"We've decided," Father said, his voice heavy.
"You need to move out. I'll pay for it, like I said. Just… go."
Mother and Ren stood behind him, their arms wrapped around each other, their faces etched with hatred.
The living room, once alive with their laughter, was now a tomb of silence, the TV's faint hum a cruel mockery of my plea for forgiveness. The cash Father had thrown at me lay scattered on the floor, each crumpled bill a shard of my failure.
I'd dreamed of a warm family dinner, of laughter over steaming bowls, but that hope crumbled into dust.
My past—petty thefts, street fights, the shadow I'd cast over their lives—was a chain I couldn't break. I had no one to blame but myself.
I hung my head, the weight of their rejection crushing my chest.
"Okay," I whispered, my voice barely audible.
I stumbled upstairs, legs heavy as if wading through mud. In my room, I faced the chipped mirror where I'd once flexed with pride, believing I could change. Now, it showed a broken boy, faint bruises lingering beneath my clean shirt.
I'd scrubbed the blood and dirt from my dungeon fight, bandaged my cuts, and changed clothes before facing them, hoping a fresh appearance might soften their hearts. It hadn't.
I grabbed a worn backpack and stuffed it with essentials: three faded shirts, a pair of jeans, my dog-eared schoolbooks, and a threadbare blanket. My fingers lingered on the desk, tracing the carved initials—R.K.—from a time when this room was home.
It was 8 PM, the sky a starless void. The autumn air bit my skin as I stepped onto the street, my breath clouding in the chill. Kuiki didn't forgive. My reputation—a pariah with a rap sheet of stolen wallets and bruised knuckles—clung to me like a curse.
I needed shelter, a place to crash until I could find a plan. I tried the local inn, its neon sign flickering like a dying pulse.
"Sorry, we're full," the clerk said, eyes fixed on the counter.
I knew a lie when I heard one, his voice tight with disdain. I tried a hostel, its faded sign promising cheap beds.
"No rooms for you, Kurosawa," the manager said, shaking her head.
A cheap motel was my last shot, its buzzing lights casting a sickly glow.
"Get lost, or I'm calling the cops," the manager snarled, hand hovering over the phone.
My past was a stain I couldn't wash out. Shivering, I pulled my jacket tighter and trudged through Kuiki's dimly lit streets, lamp lights casting long shadows across cracked pavement.
Near an alley, rough men in patched armor—Delvers, hardened by the dungeon—eyed me, their grins sharp as knives.
"Hey, kid," one called, voice slick. "Need work? Dungeon mules make good money."
I quickened my pace, heart pounding. Kuiki's economy thrived on D Kuiki, a sprawling labyrinth beneath the city where Delvers hunted monsters for prismatic crystals that powered the town's tech and fueled its trade. Mules were disposable—bait or packhorses for crews who didn't care if you survived.
I'd rather freeze.
The orphanage was my last hope. Its splintered gate loomed, a faint glow spilling from the windows. I'd spent hours there, bringing rice and fruit, tutoring kids whose laughter eased my guilt.
I knocked softly, mindful of their sleep.
No answer.
Five minutes later, I knocked again, knuckles stinging. Silence. After ten, then twenty minutes, I tried one last time, the cold seeping into my bones.
"Guess everyone's asleep," I muttered, voice swallowed by the night.
I scanned the yard, grass patchy with fallen leaves. A fist-sized rock, half-buried, caught my eye. It would do as a pillow. I pulled my blanket from my backpack, its wool rough, but a droplet hit my hand.
Rain poured from a sky that had been clear moments ago, soaking me in seconds. I scrambled to shield my blanket, but the cold pierced my skin, teeth chattering. The gate stood unmoved, indifferent.
I considered a nearby public restroom, its sign flickering through the rain. I pushed open the door, and the stench hit me—putrid, moist, a mix of feces and mildew. Nausea twisted my stomach, and I gagged.
"No way. Fuck this," I said, stumbling back into the storm.
School was my last resort. The rain pounded, soaking my clothes until they clung like a second skin, my backpack sagging. Kuiki High's gates loomed, a stark silhouette against the stormy sky. I swiped my student ID on my watch, praying the scanner worked.
The gate clicked open, and I slipped inside, the hallway's warmth a fleeting relief. But footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Ms. Fukushina, my homeroom teacher, descended, her glasses glinting under fluorescent lights, her face twisted in displeasure.
"What are you doing here, Kurosawa?" she asked, voice sharp as a blade.
"I—uh, I got locked out of my apartment," I lied, voice trembling. "Left my keys inside. Can I stay overnight? I won't cause trouble."
She scoffed, arms crossing.
"Not causing trouble? You are trouble, Ryota. I'm on security duty. Leave. Now."
The rain outside roared. Desperation clawed my chest.
"Please, just for tonight," I pleaded. "I'm drenched and freezing. I don't have anyone."
She laughed, cold and mocking.
"No one to help you? Pitiful, but not my problem. Leave, or I'll use force."
Her hand rested on the baton at her hip. I bit my lip, tasting blood, and turned back into the rain. Her laughter followed, cutting through the storm's howl.
Tired, soaked, and hungry, my stomach growling like a caged beast, I wandered until one place remained: D Kuiki, the dungeon.
Its windowless entrance loomed, a concrete cube pulsing with danger and reward. Inside, the air was thick with damp stone and ozone. Delvers in patched armor lounged near the entrance, their snickers echoing.
"Look at the kid," one muttered. "Bait by morning."
My wet shoes squeaked on the stone floor. The dungeon's first floor was a sprawling cavern, lit by flickering blue crystals embedded in the walls, casting eerie shadows. Boulders and stalagmites offered privacy. I found a secluded spot behind a massive rock, hidden from monsters and Delvers.
I spread my damp blanket, using my backpack as a pillow. My schoolbooks, ruined by rain, were smudged, but I opened one, and read to keep my mind busy from the cold and hunger.
My watch's alarm jolted me awake at 8:30 AM—thirty minutes late for class. Panic surged. I grabbed my belongings, the blanket sticking to my skin, and sprinted up the dungeon's stairs, slipping on stairs. The Speed-Train station was a blur, my soaked clothes earning glares from commuters.
I reached Kuiki High, breath ragged, and burst into Classroom D00.
Ms. Fukushina paused her lecture, eyes narrowing.
"Welcome, Mr. Kurosawa," she said, tone venomous. "Glad you could arrive late and interrupt. Sit down."
I bowed, face burning.
"Sorry," I mumbled.
I shuffled to my desk, fluorescent lights harsh on my tired eyes. Whispers followed.
"Pig's breathing like a hog," one classmate hissed.
"Smells like a dumpster, fitting for a pig," another added.
"Bet he slept in the pen," a third sneered.
I sank into my seat, their words stinging like salt in a wound. The chalkboard blurred, but I didn't know the page number. I glanced at the boy to my left.
"What page?" I whispered.
"Fuck off," he snapped.
I tried the girl to my right.
"Page number?"
"Don't talk to me, pig-face," she said, voice ice.
I stared at my smudged textbook, hands shaking. My heart pounded, breath quickening but forced silent. I was at a boiling point, the night's weight—Father's words, the rain, the dungeon—threatening to break me.
"I need to endure this," I told myself, clenching my fists. "Until I'm back in the dungeon."
I peeked at my neighbor's textbook, catching the page number from a diagram. They scoffed, but I ignored them, scribbling notes. The lesson droned on, each minute a test of restraint.
In Coach Ryoza's class, her eyes locked onto me, softening with concern. She clapped her hands.
"Pair up and head to D Kuiki, floor two," she said. "Focus on combat and cooperation. Go."
Students shuffled out. She pulled me aside, voice low.
"What happened, Ryota?"
I forced a smile, pride scrambling for a lie.
"A friend got kicked out," I said quickly. "I helped him find shelter, but it rained, and I stayed with him. That's why I'm late and… like this."
She narrowed her eyes, silent. My lie hung flimsy.
"I'll ask you again," she said, hands on her hips. "What happened?"
I sighed, pride crumbling.
"My family kicked me out," I admitted, voice shaking. "I'm on my own. I tried the orphanage, but no one answered. I slept in the dungeon, floor one."
The words burned, my pride stinging more than my situation. Coach's face softened, her hand on my shoulder.
"I'll talk to the orphanage," she said gently. "They're strict for the kids' sake, so don't expect much. But I'll try."
She patted my shoulder, then smiled faintly.
"Now, let's head to the third floor."
We descended into D Kuiki, the air thickening, the stone walls closing in like a vice. The third floor's chamber reeked of damp earth and rusted metal, its scarred walls lit by flickering torches casting jagged shadows.
My heart carried the night's weight—Father's rejection, the rain's bite—but the dungeon was where I could channel it, where pain became defiance. I set down the school's sword, its cold steel alien, heavy with expectations I refused.
My fists were enough—scarred, raw, an extension of the fire roaring in my chest.
Coach raised an eyebrow, her braid swaying.
"No sword?" she asked, voice thick with skepticism. "That's reckless, Ryota."
"I'm better with my hands," I said, flexing my knuckles, cracked and raw from the cold. "It's… me."
She frowned, eyes scanning me like a puzzle.
"You sure? Kapras don't play nice."
"Trust me," I said, meeting her gaze, voice steady despite the ache in my bones. "I can handle it."
She sighed, lips twitching with reluctant respect.
"Fine. Show me."
She bound my right arm—my stronger one—with coarse rope, the fibers scraping like sandpaper, leaving my left arm free but clumsy, its muscles untested. She smashed a purple vial on the floor, its acrid scent searing my nostrils, sharper than the red vials of earlier fights. The ground pulsed, a low hum vibrating through my boots, and the air crackled like a storm about to break.
A Kapra erupted from the shadows, four feet of leathery menace, its gray skin glistening like wet slate under the torchlight. Its yellow eyes burned with predatory hunger, jagged claws glinting like obsidian blades, scraping the stone with a screech that clawed at my nerves—high-pitched, guttural, like metal grinding against bone. Its maw gaped, revealing needle-sharp teeth dripping with viscous drool, the stench of decay wafting from its breath.
I'd fought enough to know their patterns—instinct-driven, predictable if you stayed sharp. Their slashes were lightning-fast but reckless, their stamina a fleeting spark.
I leaned forward, weight on my toes, my breath hot and steady, baiting it. The Kapra lunged, claws slashing in a wide arc, the air hissing like a whip as they sliced inches from my chest. My heart thundered, a war drum in my ribs, but I back stepped, boots grinding against the gritty floor, feeling the rush of air as the claws missed.
Its momentum carried it forward, arms overextended, throat exposed—a raw, pulsing patch of softer scales, glistening with sweat. I sidestepped, my left arm swinging like a coiled spring, channeling the Kapra's speed against it.
My knuckles slammed into its throat with a wet, sickening crunch, the impact jarring my arm to the shoulder, pain flaring like a hot coal. The Kapra flew back, its body slamming into the stone with a bone-rattling thud, legs kicking feebly as its eyes dimmed, a final wheeze escaping its gaping maw, drool pooling beneath it.
I panted, sweat stinging my cuts, adrenaline drowning the night's despair. My left hand throbbed, knuckles raw and speckled with the Kapra's dark, oily blood, the scent sharp and metallic.
"Nice," Coach called, her tone grudgingly impressed, her silhouette sharp against the torchlight.
Four more Kapras charged, their screeches blending into a chaotic, ear-splitting chorus that echoed off the chamber's walls, a cacophony of rage and hunger. Their claws gleamed like polished daggers, their yellow eyes locked on me like I was prey, their leathery hides rippling with each frenzied step.
My heart pounded, a relentless drum, but I grounded myself, the cold stone under my boots a tether to reality. I needed to move smart—minimize damage, exhaust them.
I sidestepped the first two slashes, weaving left to right, my boots scraping as I kept them in my peripheral vision. The chamber's air was thick, heavy with ozone and the coppery tang of blood, the torches flickering like dying stars. One Kapra lunged, its claws grazing my jacket, tearing fabric with a sharp rip that echoed in my ears. I twisted, my left fist snapping out to catch its ribs, the impact sending a jolt through my arm as it stumbled, gasping, its breath a rancid gust.
The others pressed in, their attacks a frenzied blur of claws and snarls, their teeth snapping inches from my face. I ducked under a swipe, feeling the air shift above my head, the claw's edge grazing my hair. My breath burned in my lungs, sweat dripping into my eyes, stinging like acid. I weaved between them, baiting their reckless attacks, my movements fluid but deliberate, each step calculated to avoid being cornered.
Their stamina waned, their movements slowing, chests heaving like bellows, their screeches faltering into hoarse rasps. One staggered, its claws dragging on the stone with a grating screech. I seized the moment, grabbing a jagged rock from the floor, its surface rough and slick with damp, its weight solid and reassuring in my palm.
I smashed it down on the nearest Kapra's skull, the crack reverberating like a gunshot, blood spurting in a dark arc, splattering my boots. The others faltered, too tired to guard, their eyes dull with exhaustion. I moved like a predator, relentless, smashing the rock into each skull—once, twice, three times—the dull thuds blending with their dying wheezes, their bodies collapsing in heaps of leathery flesh, scales glinting faintly in the torchlight, blood pooling in viscous puddles.
Five minutes later, the vial's scent faded, leaving only the coppery stench of blood and ozone, the chamber's silence heavy as a shroud. I stood, panting, my left arm trembling, cuts stinging with sweat and dirt. My chest heaved, but I felt alive, the fire in my veins burning away the night's despair.
Coach approached, her face lit with a rare, approving smile, and handed me a short, curved knife, its blade glinting like a crescent moon under the torches.
"Cut them up," she said, her voice warm with pride. "Retrieve your drops."
"Eh?" I said, the knife heavy in my hand, my mind reeling from the sudden task, the blade's cold weight unfamiliar after the raw power of my fists.