The Lowest of the Low

The stench of rot and sweat filled the air. The narrow alleys of the Dominion Empire's slums were a place where the weak struggled to survive, and the strong took what they pleased.

Kellvin Drax knew this truth all too well.

He crouched behind a stack of broken crates, his sharp eyes watching the gang of thugs who had cornered an old beggar. The leader, a burly man with a jagged scar across his cheek, kicked the frail man to the ground.

"You thought you could keep this from us?" The thug held up a small, dirt-stained pouch, shaking it mockingly. A few copper coins jingled inside.

The beggar gasped, blood trickling from his lip. "Please… it's all I have…"

Kellvin's fists clenched. He had seen this scene play out too many times before. The weak were nothing more than prey in this world. And he was no different.

At sixteen years old, Kellvin had spent his life fighting to survive in these streets. Unlike the nobles of the empire—who were born with powerful bloodline abilities—he had nothing. No magic. No strength. Just a hollow stomach and a will to live.

And yet, despite knowing better, his body moved on instinct.

"Hey," Kellvin called out, stepping into the dim torchlight. "You've got what you wanted. Leave him alone."

The gang turned toward him, their expressions twisting into amusement.

"And who the hell are you?" Scar-cheek sneered.

Kellvin ignored the fear curling in his stomach. "Just someone who doesn't like seeing cowards picking on an old man."

Laughter echoed through the alley.

"You've got guts, brat." The thug cracked his knuckles. "Let's see if you've got bones strong enough to match."

The first punch came fast. Too fast.

Pain exploded in Kellvin's ribs as the blow sent him crashing into the crates behind him. He gasped for air, the impact rattling his skull. The second hit landed before he could recover—a sharp knee to the stomach that left him on his hands and knees.

The world blurred. His fingers dug into the dirt.

Damn it… not again…

This wasn't the first time he had tried to stand up against the strong. It always ended the same way.

He was weak.

Pathetic.

Nothing.

Scar-cheek grabbed a rusted dagger from his belt. "Since you're so eager to die, let's speed things up."

The blade gleamed in the moonlight as it swung downward.

Then… something changed.

A sharp, agonizing pulse shot through Kellvin's chest. His vision darkened—then shifted.

The world around him faded, and suddenly, he was somewhere else.

He stood in a vast, crimson abyss.

Blood-red mist swirled around his feet. A cold, suffocating pressure pressed against his skin.

And then… he heard it.

A voice. Deep, ancient, and filled with power.

"Do you seek strength?"

Kellvin's breath hitched.

A massive grimoire floated before him. Bound in black leather, with veins that pulsed like a living heart, the book radiated an aura of overwhelming dread and authority.

He didn't understand what was happening. Was this death? A hallucination?

But the voice spoke again, its tone almost… amused.

"You have been abandoned by this world. Forgotten by fate. But I see the hunger within you, child."

Kellvin felt his heart pound. The hunger? He knew that hunger. The hunger for power, for revenge, for something more than this miserable existence.

The book's pages flipped open. A single drop of blood floated before him, dark and filled with something primal.

"Drink… and rise."

A choice.

Kellvin didn't hesitate. He reached out, his fingers closing around the floating drop of blood—

And the world shattered.

Pain surged through Kellvin's body—but it was different now.

His veins burned as an intoxicating rush of energy flooded his limbs. He gasped, his vision sharpening.

The dagger was inches away from his chest.

Time seemed to slow.

Before he could think, his body moved on instinct—

His hand shot up, grabbing Scar-cheek's wrist in an iron grip. The thug's eyes widened. "What the—?!"

Kellvin's fingers tightened. Bones snapped like dry twigs.

Scar-cheek screamed.

Something inside Kellvin shifted—a primal, overwhelming thirst. His canines elongated, a burning heat pulsing in his throat.

And then… his instincts took over.

Before Scar-cheek could react, Kellvin lunged forward, sinking his teeth into the man's neck.

Warm, rich blood flooded his mouth.

Power exploded through his body.

His mind filled with fragments of memories—Scar-cheek's life flashing before his eyes. His muscles burned as raw strength surged through his limbs.

When Kellvin pulled away, the thug collapsed—his body drained, pale, lifeless.

The remaining gang members staggered back, horror in their eyes.

"What… what the hell is he?!"

Kellvin wiped the blood from his lips, breathing heavily. His heart pounded, his body thrumming with newfound power.

And then, a voice echoed in his mind.

[Blood Absorption Complete.]

[Strength +2. Speed +1.]

[New Skill Acquired: Blood Sense.]

His eyes widened.

This was real.

Something inside him had awakened.

For the first time in his life, Kellvin Drax was no longer powerless.

A slow smile crept across his lips.

This was only the beginning.