Jawana City don't sleep. Rich folks live in golden towers while us poor folks huddle in stinking alleys, bellies empty and growling. Fancy nobles throw scraps to mutts while we starve. Here, you don't count days – you count breaths before this place kills you.
Adikara's ribs showed through his skin as he tugged his threadbare cloak tighter. Walking barefoot hurt, the stones cutting his callused soles as he hunted for food scraps. Market voices boomed with prices he'd never afford in ten lifetimes. Black-armored soldiers kicked anyone who looked desperate enough to beg.
The meat smell hit him hard – some food stall cooking stuff he'd never tasted. His guts cramped bad. Some fat merchant with a face like an overripe tomato was laughing, tearing up fancy bread, crumbs falling everywhere. Then Adikara spotted it – one small roll tumbling off the edge, landing in the street filth. Nobody watching. Nobody giving a damn.
His pulse hammered in his throat. Fingers trembling. Just take it. One bite. That's all. He lunged, grabbed the bread from the muck. For one sweet moment, he almost felt the warmth, almost tasted salt. Then someone yanked his head back by the hair, hard enough to bring tears.
Some soldier with a shiny bronze chest plate sneered down. "THIEF!" he bellowed for the whole market to hear. More soldiers circled like wolves. The crowd scattered – scared to be near him, like his bad luck might be catching.
"This one's done it before!" another soldier shouted. "Law says thieves lose a hand first time, life the third!"
Adikara fought and screamed till his throat was raw. Didn't matter. They bound his wrists with rope that cut his skin and dragged him through town. Street kids pelted him with rocks. Shopkeepers spat. In this kingdom, showing mercy meant you were weak, and weak people didn't last.
By the square, his legs gave out completely. He collapsed before the execution platform. The judge – fat bastard lounging in his fancy stone chair – barely looked up from his wine.
"Third offense?" he mumbled, wine staining his beard. The guard nodded once. "Kill him at sundown."
That was it. No chance to speak. No one to care.
The sun bled out across the horizon. Adikara barely heard the death prayers or noticed the executioner testing his blade's edge. His mind kept circling back to his own stupidity – stealing bread, getting caught, same mistakes over and over. Like he ever had a chance in this world.
The sword fell. Adikara couldn't even scream. Everything went dark.
But somehow, as he sank into the void, a strange blue light flickered where there should've been nothing. A voice – not human, not anything he recognized – spoke inside his mind: SYSTEM ACTIVATED. HOST RECONSTRUCTION IN PROGRESS.