In a dark, damp basement in the Royal Capital, the destiny of a boy began to change.
"Who is that one?" a middle-aged, blonde-haired woman in a fine leather coat asked, gesturing toward him.
"The new product," a bald man with golden teeth answered, his voice oily.
"How tolerant is he?" she asked, her eyes appraising the boy like livestock.
"He will be able to satisfy all your needs, my lady. Guaranteed."
"I expect him to be strong," she stated coldly. "Or you will give me a full refund."
"But of course, of course," the bald man said, bowing.
She took the silent boy in tattered clothes by the chain binding his hands.
"Come by again," the slaver called after her.
She left without a word, pulling the boy along.
They left the basement, which was filled with other slaves—most of them heartbreakingly young—and ascended to the first floor. A long queue of people in fancy clothes, mostly men, waited impatiently before a grand counter.
"If this line doesn't move, I'll miss the 'Hot Product of the Day'!" one man complained.
"I know! I wanted a taste as well. This may be our last chance!" his companion fretted.
"Please calm down, madams and sirs," the counter lady said with a strained smile. "There are enough products for everyone."
The boy, quiet as a shadow, noticed the turmoil. He noticed the expensive clothes and the rich scent of perfume. He noticed the fullness of their bodies—the well-fed, soft look of people who had never known deprivation. Not one of them was starving.
As he was pulled by the chain, which was also looped painfully around his ankles, a single, naive thought crossed his mind.
'Why are they so hungry?'
He could see a ravenous, desperate hunger in everyone's eyes, be it male or female. 'They look so fed... why are they so hungry?' He, who had starved for days on end, would have been perfectly satisfied with just three meals a day.
When they exited the slave auction house, a carriage awaited them. "Here, take the chain," the middle-aged woman said to her driver, disappearing into the carriage without a backward glance.
The young driver, now holding the boy's chains, wondered what to do with him for a moment before deciding to chain him to the back of the carriage.
"Don't worry, boy," the driver said, not unkindly. "It's not far, and I won't drive fast."
With that, he climbed onto the driver's seat and whipped the horses. The carriage began to move. The chain snapped taut, and the boy was forced to run, his bare feet stumbling on the cobblestones to prevent the iron from tearing the skin off his wrists.
He ran and ran, forcing his legs to keep moving, knowing that if he stopped, he would undoubtedly be dragged to his death.
Finally, the carriage stopped.
The driver quickly unchained the boy from the back and opened the carriage door. "Madam," he said, bowing as he presented the chain to her.
She emerged, took the chain, and strode through a grand gate, pulling the boy along. A massive mansion of white marble stood triumphantly behind it.
"I have great plans for you," she said to the boy, not expecting an answer as she walked.
The boy, his bare feet bleeding and his lungs burning, struggled just to stay upright.
They entered the mansion into a large hall where two maids awaited their arrival.
"Take him to the others," the woman commanded. "And prepare them all for the ritual."
"Yes, Madam."
"Come, boy."
One of the maids led him down a dark staircase into the mansion's basement. Torches set in wall sconces dimly lit the damp space. The fumes were thick and almost suffocating, relieved only by a few small ventilation holes near the ceiling.
Two other boys and three girls were already there, sitting on the dirt floor, all chained to the wall. They looked just like him: starved, filthy, and utterly deprived of all hope.
The maid chained him to the wall beside them. Then, without a word, she turned and left, the heavy door thudding shut and plunging them into near-blackness.
They were all silent. The only sounds were the sputtering of the burning torches and the pained growling of their own empty stomachs.
The heavy door creaked open again.
The two maids returned, but this time they carried a small wooden tray. On it sat six syringes, each filled with a viscous, inky-black fluid.
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," one maid said, her voice flat. She knelt in front of the boy, who flinched as she grabbed his arm. There was a sharp prick, and just as quickly, the sting was gone. One by one, they injected the other children.
After the last child was injected, the maids unhooked their chains from the wall. The women left, but the door didn't close. Instead, six grim-faced soldiers entered, each taking a child's chain in a rough grip.
They were pulled up the stairs and through a set of double doors, leading to the back of the mansion. The transition was jarring: the oppressive silence of the basement was replaced by a wall of sound—loud laughter, the clinking of glasses, and boisterous music.
The boy squinted in the bright torchlight of the garden, his eyes falling on a raised wooden stage. It was prepared for them. As they were herded toward it, the crowd's chatter died down, and a man in an elaborate mask stepped into the center of the stage.
"Tonight," the masked man bellowed, "we continue our special event of the year! The Slayers of Tomorrow! Let's enjoy the show!"
A roar of cheering erupted from the decadent, well-dressed crowd. "Please, welcome our contenders for today's... deathmatch!"
'Deathmatch?' The word echoed in the boy's mind, cold and sharp.
He was roughly shoved onto the stage with the others. The soldiers unlocked their shackles, freeing them completely. The children just stood there, blinking in the light, looking around in confusion.
"It should start working any moment now, ladies and gentlemen," the masked man announced gleefully to the audience. "So sit back and get yourselves another drink!"
'What should work soon?' the boy wondered.
Then he felt it. A strange, coiling heat started in his stomach, then spread like fire through his veins. His body was burning with a sudden, unfamiliar energy. 'What is this feeling? Why... why do I feel so good? And why do I suddenly want to... hurt these other kids so badly?'
He couldn't think straight; his thoughts were hazy, replaced by a red, pulsing urge.
Suddenly, a high-pitched scream cut through his fog. He whipped his head around just in time to see one of the girls—her eyes wide and bloodshot—shove her hand straight through the stomach of the boy next to her.
'What... what is happening right now?'
"Oooooh, what a vicious first strike!" the masked man roared to the cheering crowd.
Another scream, this one highe pitched, tore through the air. The boy saw another girl shrieking as one of the other boys, his face a mask of rage, sliced her hand off at the wrist.
Driven by the drug, she lunged forward, not even registering the wound, and plunged her remaining hand into his neck. As he choked, the boy retaliated with a final, desperate burst of strength, punching his own fist straight through her chest. They collapsed together in a heap.
"Man, oh man, what a spectacle!" the masked man roared. "Only two remaining!"
It was the boy and the last girl. They stared at each other, their bodies trembling, their eyes wide and hazy from the drug.
She launched herself at him first, a feral scream tearing from her throat. The boy, some small, terrified part of himself still aware, managed to dodge. The clumsy attempt sent him sprawling to the floorboards.
She was on him in an instant, lunging again, her fingers clawing for his eyes. He jerked his head aside at the last second, her nails digging painful furrows in his temple.
They were both on the ground, a desperate, tangled heap. Driven by an instinct that wasn't his own, the boy seized his only opportunity and sank his teeth into the soft flesh of her neck.
She shrieked, a muffled, agonizing sound, and stabbed her own fingers deep into his arm. But he didn't—couldn't—let go. He held on as the hot, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, his grip tightening as her struggles weakened, and then, finally, ceased altogether.
He pushed her limp body away, panting. He noticed it then. A single, clean tear was running down her cheek. Her eyes, no longer mad, were clear and fixed on him. A faint, heartbreaking smile touched her lips before her gaze went vacant.
"What a spectacle!" the announcer screamed.
A deafening roar erupted from the crowd. In the audience, the blonde-haired woman watched with a look of profound relief.
"Now, let's proceed!" the masked man yelled.
A complex, glowing red array materialized on the stage floor beneath the boy. "Let this victor be reborn!"
A new, different energy surged into the boy. He watched, dazed, as the bodies of the other children rapidly desiccated, turning to fine dust that swirled into the glowing circle and was absorbed into him.
'What... what is this energy, and the pain disappeared?' he thought, his mind foggy.
Then, the madam herself walked onto the stage. "Come, boy," she said, her voice crisp. "Let's get you dressed before you embarrass me."
"There we have her!" the announcer shouted. "The proud new owner of our champion!"
"Proceed with whatever comes next," the woman said dismissively to the masked man. She took the boy by his hand—gently, this time.
"Whatever she says! Let's keep this party going!"
She led him away from the loud, grotesque festival, back into the quiet of the marble mansion. When they were in a private hall, she crouched down to his height, a warm smile on her face.
"You have to do much better from now on, understood?" she said, patting his head. The boy just stared, his mind blank.
"Do you have a name?"
He shook his head.
She pondered for a moment. "Your name will be Kilis. And I promise," she added, her smile not quite reaching her eyes, "I will take very good care of you... if you continue to earn it."
He noticed, with a strange sense of detachment, that he was completely healed. He didn't feel like himself—he felt stronger, colder—but he nodded anyway.
Because whatever this new life was, it was better than being a slave in the basement.