and replied:
— That's true. You shouldn't be eating it.
The thug leader's face twisted in anger at the boy's audacious tone, and without warning, he kicked him hard in the stomach.
The boy let out a cry and clutched his belly.
A deep sense of bitterness welled up in his heart. Only, he couldn't tell who it was aimed at:
At the people who treated him like trash?
At the fate that had dealt him such a cruel hand?
Or perhaps... at the girl who had gifted him food, yet didn't ensure his safety?
The boy wasn't angry at her, not really. But he couldn't be grateful either.
If you choose to do good—you should see it through to the end.
She gave him food, but she did it in the slums of the Third Level—a place where kindness was dangerous.
«Damn you, Hale!»
That was the thug leader's name.
— You know, I've always been curious what the upper levels eat... — Hale muttered, not taking his eyes off a shadow behind the corner. — That girl… she reminded me of someone.
A fat man, panting, replied:
— She said her name's Alice. How many Alices do you know? That's the princess, you idiot.
— Princess? — scoffed a third thug, covered in scars with a dirty beard. — You nuts? Why would a princess come crawling through our gutters?
— Might as well be the King himself, — Hale snorted. — What difference does it make? She brought food. That's all that matters. And besides… wasn't Jack proof enough that the King isn't all-powerful? — Hale grinned.
He slowly reached for the basket, already tasting the food in his mind.
His eyes gleamed with anticipation.
Only… another hand—thin, filthy—grabbed it first.
«So it was you. Damn it, I really hoped it wasn't.»
Hale looked down at the boy's hand with disgust. He couldn't read minds, but his glare said it all:
«How dare you touch my food with those filthy fingers!?»
In the next instant, Hale clenched his fist and, not holding back, punched the frail boy in the gut.
If there had been any food inside, it would have come right out. Instead, only a strangled moan escaped, and tears welled in the boy's eyes. This blow was particularly brutal.
No blood came from his mouth—such things don't happen from regular punches. But a thin stream of stomach acid spilled out.
The boy clenched his teeth.
His eyes filled with tears—not just from pain…
But from sorrow.
How revolting it was to feel so weak, so pathetic, so... alone. Tears might be frowned upon for men, but he was still just a child…
Hale froze for a second—because even after all that, the boy's fingers refused to let go of the basket.
Yes, he was crying. Yes, he was weak, pitiful, worthless. But his will… his will was unbroken.
The boy stopped crying.
That was just a fleeting moment of weakness.
He raised his head and glared at Hale with a look that could kill.
As long as he wasn't dead—he would not release his grip. As long as he could smell the food—he wouldn't back down, no matter how much it hurt.
That basket was his. That aroma belonged to him alone.
And only over his dead body would those bastards take it.
— Hey, what's wrong with you? You want to die? You think anyone cares about you? Think that mob watching you get beaten is gonna lift a finger for your sake? Huh!?
The boy didn't answer. He just kept staring at Hale, eyes full of hate.
His eyes were still wet, his body trembling—but his gaze… it burned.
If looks could kill, Hale would've died a thousand times already.
A cold shiver ran down the man's spine. He raised his hand for another blow, this time driven by unease, when suddenly a voice rang out behind him—low, icy, and sharp as steel:
— Enough.