I woke up with a dull ache drilling through my shoulders and a raw taste in my mouth, like I'd been chewing on dust all night. My body felt stiff from sleeping in a half-sitting position on that riverbank bench. The morning light filtered through the rising fog, revealing the same city that had beaten me down yesterday. I glanced at the water's surface. My reflection looked just as grim as I felt—tired eyes, messy hair, and a bruise darkening on my cheek.
I needed a plan. Money. Food. A place to rest without fear of getting robbed or dragged off. The obvious choice was to find some simple work, but that hadn't exactly gone well yesterday. Everyone saw me as a nobody—too young, too naive. Even if I tried manual labor, they'd want a city permit or an identification seal, both of which I lacked. My belly growled, urging me forward before I could overthink it.
After a few fruitless hours of wandering around, I overheard a ragged man cackling to another beggar about a soup kitchen in the lower quarter of Reslau. "They'll feed any stray dog," he joked, eyeing me as he said it, "and that kid looks like one." Under normal circumstances, I would've been offended, but desperation overshadowed my pride. Cheap—or free—food sounded like salvation, so I asked him for directions. He spat on the ground and scratched his filth-caked chin, then offered a quick laugh. "Just head down that alleyway, then go left at the old arch. Easy enough. Don't die."
I could have ignored it, but my stomach churned and my legs started moving on their own. The mention of free food kept poking at me like a stubborn thorn. Anything was better than continuing to starve while I roamed aimlessly. So I stepped off the main roads, deeper into the twisting maze of streets—where each turn seemed to lead me into narrower lanes filled with broken cobblestones and cramped, looming buildings. The stench of sewage mingled with rotting vegetables, making me cover my nose more than once. The sunlight felt like it never reached these alleys, as if the city itself had turned its back on this place.
I wasn't completely naive. The farther I went, the fewer people I saw—mostly shadowy figures lurking at the corners, or stooped silhouettes glancing at me with wary eyes. My instincts screamed that I was heading into trouble, but hunger and exhaustion drowned out the warning. I just wanted something to eat, maybe a bowl of watery stew and a crumb of bread. At least that would keep me on my feet a bit longer.
When I passed under the ancient arch the beggar had mentioned, I realized how quiet it had become. No more market noise or distant chatter—only the echo of my own steps. The buildings here were little more than decaying shacks pressed against each other, some with entire walls missing. A few stray cats slunk by, tails darting behind trash bins. My pulse quickened as I noticed how every door and window seemed boarded up or smashed in. Not exactly a place where people generously handed out free meals.
I stopped at a crossroads, uncertain if I should turn back. That's when I heard a voice—hoarse, timid, calling for help. "Please...someone...my leg..." It came from a side alley that looked even darker than the rest. A jolt of caution shot through me. But still, I hesitated, because ignoring a cry for help felt wrong. It might be dangerous, but I couldn't just walk away, could I?
"Hello?" I called softly, stepping closer. There was a figure slumped against a crate, half-hidden by shadows. A man, it seemed, wearing tattered clothes. He was clutching his calf, grimacing in pain. "Are you okay?" I asked, trying to see if there was blood or an actual wound.
He lifted his head slightly, and I caught a flicker of something in his eyes that made my skin prickle. A strange, knowing spark—like he was sizing me up. It happened too fast for me to back away. Shadows shifted around me, and I sensed more than saw a presence closing in. Then I heard a hiss from behind, and before I could react, a hand slammed against my back, forcing me against the brick wall.
"Found ourselves a lost pup," a cold voice sneered behind me. My heart hammered so hard it nearly drowned out the words. I tried to twist free, but they were too strong. A second voice chimed in, mocking and low. "Young face like that'll fetch a good price. Let's not damage him too badly."
I swallowed hard, cursing my own stupidity. This was exactly the trap I should've expected. And now, pinned in this godforsaken alley, I could only wonder if I'd run out of luck for good.
My back slammed against the cold brick, and the shock rattled every bone in my body. I tasted copper in my mouth—probably bit my tongue. Five men closed in around me, each wearing ragged cloaks and carrying the kind of expressions that told me they'd done this more times than they could count.
"Don't make it too hard on yourself," said the first one, leaning in close. He had a thin scar running from his lip to his jaw, giving him a permanent sneer. "See, we specialize in...providing merchandise. Some folks pay good coin for a young face like yours. Don't you worry, though—if you behave, you'll keep all your limbs." He chuckled, and the others grinned along with him.
I glared, trying not to show how much my heart pounded. "So you're slavers," I hissed, my breath ragged.
"Oh, we're entrepreneurs," the scarred man corrected, voice dripping with sarcasm. "The underbelly of this city is always looking for fresh stock."
I tried to move my arms, but one of them pressed his knee into my thigh, pinning me in place. Another yanked my bag away—what little I had left. Two days in Reslau, and it felt like I'd just stepped deeper into the worst kind of hell.
My mind raced. Holy Essence. I had that, right? But I barely knew how to use it. My last attempt back against the crimson lady was more like a fluke than actual mastery. Even if I tapped into it now, there was no guarantee I wouldn't fry myself first. That fear tangled with anger until my muscles tensed with helpless frustration.
"Hands off," I growled, though it came out weaker than I intended. My captor smirked, gripping me tighter. "Cute," he said, his breath rancid. "But this is business, kid. No need for heroics. Scream all you want—nobody here gives a damn."
He wasn't entirely wrong. The alley around us was deserted, shadowed by towering buildings. I doubted anyone would rush to my rescue, especially in a district like this. The stench of rot and grime thickened the air, an apt backdrop for what was happening. My chest tightened in panic, but I forced myself to keep breathing.
"Let's get him sedated," the scarred man said, nodding to one of his cronies. A burly figure with patchy hair rummaged in a pouch, pulling out a vial. The liquid inside glowed a faint pink under the flickering light of a single, half-dead lantern.
The guy stepped closer, and I jerked my head away. "Don't—""Hold still." He grabbed my jaw in a vice-like grip.
I bit down on my lip, tasting blood again. My mind screamed that this was the end. Maybe they'd drag me off, chain me up, and ship me to some far corner of the world. An image of Carmen, Nikita, and everyone I'd lost flashed in my head—like a reminder of how pathetic I was now.
Suddenly, a humming sound cut through the silence. It was off-key, some drunken tune about "a fish in the sea" that made no sense. The men paused, their heads swiveling toward the noise. Someone stood at the alley's entrance, backlit by the faint glow of streetlamps.
"Look what we have here," the intruder said in a raspy, sing-song tone. "A bunch of rats messing with the garbage. Careful you don't choke."
He took a wobbly step forward, letting the lantern light reveal him—a tall, haggard figure swaddled in filthy rags. A half-empty bottle dangled from his grip, sloshing with something that smelled like cheap liquor. Gray, greasy hair fell around his face, and there was a manic spark in his eyes.
The slavers glanced at each other. One gave a derisive snort. "Get lost, old man," he barked. "We're working here."
The newcomer took another swig, then burped. "Oh, is that what you call it? Working?" His voice was lazy, almost bored, but there was a sharpness underneath that pricked my skin. "You see, I've got a habit of poking my nose where it doesn't belong. And you boys look like trouble."
I felt a wave of relief mixed with dread. Was he really here to help, or was he just another predator? Still pinned, I couldn't do much but watch. The scarred man who seemed to be in charge glowered. "I said leave."
The drunkard chuckled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Why would I leave when I finally found tonight's entertainment?"
"Last warning." Two of the slavers moved toward him, hands on their daggers. One lunged forward, aiming a quick slash to scare the old man off.
What happened next was almost too fast to process. The ragged figure swayed to one side, as if stumbling in pure drunkenness. But the blade never touched him. Instead, in that lurching motion, he struck out with the bottle—whacking the attacker upside the head so hard the glass shattered. The slaver collapsed with a groan, out cold.
"Shit!" Another one rushed in. The old man spun on his heel, fluidly hooking the second guy's leg and toppling him face-first into the mud. It was messy, graceless even, but there was something uncanny about how he moved. Like he was weaving around them, not even fully sober yet still too swift to be normal.
"Damn you!" The leader let go of me and charged at the old man, brandishing his weapon in a full swing. That's when everything shifted. The tramp's eyes narrowed, and I caught a glimpse of something—like a faint glow radiating from his body. Heat pulsed in the alley.
"Get down!" he roared. I instinctively ducked, rolling against the wall. A surge of blinding light flared as the drunkard thrust his palm forward. The next second, a flash of gold illuminated the darkness, followed by a roar of searing flames. Holy Essence. Unmistakable. It crackled through the air with a thunderous intensity that made my teeth clench.
"What the—" The slavers shrieked, staggering back, desperately trying to shield their eyes. The brilliant wave of light licked out, scorching a path across the filthy pavement. A wave of heat slammed into me, warm but strangely comforting. It was as if a god's fury had materialized in the hands of this rag-wearing man.
My heart pounded. This was the real deal. True Holy Essence, unleashed without hesitation. I couldn't tear my eyes away. One of the men lunged again, but the old man effortlessly sidestepped, thrust his open palm at the thug's chest, and a second burst of golden flame knocked him back. The poor bastard slammed into the wall, eyes rolling up as he slid down in a daze.
The air filled with the smell of scorched leather and a tang of something raw—like ozone after a storm. The leader cursed under his breath, realized they were outmatched, and whistled. Those still conscious scrambled to pick up their unconscious comrades.
"Fuck this. We'll find another mark," he muttered, shooting me a hateful glare. Then he spun and fled, the rest trailing after him. Within moments, they vanished into the labyrinth of alleys, leaving only a few wisps of smoke dancing in the golden haze.
Silence. My ears rang from the sudden eruption, and I panted against the wall, trying to calm the adrenaline stampeding through my veins. The old man stood there, shoulders rising and falling with each unsteady breath. His gaze finally turned toward me. Now that the light had dimmed, I could see his features more clearly—deep lines etched around his mouth, exhaustion, and something like a wild spark in those eyes.
He grunted and let out a belch. "Trouble always finds idiots," he slurred, as though it were obvious. Then he stumbled forward, nearly falling onto me. I caught a whiff of rancid alcohol and smoke. "You...kid. You alright?"
My throat felt dry. The words stuck, but eventually, I managed, "Y-Yeah...I...thank you." I pushed up from the ground, wincing at the pain in my back. Bruises for sure, but still alive.
He snickered, tipping his bottle up for another drink only to find it shattered at the bottom. He pouted at the broken glass. "Damn shame. Good liquor, that was."
"You...holy shit," I blurted, still shaken. "You used Holy Essence like it was nothing. Who are you?"
He wiped a trickle of blood from a cut on his cheek, then squinted at me like I was an annoying mosquito. "I'm the bastard who's stuck pulling sorry fools like you out of the gutter, that's who. Call me...uh...Varkas." He paused, then gave a low, mocking bow. "Varkas, the Drunk Saint of Reslau's slums."
I just stared. My mind whirled with a thousand questions.
He noticed my expression. "What's that face, huh? Surprised a beggar can use Holy Essence?" He laughed harshly, a humorless sound. "The city don't give a damn about the likes of me. But that's fine—I don't give a damn about it either."
Somewhere in the background, a cat howled, and an ominous wind swept down the alley, scattering bits of ash across the ground. I took a step closer, my chest still thudding with residual shock. "I...I owe you my life."
Varkas shrugged. "You owe me more than that, boy. Now get over here. We can talk...assuming you can afford to buy me a drink." He pinned me with a look that held just enough malice to send a chill down my spine. There was something dangerously unhinged about him, but I sensed no ill intent—just a raw edge. Like a blade that'd been left out to rust yet still cut deeper than any polished sword.
I hesitated, scanning the scorched streak on the ground. That could've been me if he'd decided otherwise. My instincts shouted at me to run, but a part of me also recognized that this was an opportunity. Holy Essence like that...someone who could actually teach me? The entire reason I came to Reslau was to train for the Academy. Maybe this drunk saint held a key I desperately needed.
My stomach growled, reminding me of my hunger. Varkas turned to leave, waving his hand dismissively. "Suit yourself. If you'd rather starve, that's your problem." He started humming that off-key tune again as he ambled away.
I swallowed, adrenaline still high. Then I forced my feet to move, following him despite every alarm bell ringing in my head. Because in that moment, I realized something important: I'd been going nowhere, caught in the city's vicious cycle with no chance to improve. If I wanted to reach the Academy—if I wanted to stand a chance in this damned world—I needed a miracle or a teacher...or both.
And this drunken old man, stinking of cheap booze and swirling with Holy Essence, might just be it.
I followed Varkas through a warren of half-collapsed alleys and uneven, muddy pathways. The man moved with an odd swagger—one moment wobbling like he was on the verge of passing out, the next steady as stone. Despite the filth caked on his threadbare cloak and the reek of stale alcohol clinging to him, there was a prickling sense of raw power about him. I couldn't tell if that made me feel safer or more at risk.
Before long, we slipped into a cramped side street, illuminated by the faint glow of a flickering lantern. A makeshift sign reading Bitter Barrel dangled overhead, one hinge broken so it kept swinging dangerously in the breeze. Varkas shoved the warped door open with a careless kick.
Inside, the tavern was as grimy as the rest of the slums—sticky tables, chipped mugs, a floor that smelled of sour ale and unwashed bodies. A couple of exhausted faces glanced our way, then went back to their own worries. Seeing Varkas, the barkeep curled a lip and let out a low grunt. Looked like the old drunk had worn out his welcome here before, but no one was about to throw him out—not after that little Holy Essence display outside.
Varkas slumped into a battered wooden chair near the counter and waved me over. I hesitated, noticing how most of the tavern's patrons quickly averted their gazes. Nobody wanted to make trouble with a man who could conjure golden flames. Taking a seat across from him, I found myself wondering if the chair would collapse under my weight. It wobbled dangerously, but held.
The barkeep, a wiry old woman with a stained apron, approached. She eyed Varkas, then shifted her gaze to me with mild suspicion. "Not you again," she growled at him. "You owe me for the last two visits."
"Relax," Varkas drawled, producing a small handful of coins with a flourish. "I came into some funds recently."
I couldn't hide my surprise. He'd had nothing just moments ago. Then I remembered how he'd knocked those slavers around—maybe he'd relieved them of their purses while I was still gathering my senses. It shouldn't have impressed me, but it did. The man might be a drunk, but he was cunning.
The barkeep stared at the coins, snorted, and grabbed them. "This better cover your tab. And if you two cause trouble, I'm tossing you out on your asses."
"Yeah, yeah," Varkas said dismissively, ignoring her glare. Then he flicked his wrist toward me. "Order what you like, kid. Though I doubt they serve anything fancy."
I wasn't particularly picky, given how starved I felt. "Just something warm," I said. "Soup, maybe?" The barkeep scoffed and disappeared into the back.
Meanwhile, Varkas ran a grimy hand over the battered surface of the table. "So," he muttered, leaning forward. "You looked ready to fight back earlier. You got some kind of trump card?"
I lowered my voice, not wanting half the tavern to overhear. "I—well, I can use Holy Essence. Sort of." I recalled that time during the fortress siege, when I'd tapped into something that felt like a blazing light in my veins. It had been sloppy, sure, but it was real enough to keep me alive. "I don't really know how it works, though. Sometimes it flares up. Sometimes...it doesn't."
He arched a brow, an amused grin tugging at his mouth. "Holy Essence, you say? From a scrawny mutt like you?" He swigged from a fresh mug of ale that the barkeep slammed in front of him. "Well, color me curious. People with Holy Essence usually have insane potential. But seeing how easily those scum caught you, you're either lying or you're hopeless. Which is it?"
A twinge of annoyance flared in my chest. "I'm not lying. It's real. But I never got proper training, and..." I shrugged, feeling the weight of my failures. "Look, I need help. Someone who actually understands how to control it."
Varkas regarded me for a long moment. His eyes flicked to the small cut on my cheek, the bruises on my arms. Maybe he saw desperation. Maybe he recognized something else—like that faint trace of Holy Essence I couldn't quite hide. "Heh. So you're not completely useless. Question is, why come to me?"
"You're the first person I've met here who can actually wield Holy Essence. Everyone else—" I paused, remembering how the guild had turned me away for being underage, how the city guards hardly cared, how the normal folks saw me as just another outsider. "I guess you're my only shot right now," I admitted, swallowing what remained of my pride.
He ran a finger around the rim of his mug, then licked the beer foam. "That's a sad story, friend. But I'm not exactly known for charitable deeds." His voice was steady, but I sensed a hint of amusement laced with caution. "If I were to teach you anything, what do I get out of it?"
I racked my brain. What could I possibly offer? "I...don't have much. But I'll do whatever it takes. If you want me to run errands, pay you back once I make some money—"
Varkas snorted. "Money, booze, favors...everyone promises that. Doesn't mean they deliver." He knocked back a gulp from his mug. "Still, there's something about you that's interesting, kid. You've got that look in your eye—like you've been through hell already and aren't afraid of what's next."
I opened my mouth to speak, but he lifted a hand for silence. The barkeep returned with a bowl of watery stew and a hunk of bread for me. She set it down unceremoniously, then stomped off to scold a drunk passed out at another table.
I let the steaming scent wash over me. It wasn't fancy, but it was the best smell I'd encountered in days. My stomach growled in anticipation. I dipped the bread, savoring the warm broth, only half-aware of how intently Varkas was watching me.
He tapped a knuckle on the table. "Tell you what: I'll give you a chance. But don't expect a cozy teacher-student relationship. If I say jump, you jump. If I tell you to scrape the shit off the alley floor, you do it. I won't coddle you. Hell, if you fail, I'll kick you to the curb. Clear?"
My mouth was full of stew-soaked bread, so I just nodded. Despite the harsh tone, there was a flicker in his eyes—like he was testing me.
"Good," he said with a reluctant smirk. "Now eat up. You'll need your strength." He took another swig of ale, then mumbled under his breath, "Damn city. Always ignoring real talent, letting rat scum roam free. Guess I'll have to stir things up."
I swallowed. "So...why are you in the slums if you're that powerful?"
His grin turned sour. "Long story, boy. Let's just say the Academy and I...didn't part on good terms. You really want to learn from me, you'll hear the tale eventually. For now..." He shot me a glare that warned me not to pry further. "Keep your mouth shut and focus on getting strong enough not to get kidnapped in an alley."
I gave a small nod, finishing the last of the bread. My body felt marginally better, yet every muscle remained tense from the earlier ambush. That was the second time since arriving in Reslau that I'd nearly been sold off or killed. If not for Varkas, I wouldn't be sitting here at all.
Silence settled between us for a moment, broken only by the distant murmur of other patrons and the barkeep's clinking dishes. Finally, Varkas stood up, tossing another coin onto the table. "We're done here."
"Where are we going?" I asked, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Nowhere fancy. Just a place where your whining won't disturb my drinking," he said flatly. "And if you're really lucky, I might show you the first step to not dying next time someone tries to grab you."
Despite the offhand insult, my heart thumped with a cautious sense of hope. This was it—the beginning of something bigger. I stood and followed him out of the tavern, ignoring the furtive looks from a couple of suspicious patrons. The door creaked shut behind us, and the chilly night air hit me like a reminder that Reslau's slums were no place to let your guard down.
In that moment, a realization sank in: If I wanted to get into the Academy, if I wanted to learn how to control Holy Essence, I'd have to rely on this unhinged drunkard who seemed to stand at the crossroads of brilliance and madness. And for some strange reason, I felt a rush of adrenaline at the thought. Because maybe, just maybe, his madness was exactly what I needed to survive in this world.