Chapter 1: No Black, No White
The gray sky hung like a tattered shroud no black, no white only the suffocating shade of ash veiled the world of discarded souls. A sight so familiar, it barely stirred those who dared to raise their heads in this wasteland.
Thick clouds drifted sluggishly, pressing down on the earth below, creating a stifling atmosphere that never truly changed.
The stench was overwhelming—a pungent blend of rotting refuse, rusted metal, and something worse... the scent of death that never quite left this land.
The air was filled with floating particles of soot and dust, like the remnants of lives long extinguished.
Beneath that bleak sky, the world had lost its vitality.
The spiritual energy of heaven and earth was so thin, it felt like the dying breath of a decaying realm.
No clear rivers.
No green fields.
Only an ocean of ruins stretched as far as the eye could see.
This was the Discarded Realm—a place for those stripped of their rights and dignity, thrown away by the upper world.
Fallen nobles, criminals, the lowest slaves, and outcasts of every kind ended up here... discarded like junk.
They were no longer whole humans—merely walking shadows, scavenging remnants of life from the mountains of waste, surviving however they could.
A faint breeze carried the rustling of shifting garbage. At a glance, the world seemed dead.
But if one listened closely, life stirred beneath the ruins: dark whispers in the gloom, soft footsteps barely audible, the held breath of someone hiding.
Amid the faint chaos, there lay the shadow of a forgotten unicorn carriage, half-buried in dirt and time.
Once, it belonged to a powerful cultivator of a ruling faction.
The ancient runes still etched into the wood bore witness, though time had faded them.
Its once-glorious defensive formations had long since vanished, leaving behind only faint lines—like scars on a warrior's body after he's lost his blade.
Now, it was a hollow shell covered in mold, the air thick with mildew and scattered pigeon bones.
And in its shadow, sat a boy.
Fajar Fana.
His eyes stared at the dim sky—gloomy, yet familiar.
He looked to be around thirteen. Thin, his bones protruded beneath sun-darkened skin hardened by harsh heat.
Dust clung to his matted hair, while faded scars marked his small hands.
His fingers clutched a worn metal necklace. His thumb traced the engravings on its surface.
A relic from his mother.
Her face remained etched in his memory—unchanging, eternal.
Childhood memories lingered close within his grasp, yet somehow always just out of reach... fading like a distant dream.
Fajar exhaled slowly and whispered,
"I hope this time... things go smoothly."
He couldn't remember the last time he felt full.
But here, hunger wasn't the greatest enemy.
The true enemy was despair—the slow rot of the soul.
Suddenly, the sky trembled.
Fajar sharpened his senses.
"One... two... three..." he counted silently.
Then, it appeared: a swirling spiral in the sky.
At first, no larger than a speck of dust, it expanded rapidly into a vortex of strange, glowing energy.
Fajar recognized the phenomenon: a world-transportation array.
As the dark vortex stabilized, a colossal metal capsule emerged—grand, imposing, as though the lives below were utterly meaningless in its presence.
Fajar's pupils shrank.
His fingers trembled around the necklace.
That capsule was a delivery from the Upper Realm—and often, a bringer of death.
Wind from the vortex struck the hollowed faces below.
Though the capsule hovered silently in the air, most outcasts didn't dare reveal themselves.
But a few naive ones stepped out of hiding.
Desperation vanished from their faces, replaced by hope—eyes glittering.
"Sir, please! Take me with you! Get me out of this hell!" one cried.
"I'll serve you! Be your slave! Just let me live!"
Tears streamed down dirty cheeks. Hands clasped in pleading.
"Sir, I—"
Their pleas turned to wails.
A golden beam shot out from the capsule's side, vaporizing everything in its path.
It struck the beggars in a flash.
"AAHHHHH—NOOO!"
And then... silence.
The scent of charred flesh filled the air.
All the scavengers froze.
Goosebumps pricked their skin, breath caught in their throats.
This was absolute power from above. Mercy and sympathy... mere relics of the past.
Fajar Fana, a nameless boy lost to history, remained still in the wreckage of the unicorn carriage.
His fingers brushed the necklace on his chest. His teeth sank into his lower lip.
He had witnessed this terror for five years. In the face of that killing machine, every cry, every hope, every plea was meaningless.
"KRRRIIIIK."
The capsules opened.
A rain of waste began to fall—broken metal, moldy scraps, shattered furniture, leftover pills from above.
Trash to them.
Treasure to the discarded.
Fajar remained motionless.
His thin frame merged into the wreckage. His breathing steady, as if he was part of the ruins.
But when the third capsule opened, something changed.
Not just garbage fell.
Bodies.
Human bodies were thrown down like refuse, tumbling into the wreckage.
Some died on impact—bones snapping like twigs.
Others groaned, disoriented and afraid.
Trouble.
Fajar bit his lip.
More people meant fewer resources.
Once the final outcast fell, the capsule maneuvered through the air and vanished into the spatial array.
The moment the vortex closed, movement erupted from every direction.
Scavengers swarmed toward the crash site—not to scavenge, but to kill.
They slaughtered the newly fallen.
Knives sank into guts.
Axes crushed skulls.
Blood soaked into blackened earth.
Screams filled the air—background noise in this realm.
For the veterans of this world, it was ritual.
Soon, chaos exploded across the wasteland.
Pipe clubs, kitchen knives, axes, even bare fists turned the scene into carnage.
Some formed alliances to monopolize loot.
Others hunted alone.
Fajar remained unmoving.
Children like him weren't predators. They were rats, picking at crumbs after lions feasted.
Only when the chaos peaked... they moved.
Boys and girls like Fajar emerged—quick, nimble shadows who knew exactly when to act.
They avoided the main piles.
They knew only strength ruled there.
Instead, they spread toward the outskirts, hunting for discarded items missed by the killers.
Fajar sharpened every sense.
His eyes scanned the rubble.
His ears tracked footsteps nearby.
His nose sniffed for food beneath dust and blood.
Then—he saw something.
His hand darted into the debris, pulling free a half-buried leather pouch between splintered wood and torn sacks.
He opened it. His eyes widened.
Bread.
Dry. Hard. Edible.
But that wasn't what made him freeze.
Black powder lined the inside.
Pill residue.
He touched it gently. The scent was sharp. Familiar.
"Wait… this is healing powder."
His heart pounded.
A treasure, here in hell.
But joy lasted only a second.
A shadow leapt from the right.
"THUD!"
An axe struck the ground—inches from him.
Fajar rolled away. He turned.
A bigger teen stood, grinning.
His axe glinted in the gloomy light.
Without a word, the axe came down again.
Fajar jumped back—too late.
The blade grazed his chest. A thin red line appeared.
"Give it here, you little rat!" the teen snarled.
Fajar didn't answer. He moved.
From his tattered belt, his hand pulled a sharpened shard of metal.
"TING!"
The shard flew—fast, precise.
"ARRRGHH!"
It pierced the attacker's left eye.
Now!
Fajar ran.
He didn't look back.
Didn't care about the angry scream.
Didn't care about the footsteps chasing behind.
The world around him stayed the same: ruins, blood, and the law of beasts.
Here, there was only one rule:
Survive.
He ducked behind a rusted pillar. His breath ragged.
Hands trembling.
The cut on his chest throbbed.
But he was alive.
And the pouch was still in his hand.
Bread. Healing powder.
Treasure.
"Maybe tomorrow... will be better."
The sky remained gray.
But in Fajar's eyes—for a fleeting moment...
There was light.
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