The Wasteland was endless.
Aryan's boots dragged through the cracked ground, his breath dry and sharp in the thick, bitter air. It had been three hours since he left the safety of Drezan's rusted gates. The sun overhead didn't warm—it only watched, distant and silent, as if waiting to witness his death.
Every shadow moved like a threat. Every gust of wind sounded like a growl.
But Aryan kept walking.
He had no map. No weapon beyond a rusted dagger. No plan except survive.
"I just need… something weak," he murmured, scanning the ruins around him. "A small one. Something I can handle."
Then, he heard it.
A faint clicking noise. Not metal. Not wind. Bones.
He ducked behind a half-collapsed wall and peeked.
It stood maybe four feet tall, squat and hunched—its gray skin pulsed like a heartbeat. Two curved horns rose from its misshapen head. One massive eye blinked in the center of its face, and its mouth split wide to reveal jagged, uneven teeth. Four arms twitched restlessly, claws scraping against stone.
Aryan swallowed hard.
"That… that one's small. Maybe…"
He gripped his dagger tighter, sweat dripping from his brow.
"Okay. Just like the rats back in the alley… sneak behind. One stab. In and out."
He crept forward, crouched low. His heartbeat echoed louder than his footsteps. The monster sniffed the air but didn't turn.
Aryan struck.
"AAAHHH!" he screamed, lunging with everything he had.
But the moment the blade came close, the creature twisted its body unnaturally—dodging with ease.
"What?!"
The beast spun, mouth glowing with eerie red light. Aryan's eyes widened.
"Oh no—"
The beam fired from its throat like a burning lance of energy. Aryan threw himself sideways, the blast grazing his arm, searing pain through muscle and skin.
He hit the ground, rolled, and scrambled back to his feet, adrenaline drowning out his fear.
"I'm not dying here!!"
The monster charged.
Aryan ducked under a swinging claw, stabbing upward—his blade slicing through soft flesh. The monster screeched, blood spraying his face.
Another arm grabbed his shoulder, claws sinking in. Aryan screamed, twisting violently, driving the dagger into the creature's chest again and again and again—
Until it collapsed, twitching, bleeding into the dust.
Aryan fell back, panting, his arm burned, shoulder torn, hand trembling.
He stared at the creature's corpse.
"I… I did it…"
It took all his strength to drag the body back.
The journey back to Drezan was slow. Every step pulled at his wounds. The monster's body, though small, felt like a mountain of dead weight. But Aryan refused to let go. He had to earn money. He had to eat.
Hours later, as the sun began to dip into the haze, he reached the gate.
The guards didn't even mock him this time. They just stepped aside, watching the blood-covered boy dragging a monster behind him.
Inside the black market, silence followed Aryan's footsteps. Even the hardened hunters turned.
The masked man at the BLADE counter raised an eyebrow.
"You again," he said. "Still breathing, huh?"
Aryan dropped the corpse with a thud. "How much?"
The man approached, examining the beast. "One-eyed. Four-armed. Low-tier mutation. Small horns… mouth beam. Hmm."
He turned, flicking through a rank ledger. After a moment, he nodded.
"E-rank. Not bad for your first catch."
He pulled out a pouch and tossed it across the counter. It jingled as it landed in Aryan's hands.
"150 chips. Decent payout. You're still alive… that's a bonus."
Aryan stared at the pouch. His fingers tightened around it.
His first money.
"Thank you," he whispered, then turned and ran.
The market was just a few blocks away.
It was loud. Crowded. The smell of oil and grilled meat hit him like a memory. He saw the same vendor stall where he had once begged, where he had once stolen a piece of bread and been beaten bloody for it.
But this time… he walked up to the counter and placed coins down.
"I want the meat stew… and two bread rolls," he said quietly.
The vendor stared at him. Then, nodded. No judgment. Just business.
Aryan took the hot food and stepped aside, sitting on a broken crate nearby. He held the bowl in his hands like it was treasure.
Steam rose into his face.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then… tears fell.
He didn't sob or wail. Just quiet tears—raw, exhausted relief.
He brought the first spoonful to his mouth.
"This… this is mine," he whispered.
He ate. Slowly. Reverently. As if each bite was proof that he wasn't dead—that in this cursed world, he could still fight, still earn, still live.
And in that moment, under the pale twilight sky, Aryan wasn't just a beggar or a boy.
He was a survivor.