Lucian walked briskly, weaving in and out of the dirt-covered roads with practiced ease. His steps were silent, steady, deliberate—born from necessity rather than grace. He kept to the shadows by instinct, pressing himself against the walls of crumbling buildings and rusted fences.
'People don't notice what doesn't stand out, he muttered under his breath'. The words a familiar mantra.
His pale, sharp-featured face betrayed no emotion as his bare feet glided over broken glass and muddy patches, avoiding noisy debris by pure instinct.
The streets of the Outer District were always dangerous after dark—not because of beasts, but because of people. This wasn't like those glowing cities in stories, where towers of glass touched the clouds and machines hummed gently through metal streets. Here, rust ruled, and decay whispered from every doorway. Trash fires burned in alleyways, and lean-eyed men watched passersby with hollow hunger.
But tonight, Lucian moved unnoticed, like a stray wind curling through forgotten streets.
After a tense, silent journey, he finally arrived at an old, abandoned house that looked like it could collapse if someone sneezed too hard. The paint was long gone, the walls warped with rot, but it stood, and that was enough.
Lucian stopped, tilting his head slightly, ears straining for sound. A soft breeze rustled through broken shutters. Somewhere off to the left, a dog barked once, sharply. Farther still, the low murmur of voices drifted from a distant trash fire. Nothing unusual. Still, he stood motionless for five full minutes. Only when he was certain there were no dangers did he move.
Slowly, silently, he pushed open the warped door and stepped inside. The hinges creaked softly, but only slightly—he'd oiled them with leftover beast fat weeks ago, a small trick to help them stay hidden.
Dim, filtered moonlight slanted through cracked wooden boards, illuminating dust motes drifting lazily in the air. But Lucian didn't need the light. He paced across the room in a wide arc, stepping carefully as if retracing a map only he could see.
Finally, he spoke aloud, his voice relaxed but carrying just enough forced cheer to cut through the tension that always followed him home. "Ah… my back hurts after a long day outside."
There was a pause. Then, almost imperceptibly, a small movement—a barely audible scrape of wood against wood. Lucian smiled slightly and turned his head toward a corner of the room where an old cupboard stood, battered and leaning.
With a soft click, a hidden latch came undone, and the cupboard swung outward, revealing a narrow space behind it. From the darkness, a small head cautiously poked out, scanning the room like a frightened mouse.
It was a boy, younger than Lucian, maybe eight or nine, short and scrawny, his cheeks hollowed slightly from constant hunger.
"You took your time today," the boy whispered sharply, more worried than annoyed.
Lucian's smile widened just a fraction. "Got caught up in something," he said calmly, brushing a hand through his unkempt hair. "Handled it neatly."
The boy frowned suspiciously, but after a moment, he leaned back and whistled softly into the hidden space. Slowly, cautiously, other figures began emerging from behind the cupboard one by one, blinking against the stale air, their clothes torn and patched in too many places to count. An old brass lamp was passed forward carefully, its tiny flame flickering against soot-blackened glass.
"Lucian, you're back!" one of them whispered excitedly, relief flooding the child's voice.
One by one, they filtered out of the cramped hiding place, their small frames thin, eyes wide and cautious. There were nine of them in total, including the boy who'd first peeked out. All orphans. All forgotten by the world.
A blur of motion darted from the group, and a small girl—no older than three—ran up to Lucian, her tiny bare feet pattering softly on the uneven floorboards. Without hesitation, Lucian knelt and scooped her into his arms, twirling her gently in the dim room.
Her joyful laughter rang out, sharp and bright, cutting through the heaviness pressing against their little world like a storm waiting to break. Just hearing it was enough to dull the hunger gnawing at Lucian's ribs, if only for a moment.
"Hope you've been a good girl, Mina," he murmured, brushing her tangled hair gently out of her eyes.
"I was very brave!" she said proudly, puffing up her tiny chest. "When you didn't come home, I told Casper you'd be all right."
"She's lying. She was the most worried out of all of us," the boy—Casper—said, folding his arms and giving her a flat look.
"I did not, Casper! I'm a brave young woman!" she declared, still nestled in Lucian's arms, putting a tiny fist on her hip like a miniature warrior chieftain. The glare she gave him might've been more convincing if her cheeks weren't puffed up with indignation.
The children burst into laughter, their voices echoing faintly off ruined walls, fragile but full of life. For just a few moments, the room felt like a home instead of a tomb with walls.
"I believe you," Lucian said warmly, lowering her gently back to the ground. He swung the slightly bulging skin bag off his shoulder and passed it to Casper. "Let's get dinner started. I'm worn out from the hunt."
Casper's expression brightened, and he carefully untied the mouth of the sack, his fingers trembling slightly with both excitement and exhaustion. Inside were two mutated rats—bloated things, fur matted, tails long and ropey, almost a meter from nose to tip. Their sharp, yellowing teeth protruded even in death, and faint, dark patches marred their flesh where the corruption of the wilds had taken root.
It wasn't much—not nearly enough for ten hungry mouths—but it was food, and tonight that was victory.
"Mina, come on. Let's make our famous rat stew for Big Brother Lucian," Casper said, putting on a forced grin to rally the others.
Her face lit up instantly at the mention of cooking for Lucian, and she eagerly followed after him toward the back room where they kept their few battered pots and scrap wood for cooking.
Lucian stood there for a moment longer, watching them go, that same small, tired smile still on his lips. Providing for them, this was the only thing that mattered. He didn't need to see their faces to know their smiles.
Lucian couldn't see, but what he'd lost in sight, he'd gained elsewhere. His ears picked up the faintest sounds from far off. His nose caught smells others missed. His memory had sharpened, helping him map every board and crack in this house.It was what let him adapt so quickly to the loss of one of his core senses.
He could basically see. But there was no color, no warmth. Only outlines in sound, texture, and smell.
With a faint sigh, he stepped into the adjoining room—a bare space, with nothing but a lopsided bed, a cracked chair, and a crooked wooden table beneath a dirty window. Even so, it was organized, neat by necessity rather than choice.
With practiced motions, he removed his threadbare shoes and lowered himself onto the bed, stretching his thin arms above his head. The weight of exhaustion began to creep over him like a slowly rising tide.
And still… he smiled.
.....
There was once a man who'd lost his comrades in a ruin. They'd been part of a guild, a family of sorts. When that ruin claimed them, it stole his purpose too. So he gathered the children of his fallen comrades under his roof and swore to raise them as his own. He wanted to shield them from the world's cruelty.
But fate had no pity for the weak.
On another mission, that man lost his life too, leaving behind the orphans. Children who had already tasted loss, only to swallow it again—worse this time, because now they were old enough to understand what it meant to be alone.
Lucian had been eleven when that happened—the oldest of them all. And so, the burden naturally fell to him. The burden to protect, to provide, to endure.
He'd started hunting straggler beasts at the camp's outskirts. It wasn't easy. Even the weakest beasts were vicious, and Lucian was still just a child with nothing but a rusted metal rod. Often, he came back empty-handed. But the gnawing hunger, the fear of dying with nothing, pushed him deeper into danger. He learned to track, learned to run, learned to fight dirtier than anything that bled out in the grass. Over a year, he evolved—not just in body, but in will. He became a hunter, not a boy.
But tragedy wasn't finished with him.
One day, three years ago, while searching for prey, Lucian wandered too close to a newly exposed ruin. Curiosity overcame caution. That mistake cost him his sight.
He'd never told anyone the full story of what happened that day. All they knew was that a blinding light had erupted from the ruin, and by the time people arrived, they found him on the ground screaming, his eyes burned beyond repair.
Some helped him back home, but that was all they did. In this world, sympathy was shallow. No one owed anyone anything. There was no time to shed tears, let alone waste them on a stranger.
They thought he'd die—or worse, give up.
But one week later, they saw him again. Out in the wilderness. Rod in hand. Blind, broken, but still hunting.
He didn't escape unscathed though. He paid the price for not giving up. The scars on his arms and ribs told those stories. But he adapted. He learned how to survive in the dark...
Life moved on.
.....
A few hours later, a small head peeked into the room. Lucian didn't open his eyes.
"I know it's you," he said gently.
The girl pouted, stepping fully into the room. "How do you always know who's around, even though you can't see?"
She'd always wondered how he never stumbled, how he hunted like one of those powerful people she'd heard stories about—the ones with eyes that burned with unnatural colors, who could crush mountains and split rivers with their hands.
Lucian chuckled softly. "Easy. You smell like burnt soup."
Her cheeks flushed red. "That was Casper's fault!"
He extended his hand to invite her over. "Come."
The girl pouted, stepping into the room. "How do you always know who's around, even though you can't see?"
She'd always wondered how he never stumbled, how he hunted like one of those powerful people she sometimes glimpsed passing through their district. In her eyes, Lucian was a hero—a mystery wrapped in strength.
"It's a secret," Lucian replied, turning his head in her direction with a small grin, "but I'll tell you if you promise me something first."
Her eyes brightened immediately. "What? I promise! Anything! I won't tell anyone, I swear!"
He beckoned her closer. "You have to behave better when I'm not around. Casper can't protect you if you keep causing trouble."
Her cheeks puffed slightly. Casper hadn't told on her, but she knew Lucian was sharp. "Okay… I'll be good. Only when you're not around though," she muttered softly. She was only ever timid around him. To everyone else, she was a fierce little wolf cub, unwilling to listen to anyone.
"Good girl," he murmured, reaching up to pat her head.
"Now tell me!" she demanded again, curiosity burning in her eyes.
Lucian chuckled. "Fine. I have super hearing… and super smell," he said, tapping his nose in mock pride.
Her mouth fell open in awe. "You have superpowers!?"
"Yep. Too bad I'm blind though—I could've had super sight too," he added with an awkward laugh to the side.
There were always rumors in town about places beyond these broken lands, places where people flew through the skies, where survival wasn't a daily war. Schools, clean streets, real food. But that had nothing to do with Lucian.
Out here, strength was the only law. And supernatural abilities? They existed. Everyone knew that. The only ones who showed them publicly were either powerful enough to not care… or stupid enough to get themselves killed.
And stupid people didn't last long here.
"Lucian, I brought your food," Casper's voice came from the door.
Lucian sat up as the boy stepped forward with a chipped plate, mostly soup with thin strands of meat floating inside. Two whole rats, and it still wasn't enough for ten mouths. It never was.
"Mm." He reached for the plate, broke a small piece of meat off, and offered it to the girl. She shook her head firmly.
"You need to eat," she said softly. "You're the one protecting us."
He smiled faintly but didn't push it. Hunger clawed at his stomach, but it was never enough to dull the warmth he felt whenever she looked at him like that.
Even though it didn't taste like much, they all ate without complaint. Dreaming of better food, better days. But those were just dreams.
"Here," Casper said, pulling a small sack from his belt. "Beast crystals and claws from the rats."
Lucian weighed the sack in his hand before letting out a small breath. "I'll go see Old Bob tomorrow. It should be enough for food… for tomorrow, at least."