The soldier tried to pull him away, but he didn't move. His body was stiff, like a stone left out in winter, frozen and unwilling to feel. The shock had calcified inside him, turning muscles into iron and breath into silent frost.
His elder sister approached with calm steps, though her eyes held no warmth. She placed a hand on his shoulder, not to comfort but to confirm his numb stillness. "Don't worry," she said with a soft, cold sigh in his ear. "In our clan, the worthless have no place. You were given five months to prove yourself, five whole months. But you didn't listen. So now things must come to this."
He stared at her, unable to speak, unable to even form the question that trembled in his gaze. Even the narrator of fate would struggle to describe that expression. It was the look of a man who had witnessed death, and then realized some emotions die more brutally than the body ever could.
She glanced at the soldiers behind her. "You two," she commanded, "drag him to the slums. Don't kill him, don't even let him die by accident. Bind him tightly. But make sure he lives through hell." They nodded. Two hands grabbed his limp form as consciousness swayed. "Sis…" he managed to whisper and reach weakly toward her.
She didn't even look at him. Her foot struck his ribs, kicking him toward the burning torches marking the gate. "If he lives," she said coldly, "throw him to the slums."
Darkness swallowed him.
When he opened his eyes again, iron bit into his wrists, ankles, and neck. Chains rattled with every weak breath. They were long enough to move—but just barely, forcing him to live as a tethered beast. At the slum gate, a wooden board hung from a broken nail, swaying in the dry wind. He squinted and read the ink-stained words:
"He is a sinner. Though sinners deserve no place here, we are merciful enough not to execute him. He once cared for you all, so now we leave him in your care."
He looked around. Faces he knew, faces he had fed, sheltered, defended, stood scattered. Yet not one took a step toward him. They hid their eyes behind shame or fear or convenience. Gratitude evaporates fastest in the heat of danger.
A small twitch in his jaw betrayed the pain he refused to show. Then a group arrived, three young men and a girl dressed in blue. She walked closer, trembling.
Her voice broke before her words did.
"I… I am sorry. My family came to a conclusion. They want our engagement annulled. Either that, or I must marry someone else. I must protect my family… so I chose the latter."
He stared blankly for a long time before his voice crawled out, hoarse, lost, but somehow gentle. "What about the vow?" Tears lined her lashes. "I'm sorry." He looked away. His voice was thin, like worn paper. "Go find someone good. Someone who can protect you."
She bit her lip. "Goodbye…"
The word trembled in the air. Then she turned and walked away with the others, each step pounding into his chest like a funeral drum. He cried, not loudly, but the quiet kind of crying that grinds a soul from the inside. His heart tore again, stitching and ripping with every breath.
—
Four days passed.
Four days of surviving between blows and pity, between scraps of food and slaps that felt like insults delivered by fate itself. The slum people helped when they could, one slipped him water, another loosened a knot, but guilt and fear kept them distant.
Then, on a harsh afternoon, three noble young masters approached with swaggering arrogance. Even the dust seemed to avoid their boots.
One of them clicked his tongue.
"Look at that. Our clan's abandoned mutt."
Another smirked. "You there—soldier. Throw him their shoes."
The soldier obeyed, hesitating only for a heartbeat before kneeling and placing the nobles' muddy shoes before the chained man.
The young masters laughed.
"Ahh, my shoes have too much mud. How bothersome."
"Perfect! We found a shoe polisher. A slum-born sinner—how fitting."
"Do it, bastard. Or no food today."
One leaned closer, voice sharp with cruelty.
"Hey. Got mute, dog?"
Another slapped him three times, slowly, deliberately, savouring each strike as if it were a philosophical lecture on superiority. "Wake up, useless thing. Even suffering needs your participation." They laughed again, the sound ringing like mockery from a distant, cold heaven.
He didn't respond. His eyes were hollow, yet deep, like a well that had once held water but now only reflected the long night sky. In their emptiness, memories churned: the warmth of helping others, mingled with the betrayal of those same faces; the vows he believed in, mixed with the taste of ashes they left behind.
.............
He stared at the ground, neither resisting nor trembling, just still, as if every drop of movement had been drained from his bones long ago. Dust clung to his face like an old memory. One of the three men stepped forward, boots scraping the earth. With a sickening slowness, as if savouring the moment, he pressed his heel on the back of the boy's head.
"Useless piece of shit," he hissed, his voice smooth like rotten silk. "What a garbage line you came from, huh? Hey—are you just a worthless piece of garbage? You don't have anything to do here. You want a job so your wasted breaths don't drain their food?"
He leaned closer, his shadow crawling over the boy like a demon's wing.
"But you… you're a sinner. Who would feed sin? Even if you become a servant, there is no place for you in my house. Yeah… want to clean my latrine? No, no—not even that. If you steal our shit and run away…"
Laughter erupted around them, sharp, cruel, echoing off the cracked walls of the slum like broken bells. Smoke curled from nearby cooking pits; children watched from behind torn cloth, their ribs showing like prayer beads counting each starving day.
He lifted his eyes slightly, just enough to see the skeletal, slumped figures forming a circle. Their faces were hollow, yet their hostility toward him hung like blades. He saw in their eyes the same misery he carried… but twisted, inverted, sharpened into something monstrous by long hunger.
The man turned to them with a sly grin, a demon savouring his stage. "Listen well," he announced, spreading his arms. "Spit on him—1 kari. Throw piss—10. Garbage—100. Potty—1000. Anything unwanted… priceless."
Murmurs rose like flies over a corpse. Shame clashed with desperation in their eyes. The boy watched silently. Somewhere deep in him, old memories flickered, his mother whispering lullabies, his father's cold back as he walked away, the bittersweet warmth of festival nights.
Somewhere far away he remembered a monk once telling him: "Human hearts are rivers—clear until stirred." Today the river was thick with mud. All those who had gathered stared at him, muttering among themselves. Some looked away, ashamed. Others leaned forward with greed sharpening their expressions. The tormentor smiled wider. "Hnhh… such loyalty? He can't save you anymore. I'll give ten times the reward. Ten times of everyone."
No response.
"Hundred times," he tempted, voice curling like smoke.
Again, silence—heavy enough to break ribs.
He inhaled to offer thousand—but before the word left his tongue, something wet and foul slapped against the boy's back. A lump of cow dung mixed with piss slid down his torn shirt.
The crowd gasped. The tormentor blinked, shocked for a heartbeat, then burst into laughter, clapping like a delighted beast. Another voice shouted from the crowd, trembling with rage. "What are you doing? He helped us! When we needed someone the most, he was there. How dare you hurt him? Don't you know—other than him, everyone else is a liar? Those nobles are liars!"
Others echoed the sentiment, but their voices grew weaker, fading as their eyes drifted to something else… something none of them dared name.
Greed.
Fear.
Possibility.
Their hearts shook like leaves in a storm, unsure which wind to follow. The tormentor walked to the gate and called out, "You. The brave one. Come here." The man who threw the dung stepped forward, hesitating. "You did it first. As promised—your ten thousand times."
A pouch flew through the air, landing in his hands with a metallic thump. He opened it, real money gleamed back at him. His breath caught. Then he laughed, danced, spit on the boy again with a zeal that made even the onlookers recoil.
He strutted away toward the distant alleys, clutching the money like a newborn god.
Watching his retreating figure, the others felt their hearts tremble—not from hate, but from the terrible battle within:
Which voice would they answer—their trembling truth, or their trembling greed?
..............
After a long pause, one of them finally gathered courage and asked, almost whispering, "C-can we… get money also?" He lifted his head slightly, eyes empty yet gentle, a hollow lake reflecting nothing."Of course," he said. "Not only you… everyone can."
That was all it took.
One by one, they began moving, not with hesitation, but with the quick, greedy rush of dogs fighting over bones. In just a few moments, an entire assembly formed. Some brought waste I had never seen before, blackened street muck, half-rotten food, sewage-soaked rags, even graveyard earth taken from cremation grounds. People who didn't dare step forward hid behind others, covering their faces as if ashamed, yet their eyes glittered with anticipation.
They said softly, "Sir… please forgive us." He looked at them once, blinked, and then lowered his gaze again, like their existence no longer mattered.
Then it began.
One by one they threw garbage, mud, rotting scraps, animal dung… anything they could find, onto his body. The sound was dull and wet, the smell strong enough to make even the hardened nobles cover their noses. When it finally ended, only laughter remained. They laughed at him as if he were entertainment prepared for their boredom.
After nearly an hour, the nobles calmed down and stepped away from the stench, ready to leave. One of the commoners called out nervously, "S-sir… about our money…"
A noble stopped mid-step. He tilted his head toward the boy, who was still staring blankly at the ground, thick filth dripping off him like melted tar. "Look there," the noble said. "Money can bring out anything. Even the people he saved… sold him for a few coins. Remember this little boy, money is everything in this world. Even loyalty can be bought."
The boy sat motionless, drenched in black rot, half-dried blood, and the smell of decay. He didn't move, didn't speak, didn't even look offended. He simply sat there, as if his soul had been pushed out of his body long ago. The noble scoffed, kicked aside a broken pot, and climbed back onto his carriage."What money?" he sneered. "Be glad I'm not reporting you all for throwing filth at a direct descendant of the clan, even if he's a criminal. A bunch of disgusting mongrels. You should all die, if not for that bastard begging for you earlier. Now you want money after stinking him up?"
The crowd froze.That was when they realized, they had been played. Anger rose quickly, too sudden to hide. One man charged at his back, but the guards caught him instantly. They lashed him with whips until he screamed, and when he was thrown back into the dirt, he staggered up and spat directly at the boy.
"All because you're weak," he shouted. "We have to suffer humiliation for you! You bastard… why didn't you become strong? Why couldn't you protect us?"
He didn't even flinch when the man kicked him again and again. Someone eventually dragged the aggressor away, but others remained. Some glared at him with hatred. Some with shame. Some with the disappointment one reserves for a broken blade that once held promise.
He kept his head lowered.
Night fell. Shadows crept across the courtyard like silent beasts.
No one came with food.Not even water.Not even a stray dog approached the place.
And the memory continued to unfold…
To be Continued...