Chapter 1: The Cockroach’s Contract

The city didn’t sleep; it just rotted slowly. And in one of its nastiest corners—a back alley where even the streetlights gave up and left everything sticky and black—a young guy lay sprawled on the ground. Michael sucked in short, painful breaths, every inhale stabbing his bruised ribs like a knife. His mouth tasted like blood and losing. Right next to his face, stuck to the wet asphalt, a couple of pathetic coins glinted—the “prize” some older, hungrier drifter had beaten him bloody for. The pain throbbed everywhere, dull and constant, but the real killer was the cold. Not just the night chill; it was deeper, inside his bones, coming from the empty hole in his chest.

He rubbed his hands together—rough, filthy, cracked—trying to scrape up any warmth at all. No coat. No nothing. The useless motion made him squeeze his eyes shut, and his brain dragged him back anyway.

How the hell did I end up like this?

Flashes: a warm house, mom’s tired smile that still felt kind, his little sister giggling… then Johan showed up. The new kid, the adopted one, all easy charm and bright grins. Parents’ attention slid over to him. Sister started hanging around him more. Bit by bit, Michael—the real son—turned into background noise, something in the way. Arguments got louder, looks got colder, silence grew like mold. Then the day Johan cried fake tears and accused him of something he never did… the door shut behind him. Not a slam. Just a quiet cut. “It’s better if you leave for a while, Michael.” That “while” became forever.

(A single hot tear cut through the dirt on his cheek, ironic as hell.)

He wasn’t crying from the beating. He was crying from the old wound that still burned years later. With a groan that pulled at every sore muscle, he shoved himself against the brick wall, wobbled, and somehow got to his feet. The world tilted. But inside, something sparked—bitter, angry, new.

I gotta do something. This can’t be it.

As the words slipped out, a name escaped his cracked lips like a ghost: “Dani… where the hell are you now? Everything went to shit when you left.” He glanced up at the sky—a dirty rectangle of stars between the buildings. No answers. Just endless nothing. His plan was basic, desperate: get out of the city. Head to the countryside, where maybe the air didn’t stink of failure and rot. He started walking, limping hard, each step hurting but feeling like a tiny win.

He dragged himself from the worst alleys to streets that were slightly less broken. Passed a lit bus stop. A group of schoolgirls in perfect uniforms, laughing like little bells, spotted him.

“Look, a bum!” one said, pointing, eyes sparkling with that innocent-mean glee. “How pathetic. Isn’t he kinda young to be like that?”

A guy in the group grinned, grabbed his half-empty soda. “Here, trash! You need this more than me!” The can spun and smacked Michael’s shoulder, fizzing sticky liquid all over his already ruined clothes.

“Haha! Loser!” another yelled.

Michael didn’t stop. Didn’t look up. Just balled his fists in his torn pockets and kept moving. Every insult, every laugh—he filed them away. Not hate exactly. Just fuel. They were part of the world he had to outlast.

Hours dragged. Buildings got shorter, turned into run-down apartments, then empty warehouses. Hunger clawed his stomach like an old enemy. A loud growl ripped out—grrrrp—breaking the quiet. He leaned against a wall, breathing hard.

“Okay… shit,” he muttered, voice rough from not talking to anyone. “I wish… I could change all this crap.”

That’s when the cold hit again. Not subtle this time. An ice spike down his neck, hair standing up on his arms. He looked up.

The only light—an old lamppost with a cracked shade—started flickering like crazy. Click… zzz… click… Shadows jerked. Darkness got thicker, heavier. Then, from the blackest patch across from the light, a kid stepped out.

Weird. Clothes simple, kinda old-fashioned, but clean. Face pale, almost see-through in the stuttering light. Eyes too calm, too old for a kid. Michael felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. Something wrong hung in the air.

Better keep walking, he thought, forcing his legs forward. He passed the kid, eyes down.

Until a voice—clear, cold, right in his ear even though it wasn’t loud—stopped him cold.

“Michael. Do you want to change your future?”

He turned slow, heart slamming against sore ribs.

“My… future?” he stammered. “How the hell do you know my name?”

The kid stepped closer. The lamppost steadied for a second, lighting a small smile. “I know everything, Michael. I know who you are. I know why you ended up bleeding in that alley for pocket change. I know what abandonment tastes like in your mouth. And I know if you keep going like this, you’ll just be another nameless body in a winter police report.” He paused, words sinking in like knives. “How would you like to change it?”

A rough, dry laugh tore out of Michael. “Heh… hehehe…” It grew into a hollow cackle bouncing off the walls. “Haha! Is this some joke? You messing with me, kid? Who put you up to this? Those assholes from school?”

“‘Kid,’ huh?” The small thing’s smile froze.

And the world stopped.

The wind that had been whispering between buildings suddenly coiled. Not blowing—materializing. It spun around them like a silent tornado, lifting trash and dust in slow, hypnotic circles. Michael screamed, but the sound got ripped away. The lamppost bulb flashed blinding white then died, dropping them into black for two endless seconds.

When things came back, he wasn’t in the alley anymore.

He stood at a weird crossroads. Smooth gray stones under his feet. Three identical paths stretched out ahead into thick fog. No buildings, no city, no nothing. Just green grass that looked too bright, too alive, fading into mist. Sky deep purple, no stars.

“What the… hell…?” His voice cracked, terror choking it. The cold was everywhere now—fear turned into weather.

The kid stood right in front of him, unmoving. But he didn’t look like a kid anymore. He was a point of perfect stillness in the middle of the impossible.

“Who are you?” Michael yelled, stepping back.

“I am Xix,” the thing answered. Voice no longer a child’s—now a chorus of echoes from every direction. “And I will give you what you want… if you win.”

Before Michael could ask “win what?”, the wind went wild again. But it wasn’t wind. It was showing.

All around, in the mist like a movie screen, thousands of images from his life flashed. First birthday, cake, mom’s smile. First day of school, scared and excited. Sister’s birth, tiny red screaming thing that filled his heart. Then… Johan. Arrival. Fake smiles. Slow stealing of his place. The lie. The door closing. Every happy second, every painful one, sped by in brutal fast-forward—a reminder of everything taken, everything he swallowed quiet.

Hatred—years of it, fermented and thick—burned up his throat. “Are you… the devil?” he asked, voice shaking but edged with new fire.

Xix shook his head slow. “No. But I can give you something no devil would: a real shot. A different life, power, a way to rewrite it all from zero. An arena where your will to survive becomes your weapon.” He held out a small, pale hand. “The question isn’t if you deserve it, Michael. It’s… do you have the guts to take it, knowing the price is a fight that never ends?”

Michael stared at the hand. At the paths. Remembered the alley cold, blood in his mouth, kids laughing, the door shutting. Saw Johan’s smug smile in the flashes.

Fear was gone. Only a raw, starving need left.

With a jerky motion—like ripping himself off a ledge—he reached out and grabbed. The touch wasn’t skin. It was cold electricity shooting up his arm.

“I accept,” he said. Voice didn’t shake anymore. It sounded hard. Final.

Xix’s smile grew, but his eyes stayed deep, calm pools. “Good choice, Michael. You just changed your destiny. And a lot of others’.” Energy surged between their hands. A symbol burned in the air for a second—a stylized cockroach mixed with a broken sword—then vanished.

Fog spun. Paths disappeared. Cold lifted suddenly. Michael was back in the alley, alone, under the flickering lamppost. Night still dark and freezing. But inside him something had shifted. A cold flame burned steady now—forged in abandonment, sealed with something beyond the world.

Somewhere between real and impossible, on a plane where forbidden deals get made, a contract no one should’ve signed had just been inked. A nameless god and his champion of pure survival were tied together. The road to the Grand Tournament of Munkai—full of hell nobody could imagine—had just gained its most unlikely fighter.

Michael, the kid nobody wanted, took a deep breath. For the first time in years, he had direction. A path that led out of the city and straight into the unknown. With Xix’s voice still echoing in his head, he started walking. Steps that used to stumble now hit the ground with new, terrible purpose.