Chapter 2: The Dreams of the City

The city was suffocating.

Ainz had never seen buildings so tall, streets so crowded, or a world that moved so fast. The air smelled different here—a strange mixture of gasoline, street food, and something metallic that lingered in his lungs.

In the town, mornings were slow and quiet, with the distant sound of birds and the occasional chatter of neighbors. Here, the city was already awake before the sun even rose.

Their new apartment was far from what they had before. In the town, their house had been simple, but it had space—a small courtyard where Ainz used to sit under the tree and read, a living room where they could all breathe without stepping on each other's toes.

The apartment was the opposite.

It was a single-room space with thin walls that carried the sounds of their neighbors—crying babies, distant arguments, television static. The kitchen was barely big enough for one person to stand in, and the bathroom door creaked every time it opened.

His mother tried to make it feel like home. She placed an old cloth over the wooden table, stacked their belongings carefully in the corner, and smiled as she unpacked their few possessions. But no matter how much she tried, the room felt empty.

"This is good for us," she kept saying. "It's small, but we'll adjust."

His father didn't say much. He was already out looking for work, leaving early in the morning and coming home late.

His mother found a job cleaning houses for rich families, returning every evening with aching feet and a tired smile.

They didn't complain. They were used to hardship.

But Ainz felt the weight of it all.

The city was supposed to be a fresh start, but he couldn't understand what was supposed to be better about it.

His parents believed this place would give him a future, but all Ainz saw was how much harder life had become. The expenses were higher, the air was colder, and everything felt unfamiliar.

Then came school.

His parents had done their best to get him into a good one—one where the education was better, where he would have more opportunities. They saw it as an investment in his future. But to Ainz, stepping into that school felt like stepping into another world.

The hallways were polished, the classrooms filled with students who spoke easily, as if they had known each other forever. They carried expensive backpacks, wore perfectly pressed uniforms, and talked about things Ainz had never even considered before—weekend vacations, brand-name clothes, tutors for extra lessons.

He noticed it immediately: the difference between them and him.

He had walked into school wearing the same uniform as everyone else, but somehow, he still felt out of place.

His shoes weren't as new, his bag was smaller, and when he sat down at his desk, he felt like an imposter.

During lunch, he sat alone at first, unsure of where to go.

Then, a boy named Rohan invited him to sit with his group. They seemed friendly, smiling as they asked him about where he was from.

"A small town," Ainz answered simply.

"Oh, that must be peaceful," one of the girls said, her voice light.

Ainz only nodded. He didn't know how to explain that "peaceful" wasn't the right word—that his family had left not out of choice, but because they had no other option. That their life back there had been hard, but at least it had been familiar.

The conversation moved on quickly, shifting to things Ainz couldn't relate to. They talked about the latest phones, their weekend outings, the brands they liked.

Ainz listened in silence, feeling smaller with every passing second.

He wanted to speak, to add something, but what could he say?

That his parents barely managed to afford rent? That his mother scrubbed floors while their mothers shopped in malls?

That his father worked late into the night just to put food on the table?

So he said nothing.

The first few days were a blur of introductions and unfamiliar faces. Some students tried to be friendly, inviting him into conversations, but Ainz couldn't bring himself to connect. There was an invisible wall between them, built not by them, but by the difference in their lives. They belonged here. He didn't.

So he withdrew.

He started sitting alone at lunch, pretending to be busy with his books. He avoided unnecessary conversations, responding with short answers whenever someone spoke to him.

He wasn't rude, but he wasn't open either. He just existed.

At home, his mother always asked about his day, and Ainz forced a smile.

"It was fine," he would say.

He didn't tell her about the loneliness, about how every second in that school reminded him that he was different. He didn't tell her how exhausting it was to be surrounded by people who had everything he lacked. She was already working so hard. He didn't want to add to her worries.

But at night, when he lay on his thin mattress, he couldn't stop thinking.

In the town, he had never felt wealthy, but he had never felt worthless either. Here, in the city, surrounded by people who had more than he could ever dream of, Ainz felt invisible.

He started wondering—was this the life his parents had fought so hard for?

Was this really supposed to be better?

And if it was, then why did he feel so alone?