The Price of Weakness

This world is drowning in madness, and I am the one swimming in it.

I used to believe weakness was just a part of life - something natural, something that could be endured. But I was wrong. In the place where I was born, the weak don't get to endure. They don't get to live. The strong rule, and the weak exist only to serve them… until they become useless and are cast aside.

"Ten years of experience working the fields? Hah."

Today is my fifteenth birthday. Not much of a celebration. Right now, I'm lying face-down in the dirt, somewhere deep in the forest near the main road. The scent of blood and earth fills my nose. My body refuses to move. Every muscle screams in protest.

Something warm trickles down my face - blood, sweat, or both. My long brown hair is tangled, matted with dirt and grime, clinging to my skin like a funeral shroud.

"Those motherfucking bandits… I'll make them regret robbing me."

But not yet. Not now.

I try to push myself up, but a sharp pain shoots through my skull. My vision blurs. My stomach churns. A sickening wetness drips from my nose onto the ground. I reach up, wiping my face—my fingers come away smeared with blood.

"Damn it."

I exhale shakily and glance at the ground. My rice - what little I had - is scattered across the dirt like shattered glass. A heavy sigh escapes my lips.

The summer sun showed no mercy. My tattered gray clothes clung to my skin, damp with sweat. Every step sent waves of pain through my ribs, my stomach, my legs. The dirt road stretched on endlessly, the stones beneath my bare feet digging in like tiny knives.

Cicadas shrieked in the trees, their cries mixing with the distant murmurs of the village ahead. A gust of wind blew past, carrying the scent of damp earth and decay. It wasn't refreshing - it was suffocating, thick with the stench of something rotten.

Somewhere along the road, I passed a small stream. The water shimmered under the sunlight, looking almost too clean for someone like me. I knelt down, scooping up a handful and splashing it on my face. A chill ran down my spine as the cold water hit my burning skin.

For a brief moment, I caught my reflection.

Dirt-covered. Bruised. Bloodied.

I barely recognized myself.

"Pathetic."

I clenched my jaw and pushed forward.

As I passed through the gate, heads turned. Conversations quieted. Eyes lingered.

Pity.

I clenched my fists. That damn look. That damn expression. I'd seen it too many times before.

I stopped.

One man a merchant, maybe stared at me with a concerned frown, as if debating whether to offer me charity.

I stepped forward, my voice a low growl.

"What? Never seen a crippled bastard like me before?"

He flinched.

"Drop that damn expression and fuck off."

I spat on the ground and walked past him.

The path through the village was familiar, my feet carrying me down the main street before I veered off onto a narrow, roadless track. After a few more minutes, I arrived.

Home.

It was old, worn-down, barely standing - a shack more suited for animals than people. A single window, a crumbling roof, walls that looked ready to collapse. The only beautiful thing about it was the large plum blossom tree beside it, its petals swaying in the wind. A small river flowed nearby, its gentle sounds the only comfort I had.

The interior was just as pathetic as the outside - one bed, a wooden table with a bit of rice, a cooking pot, a shattered mirror, and a few dishes. I sighed and walked over to the mirror. It was cracked, its jagged edges distorting my reflection, but I could still see myself clearly enough.

Bruises covered my face, my lip was split, and dried blood crusted over my cheek. My long brown hair was a mess, strands sticking to my sweaty skin. But as I stared at myself, I couldn't help but smirk.

"I'm not ugly," I thought, tilting my head slightly. "Actually… I might even be considered handsome."

If it weren't for the injuries, I might have looked like a noble's son rather than some dirt-covered orphan. Sharp features, intense eyes - if anything, the wounds only made me look more dangerous.

But what use was a handsome face in a world where only strength mattered?

I washed myself, tied my hair, and changed into my least-damaged clothes. They were still torn, but at least I didn't look like a beggar. Then, I sat down in the center of the room and began to think.

"If I want revenge… I need to learn martial arts."

Unfortunately, fifteen was a little late to start. And I had no talent for it. But whatever.

"How can I learn martial arts in a small village without a master?"

Money? I had nothing. Even third-rate techniques were out of reach.

I chewed my lip. I knew what the answer was, but some pathetic part of me hesitated.

Stealing.

My fingers tightened into fists.

If they wanted me to stay weak, to grovel in the dirt while they trampled over me, then I had no choice.

A slow grin crept onto my face as I rubbed my hands together.

"Then I'll just have to steal them."