Arthur stood at the edge of the lower circle of the city, staring up at the castle that loomed above everything else—its towers rising like spears of white stone, glowing faintly in the dusk. From here, it looked impossibly distant, majestic, unreachable.
'Damn. It's even prettier from the bottom. Figures.'
His jaw tightened. Only if I had some abilities… just one spark of magic. Anything.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Guess bad luck doesn't respect borders," he muttered under his breath. "Followed me across dimensions like a stalker."
The streets of the lower city were loud and alive. Lanterns filled with glowing crystals burned along the cobblestone roads, casting gold and blue reflections on the uneven pavement. The air was thick with smells—spices, bread, ale, smoke, and a hint of manure that didn't quite match the fairytale aesthetic.
Vendors shouted over one another in the marketplace, trying to sell everything from roasted meats to trinkets carved with fake enchantments. Kids ran barefoot through the crowds. Women in patched dresses haggled over vegetables. A pair of mercenaries stumbled out of a tavern laughing, one missing a boot.
Arthur took it all in with a cautious mix of curiosity and cynicism. 'Fantasy world my ass. The pamphlets really undersold the poverty.'
He adjusted his too-short cloak and started walking. His clothes stood out—foreign, simple, too clean for the slums but not rich enough for the upper tiers. Every glance lingered a little too long. Whispers very quickly followed him down narrow streets.
"That's the one from the summoning…"
"Failed hero, wasn't he?"
"Look at him, not even a mana spark."
"Poor bastard. Should've died in the circle."
Arthur froze mid-step.
Already?
He'd barely been out of the palace an hour, and somehow the gossip had outrun him. He looked around in disbelief. People weren't even whispering discreetly; they just knew.
A pair of women selling flowers paused mid-transaction to glance his way. One made the sign of the sun, warding off bad luck. The other whispered, "That's him? The empty summon?" like she'd just seen a ghost.
Across the street, a group of boys leaned on a cart, snickering. "Hey, hero! Show us some magic!" one yelled. The others laughed until a guard gave them a look.
An older man in patched clothes shook his head, voice rough with drink. "Should've stayed in whatever hole he crawled from. No use for another mouth."
But not everyone spat words. A mother tugged her child aside, murmuring, "Don't stare, love. He looks hungry." The kid frowned up at her. "Then can't we give him a roll?"
"What will you eat then?," she whispered, and hurried away.
Arthur stood there for a heartbeat, the noise of the street folding in around him. Surprise curdled into something heavier. 'Rumors travel faster than light here, huh? I'm not even trending—I'm viral.'
He started walking again, hands sinking into his pockets, trying to ignore the stares. The pity felt worse than the disgust. At least contempt had energy to it; pity just made him feel smaller.
A merchant sweeping the front of his stall muttered as he passed, "So that's the kingdom's hero. Figures. They summon one every few years, waste half the treasury, and what do we get? Another stray."
Arthur forced a crooked smile and kept moving. The crowd parted just enough for him to pass, like he was carrying an invisible disease.
'Congratulations, Arthur,' he thought bitterly. 'You're famous. And somehow, it still sucks.'
---
A few days later…
The city was starting to feel smaller. He'd spent the first two days trying to orient himself—learning which streets led where, where water could be found, which vendors sold food that didn't smell like regret.
On the third day, he tried to find work.
"Delivery boy? No. We don't hire mana-less folk."
"Sorry, stranger. Need someone who can at least light a rune."
"Try the Adventurer's Guild. Oh wait—you can't."
By the end of the day, he'd eaten nothing but a stale bread crust that someone had dropped. He slept under a bridge by the aqueduct, wrapped in his thin cloak. The stone was cold, the air colder.
When dawn came, so did the pain in his stomach. Hunger had a way of shrinking pride. He tried begging once—only once.
A baker laughed. "Get lost, outlander. Go beg your gods for mana instead."
Arthur walked away quietly, smiling through his teeth. 'If I had mana, I'd bake you inside your own damn oven.'
By the fifth day, people weren't just whispering anymore. Rumors had solidified.
"Failed summon."
"Cursed by the gods."
"Leech."
"Demon spy."
He noticed how people avoided him now—not out of fear, but disgust. Street vendors wouldn't meet his eyes. Children pointed. One man spat near his boots.
He tried to keep his head down. The palace gleamed far above, mocking him with every sunset. Sometimes he caught himself staring at the horizon where its towers pierced the clouds, and a different ache stirred.
'The Queen… just thinking about her… Damn, that woman's something else.' He forced his thoughts down quickly. This world didn't take kindly to loose tongues. "Say something bad about the throne and your head's on the floor," he muttered, mimicking what he'd overheard a guard say.
So he smiled, kept quiet, and learned to survive.
---
On the seventh day, hunger pushed him past reason. He offered to help unload a wagon near the river docks in exchange for food. The foreman agreed—then laughed when Arthur dropped the first crate, too weak to lift it properly.
"Mana-less and muscle-less," the man snorted. "Some summon you turned out to be."
Arthur bit his tongue. His stomach growled louder than his pride.
His stomach was caving in so he sensibly decided to swallow his anger and try to earn some money because he knew the people in the lower city were pretty broke to give him anything and the richest didn't want beggers in their society.
"Only if I get some powerup!"
*****
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