Harsh Reality

Wes coughed again, his body trembling as the corruption worsened.

The only thing keeping him from bleeding out completely was the blade.

It sat there, lodged deep, an agonizing anchor that kept him grounded in his failing body. The pain was constant, pulsing like a second heartbeat, but it also meant he was still alive. Still fighting.

He could still manipulate his Essence.

The mana raged through him like a wild, untamed beast, but without a core to direct it properly, it was like trying to stop a flood with his bare hands. Still, he tried. He always tried. He pushed what little control he had toward the wound, forcing the energy into the torn flesh, desperate to keep himself together.

He didn't want to die.

Fuck that.

He had made it this far. He had fought through worse.

Ever since that night.

A bitter laugh rattled from his chest, thick and wet, black blood spattering onto the ground.

Shock had kept him numb once. But shock didn't last forever.

The moment it wore off, he had learned what it really meant to survive.

It had been about a month after his family's death.

He had been holed up in an abandoned shack on the edge of the base, a forgotten space where no one looked, where no one cared.

Because he had been discarded.

The night his family died, King and his men raided their home. They took everything, looted whatever was left, and installed one of Simon's old apprentices as the settlement's new doctor.

No one questioned it. No one cared.

That night, Wes noticed one of King's men looking at him strangely.

He didn't hesitate—he ran.

At that point, he hadn't even had time to process his grief.

The base had thousands of people. More than enough places to hide, more than enough chaos to slip into.

But the first year was hell.

Constantly hungry. Constantly cold.

The kind of cold that settled into your bones, that made your fingers stiff no matter how much you tried to move them. Some nights, he curled up under broken crates, his body convulsing with shivers so hard he thought his ribs might snap.

And the hunger.

It wasn't just an empty stomach—it was a deep, gnawing ache that never went away. It made his limbs feel heavy, his thoughts sluggish. It made people desperate.

He tried to be better. Tried to work.

Wes took whatever miserable jobs he could find—hauling supplies, scraping fat from hides, gutting fish with half-frozen fingers. He cleaned stalls, carried firewood, ran messages.

But it was never enough.

So, eventually, he started taking.

At first, it was small things. Scraps of bread left unattended. A piece of dried meat from a distracted vendor.

Then, from other orphans.

The sad truth was—he was good at it.

He had learned how to move unseen, how to strike first, how to take what he needed and disappear before anyone could stop him.

And he remembered the first time he stole from someone like him.

A boy. Another orphan.

Wes had been watching him for a while—a smaller kid, frail, clinging to a strip of dried meat like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

His fingers curled around it protectively, hunched over it like a starving dog with its last scrap of food.

Wes' stomach ached.

He had gone days with almost nothing, the hollow pit inside him growing worse with every passing second.

The kid was weak.

Wes could take it.

The thought came easily, far too easily.

And when the boy finally let his guard down—Wes acted.

He moved fast, slamming a fist into the boy's gut.

The kid gasped, stumbling back, clutching his stomach in shock. His eyes went wide with fear, but he didn't even get the chance to scream.

Wes ripped the meat from his hands and ran.

He didn't stop until he was far away, hidden in the shadows.

The first bite tasted like victory and shame all at once.

The kid had cried.

Wes had eaten.

And that was just how things were.

He had survived.