In the dim, suffocating cell, the boy sat with his head bowed, wrists bruised by the coarse ropes that bound him.
The silence was broken by the heavy boots of the guards approaching, cruel smiles curling on their lips.
"Well, well…" one of them jeered, "Seems like your time's up, little rat. No one's coming for you."
"Let's finish this quickly," another grunted. "He's no one. Just a stray. No one will mourn him."
But before they could act, the thundering of hurried footsteps echoed through the dungeon halls.
A breathless messenger burst into view.
"Stop this madness at once!" he barked. "By decree of Lord Victoria—release the child immediately!"
A stunned silence.
Their sneers faltered, replaced by confusion. Why now? Why spare this nameless, filthy boy?
But orders were orders, and no one disobeyed the Lord of the North Estate.
With reluctant hands, they untied him, casting him aside like discarded waste.
The boy stood still, bewildered, hollow. He didn't even feel relief. He didn't feel anything.
Somewhere deep inside, he knew—Luna didn't do this. She was gone. Far away. The ache in his chest felt heavier than chains.
Meanwhile, in the grand marble hall of the North Estate, beneath towering stained-glass windows, Luna's personal knight knelt before the imposing figure of Lord Victoria.
Clad in royal finery, the Lord sat upon his elevated chair of dark oak, his piercing gaze fixed upon the kneeling knight. His presence alone could silence armies.
"Speak," he commanded, his voice cold, regal. "What brings you groveling before my feet?"
The knight, armor faintly clinking, lifted her chin, though her eyes remained lowered in respect.
"My Lord… I beg your audience not for myself… but for one who cannot speak for himself."
Lord Victoria arched an eyebrow. "You test my patience, Knight. Choose your words wisely."
With a steady breath, she spoke:
"The boy… the one accused of abducting your daughter… he is not her captor. He is her rescuer."
For a long moment, the hall was still. The tension was thick, suffocating. The flames in the great braziers flickered under the weight of his silence.
Finally—his lips curled into something between amusement and disdain.
"Is that so? A stray boy from the mud, a savior to my bloodline?"
The knight dared to look up now, her voice filled with conviction.
"It is the truth, My Lord. By my sword and honor, I swear it. Miss Luna's life was preserved only by his hand."
Lord Victoria was quiet. His fingers traced the polished armrest of his chair.
"So be it," he finally declared, his voice echoing through the vast hall. "Luna's time here is fleeting. If this is the whim of my daughter, I will grant it."
He raised his hand to the captain of the guard.
"See to it that the boy is freed. And may the gods help him if I ever find reason to regret this mercy."
The knight exhaled softly, relief hidden behind her disciplined posture.
But beneath Lord Victoria's composed mask… a storm of thoughts brewed.
We return once again to the present—
The boy had been released, but he was simply walking, aimlessly, without thought, just walking.
Dawn was about to break. His footsteps echoed not only on the empty streets but inside his mind.
Once again, he was drowning in those same dark thoughts—
What's the point of my life? Why am I even alive?
For a brief moment in his broken existence, happiness had found its way into his world.
But now it felt like that happiness, too, had seen his torn clothes… his poverty… and decided to leave him behind.
He couldn't understand—what exactly was this world running on?
Some people looked at him with pity, releasing him because he was just a child.
Others looked at him like trash, like a worm from the gutter, not even worthy of a glance.
Since childhood, he'd been told the worst things about himself. People mocked him for smelling like alcohol—
But the truth was… he wasn't addicted. He never even liked it.
Somewhere deep inside, a soft voice still whispered:
Your life isn't completely worthless… not yet.
Whether his mother had abandoned him at birth…
Or his father had thrown him into the garbage like filth…
Or whether now—he had been captured for a crime he didn't even commit—
His life still held fragments of meaning.
There were moments—
Five whole years spent with that one man who can't even talk , despite his harshness, loved the boy like a father…
Two years with that girl, the only girl he ever truly talked to, the one who still didn't even know his name.
His life, though shattered, wasn't entirely empty.
He hadn't heard many good things in his seven years…
But whatever few good things he had known—
He wasn't ready to lose them yet.
His thoughts were like storms inside his head, crashing one after another, louder than the footsteps echoing beneath him. The weight of everything he had seen, everything he had lost—it dragged behind him like heavy chains.
But then—
His fists tightened.
Tight… tighter… until his knuckles turned white.
"Enough…" he whispered—voice shaking—not from fear, but from fury.
Not at the world.
Not at those who betrayed him.
But at that voice inside him…
—the one that kept telling him he was nothing.
And in that moment, something broke.
But not him—
It was the weight of doubt itself that shattered.
"No more running," he muttered, louder now. "No more waiting for happiness to come to me."
"If the world won't give me happiness… I'll tear it from the world with my own hands."
A burning clarity filled his eyes. He didn't care anymore who laughed at him.
Poor? Abandoned? Alone?
So what?
"Let them call me weak. Let them call me dirt. Let them think I'm just another broken piece in their perfect world."
He looked up, and for the first time—it wasn't tears in his eyes.
It was fire.
"I'll rise anyway. For them. For the ones who showed me kindness. For the ones I've lost. And for myself."
His steps grew firmer. His heartbeat steadier.
He wasn't walking anymore—he was marching.
The road ahead wasn't paved with hope. It was carved by his will.
And even if the whole world turned its back—
He'd still go forward. Alone, if he had to.
But with one truth burned into his soul:
"These joys… these smiles… are mine. And I will build a life that no one can take from me."
And from that moment—
He was no longer just a boy walking the streets.
He was a force in motion.
A storm learning to roar.