Chapter 1 - The Boy Called Saint

His stomach twisted long before the morning light reached the narrow alleys of Lower Mastua. He lay motionless beneath a torn blanket, listening to the familiar sounds outside—a bottle shattering against stone, drunken laughter, footsteps running from someone who had chased them for too long.

Another ordinary morning.

He pushed himself upright. The abandoned warehouse he called home creaked with every gust of wind, rain leaking through the broken roof onto the cracked floor. It wasn't much, but it had four walls. Around here, that made him luckier than most.

Saint didn't know how old he was.

He guessed somewhere around twelve.

He didn't know where he was born.

He didn't know who his parents were.

The only thing he remembered was a single word.

Saint.

Whether it was his family name, the name of someone important, or simply the last thing he had heard before waking up alone years ago, he couldn't remember.

So Saint became his entire name.

Names didn't matter much in the slums anyway.

People were remembered by what they stole, who they killed, or how they died.

He preferred to avoid all three.

Outside, Lower Mastua was already alive.

Calling it part of Mastua was almost insulting.

Beyond the colossal white walls stood the kingdom everyone admired—a city of marble roads, glittering towers, magical streetlights, wealthy merchants, and noble families whose names carried more weight than gold.

Inside those walls was simply "Mastua."

Outside...

People called it Lower Mastua.

The forgotten city.

The place where broken buildings leaned against one another to avoid collapsing, where sewage flowed through the streets after rain, and where children learned to run before they learned to read.

The rich pretended it didn't exist.

Saint pulled his worn hood over his head and stepped outside.

The smell hit him immediately.

Rotting food.

Smoke.

Dirty water.

Blood.

The scent of survival.

He joined the crowd moving through the narrow streets.

Beggars stretched trembling hands toward passing strangers.

Street vendors shouted over one another, selling stale bread that should have been thrown away days ago.

A fight had already broken out between two men arguing over a moldy loaf.

Nobody intervened.

Why would they?

There were no guards here.

No knights.

No justice.

Only people trying to survive another day.

Saint's destination was the market district.

Not because he had money.

Because other people did.

He walked carefully, eyes constantly moving.

An open coin pouch.

A distracted merchant.

A noble's servant carrying supplies.

Stealing wasn't about being quick.

It was about choosing the right target.

The wrong one could get you beaten to death.

Or worse.

Saint spotted his opportunity.

An overweight trader argued loudly with a customer while his purse dangled carelessly from his belt.

Too easy.

Saint melted into the crowd.

One step.

Two.

Three.

His fingers brushed the leather pouch.

A gentle tug—

"HEY!"

Too slow.

The merchant spun around.

"THIEF!"

The market erupted.

Saint ran.

People shouted.

Fruit carts overturned behind him.

Someone threw a basket.

Another tried grabbing his arm.

He ducked beneath hanging laundry and vaulted over stacked barrels without slowing.

Footsteps thundered behind him.

"You little rat!"

Saint smiled despite himself.

At least they were trying today.

He darted into a narrow alley barely wide enough for two people.

Without looking back, he climbed a pile of broken crates, jumped onto a low rooftop, and disappeared among the maze of connected buildings.

By the time the merchant reached the alley, Saint was already gone.

He crouched on a rooftop, catching his breath.

Opening the pouch...

Seven copper coins.

Not much.

Enough.

He sighed.

"Breakfast."

Half an hour later, he sat beside the river that separated Lower Mastua from the towering kingdom walls.

A bowl of thin vegetable soup rested between his hands.

It barely deserved to be called soup.

But it was warm.

That was enough.

As he ate, he stared across the river.

The walls of Mastua rose impossibly high, their pale stone gleaming beneath the morning sun. Every few minutes, elegant carriages crossed the guarded bridge into the inner city.

Saint had never crossed it.

Not once.

He'd heard stories.

Clean streets.

Magic academies.

Guilds.

Libraries.

Food that people actually threw away.

It sounded less like a city...

...and more like another world.

"You'll wear a hole through the wall if you keep staring."

Saint looked up.

An old woman shuffled toward him carrying a sack nearly larger than herself.

Everyone called her Granny Mira.

She wasn't actually anyone's grandmother.

She simply fed hungry children whenever she could.

"When are you going to stop stealing?" she asked.

"When I stop being hungry."

She laughed.

"I suppose that's fair."

She reached into her bag and tossed him a slightly bruised apple.

Saint caught it instinctively.

"You'll get yourself killed one day."

"I know."

"You don't sound worried."

"Worry doesn't make you faster."

The old woman studied him for a long moment.

"You always look at those walls."

Saint took another bite of his apple.

"...Do you think someone like me could ever live in there?"

Mira didn't answer immediately.

Finally, she smiled sadly.

"That depends."

"On what?"

"Whether the world decides who you are..."

"...or you do."

The words lingered in Saint's mind long after she walked away.

That evening, the streets became even more dangerous.

Darkness belonged to gangs.

Children disappeared.

Arguments became murders.

Saint avoided the busiest roads, sticking to rooftops whenever possible.

As he reached the abandoned warehouse, he noticed something strange.

The door was open.

His heart stopped.

Someone had found his home.

Slowly, he slipped inside.

Everything had been searched.

His blanket lay tossed aside.

The small wooden box where he kept his seven remaining copper coins sat open.

Empty.

Saint stared silently.

Someone had stolen from him.

For a long time, he simply stood there.

Then he laughed.

A short, bitter laugh.

"Guess that's how it goes."

He sat against the wall, pulling the blanket around himself.

His stomach growled again.

Tomorrow he would have to steal more.

Tomorrow he would survive again.

Outside, the lights of Mastua shone beyond the towering walls like stars that had fallen to earth.

Saint watched them through the broken roof.

One day...

He didn't know how.

He didn't know why.

But one day—

He would walk through those gates.

Not as a thief hiding in the shadows.

But as someone the kingdom could never ignore.

And for the first time in years...

The boy called Saint had something that felt dangerously close to a dream.