Secret of Light and Shadows: Chapter 8

The fisherman pulled his net onto the shore, grumbling under his breath as he sorted through his catch. His hands, roughened from years of labor, worked quickly. Fish, fish, seaweed—then something odd.

A bundle of papers, damp and torn, tangled in the netting.

He furrowed his brow and peeled one off, glancing at the ink-stained pages. The symbols meant nothing to him. Some strange drawings, too. He turned them over in his calloused fingers, then scoffed.

"Well, this ain't fish, so it's trash," he muttered, tossing them aside.

As he gathered his things, a boy approached. A slum boy, barefoot and thin, his clothes nothing but rags.

"Mister, can I have a fish?" the boy asked, his voice meek.

The fisherman waved him off. "Beat it."

The boy hesitated, then slunk away, his stomach twisting with hunger. He kicked at the dirt, muttering curses under his breath. But as he walked, his eyes caught something fluttering by the water's edge—the discarded pages.

Curious, he crouched down and picked them up. The ink had smudged, and the order of the pages was scrambled, but the drawings intrigued him. His fingers ran over the faded diagrams. He didn't understand the words, but the images—something about light, bending through a prism—drew his eye.

Light could be studied? Measured? Controlled?

His breath hitched. The realization was small, but in his world, knowledge was power. And power was something he had never had.

The boy, known in the slums as Marco, had no real home. What he had was an alleyway, a tarp stretched overhead, and a few stolen blankets to keep warm at night. He curled under the tarp, the dim moonlight allowing him to study the pages further. As he stared at the strange symbols, his mind wandered back to his past.

His father—a mean drunk—had left years ago, vanishing like mist. His mother? Worse. She didn't leave. She stayed, and she made sure he suffered. The day he finally ran away, he never looked back. He had learned to fend for himself. Learned how to steal, how to fight, how to build shelter from scraps. Others like him—slum children, beggars, and castaways—became his only family. They called him the "Witted One" because he had a knack for thinking through problems, for solving things others couldn't.

If someone was sick, they came to him for advice. If someone had a question, they asked him first. He didn't believe in the god that the church worshiped. How could he? If God was so great, why was he starving? Why did people like him live in filth while the priests feasted in gold-plated halls?

He didn't understand the way the world worked. But he knew how to survive.

And now, for the first time, he had found something more than survival. He had found something dangerous.

By daybreak, Marco walked to an open section of the slums, a communal spot where the destitute gathered to share food, trade, or just exist.

He climbed atop an old crate and held the pages up for all to see.

"Listen up!" he shouted.

Heads turned. The slums were always suspicious, always weary, but curiosity kept them listening.

Marco held up the diagrams. "These pages… they talk about light. How it moves. How it bends. How it works!"

One of the older beggars scoffed. "What's that got to do with us?"

Marco's voice hardened. "Because this—this is proof that the church is lying."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"Blasphemous," someone muttered.

"Is that really true?" another whispered.

Marco's eyes burned with conviction. "You ever wonder why the priests hoard knowledge? Why they call people like us 'lesser' while they live in palaces? It's because they want us to stay ignorant! This—this is knowledge they would burn us alive for having. They don't want us to question! But I'm questioning."

The slums shifted, uneasily glancing at one another.

"But what can we do?" someone finally asked. "We're just slums. If we speak out, they'll cut us down."

A long silence.

Marco's jaw clenched. His fist tightened around the pages.

"NO!" he roared, slamming his chest with his free hand. "LISTEN TO ME. IT'S EITHER DO OR DIE! YOU WANT TO STAY LIKE THIS FOREVER? STARVING? ROTTING? WAITING FOR THEM TO FORGET WE EXIST?" His voice cracked with fury. "BECAUSE I'M FED UP! THEY DON'T EVEN CARE ABOUT US! THEY WANT US TO DISAPPEAR! BUT WE'RE STILL HERE!" He slammed his chest again. "WE. ARE. RIGHT. HERE."

The slums were silent.

Then—

A fist rose into the air.

"I'm in," a voice called.

Then another.

And another.

The slums erupted in agreement, fists raised, voices shouting.

Marco stood above them, his heart pounding.

This was his revenge on the world.

And it had only just begun.