a man with nothing left

I was born in Welford, a quiet little town caught between the luxuries of the rich and the struggles of the poor. Not too extravagant, not too wretched—just somewhere in between, like a half-written story with no real ending.

My father was a teacher, a man of knowledge and quiet passion. He wasn't the type to demand respect, but the kind who earned it. His students adored him, his colleagues valued him, and at home… he was just Dad. He'd sit by the window, reading until his eyes grew heavy, only to wake up and do it all over again. He loved his books, his students, and—at least, I thought—his family.

My mother was a housewife, the kind everyone expected her to be. She cooked, cleaned, and smiled at the neighbors, always greeting them with that same pleasant warmth. From the outside, we seemed like a normal, happy family.

But a house can be painted gold and still rot from the inside.

As a child, I didn't notice the cracks. I didn't question why, every time my father left for his school trips, a strange man would come to our house. My mother would smile, introduce them as "friends of your father," and send me off to play outside. At first, I believed her.

Then it happened again. And again. And again.

Different men, different faces, but always the same routine. I didn't understand it back then. I was too young, too naive. But as I grew older, the whispers in the neighborhood started to make sense. The stolen glances from women, the sneers from men, the way some kids at school muttered insults when they thought I wasn't listening.

One day, it clicked.

My mother wasn't just welcoming guests.

She was a whore.

At first, I refused to believe it. I convinced myself that I was overthinking things, that there had to be some explanation. But the more I watched, the more I understood. My mother was unfaithful, not once, not twice, but for years. And my father, the man who dedicated his life to her, had no idea.

I couldn't take it anymore.

So I told him.

I told him everything—about the men's, about how she sent me away whenever they came, about the things I heard through the walls.

I thought he'd get angry. That he'd slap me and call me a liar.

But he didn't.

His face turned pale. His hands trembled. And for the first time in my life, I saw my father—the strongest man I knew—break.

That night, everything changed.

A scream woke me up.

Not the kind you hear from a startled woman or a child having a nightmare. No, this was raw. Terrified. Like someone was being dragged into hell.

I rushed downstairs, my heart hammering in my chest, and froze.

The first thing I saw was blood.

Dark, pooling, seeping into the wooden floor.

Then, my father.

He lay on his back, his eyes wide open, empty, lifeless. Blood trickled from his lips, his chest rising and falling in weak, shallow gasps. His fingers twitched as if trying to reach for something—someone.

Then… he stopped moving.

A man stood over him, a knife trembling in his grip, his clothes soaked in crimson. My mother was on her knees beside my father, her hands pressing desperately against his chest as if she could stop the life from slipping away. Her face twisted in horror, but not sorrow.

She wasn't crying because she lost her husband.

She was crying because she didn't know how to bury him.

I could still hear her voice, shaking, desperate.

"W-We can fix this… I just need to think… Roadie, help me—"

I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.

The man turned to me.

He knew.

He knew I was the one who told my father. He knew that if I lived, the town would know what had happened here.

And in that instant, he made his choice.

He lunged at me.

I ran.

I didn't think—I just ran. Through the front door, into the cold night, my bare feet slapping against the dirt road as the sound of his heavy footsteps followed close behind.

I didn't look back. I didn't scream. I just ran, my lungs burning, my legs shaking.

I knew one thing.

If he caught me, I'd end up just like my father.

I had nothing.

No home. No family. No place to return to.

The streets became my new world, cold and merciless. At first, I wandered, hoping someone—anyone—would notice me, would ask if I was lost, if I needed help. But no one did. The people of Welford were too busy with their own lives to care about a dirty, ragged boy shivering in the alleyways.

Hunger gnawed at my insides like a starving beast. I drank from puddles, from barrels left outside taverns, anything that didn't smell rotten. I picked through discarded scraps of food, swallowing moldy bread and half-eaten meat that had already begun to stink. My stomach cramped, my throat burned, but I forced it down.

At night, I curled up in alleyways, my body trembling from the cold. I whispered into the darkness, calling for my father, hoping—praying—that somehow he'd hear me, that this was all a nightmare and he'd wake me up.

But no one came.

Days turned into weeks. The world had shown me hell, and I realized something.

No one cares.

No one is coming to save you.

And if no one cares about you, then why should you care about anyone?

The begging stopped. I had begged enough. I had cried enough. I had suffered enough.

At the age of fourteen, I stained my hands with blood.

The job was simple—find a man, drag a knife across his throat, take the coin pouch from his belt. It was over in seconds. The body slumped against the wall, lifeless, while I stood there, staring at my trembling hands.

I thought I'd feel something—guilt, fear, maybe even regret.

But I felt nothing.

And for the first time in my life, I had money. Real money. Enough to eat a proper meal. Enough to buy a decent cloak.

It was easy.

Too easy.

One job turned into two. Two turned into ten. And before I knew it, I wasn't just some street rat anymore—I was a thug. A killer for hire.

I didn't have to worry about food. I didn't have to worry about money. People feared me. Respected me. No one dared to look down on me anymore.

But something was missing.

No matter how much coin I had, no matter how many men I killed, there was always this… emptiness inside me. A hollow space that nothing could fill. I wanted something, but I didn't know what.

Then I saw him.

A royal knight, marching down the cobblestone street. His golden chest plate gleamed under the sunlight, his crimson cape fluttering in the wind. He walked with purpose, with authority.

And the people…

The people looked at him with awe. With admiration. Their eyes shone with respect, with reverence. Women whispered, men bowed their heads, children pointed at him with wide, fascinated eyes.

That's what I wanted.

Not to become a knight.

No, I couldn't care less about their honor, their codes, or their oaths.

I wanted people to look at me the way they looked at him.

I wanted to be someone they couldn't ignore. Someone they feared, respected, and whispered about in hushed voices.

I wanted the world to remember my name.

At the age of seventeen, I made a choice—a choice that would change everything.

I joined the Royal Knight Academy.

Not out of duty, not for some grand ideal of justice, and certainly not to protect the weak. No, I had no delusions of being a hero. I did it for something far simpler—recognition. Power.

I wanted to stand above the nameless faces of the world. I wanted people to look at me with awe, with admiration, just like they once looked at my father.

But I was no fool. The academy was built for nobles, for the privileged few who had never known hunger, who had never watched someone they love bleed out on a dirty wooden floor. I was an outlier—a street rat in a den of wolves.

And that's where I met him.

Jaeger.

At first glance, I thought he was like the rest—another arrogant bastard who walked like he owned the world. He had that same sharp confidence, that unshaken resolve. But there was something different about him.

Jaeger wasn't a noble. He was lowborn, just like me.

He came from the gutters, from the same filth and despair that had shaped me. He fought his way into the academy with his own hands, with blood and sweat, just as I had. He wasn't handed power—he earned it.

And that made me hate him even more.

Because unlike me, Jaeger hadn't let the world break him. He still held onto something—a belief, a purpose. He wasn't just strong. He was righteous. He believed in honor, in loyalty, in fighting for something greater than himself.

And that made me sick.

We clashed from the start. In the training fields, in the strategy halls, in the dead of night when words weren't enough and only fists could settle the rage between us. We pushed each other to the brink, neither of us willing to bow, neither of us willing to break.

We hated each other.

But hatred is a strange thing. When two people fight enough times, when they bleed together, struggle together… something shifts.

That hatred turned into something else.

A rivalry.

A bond.

We weren't just competitors—we were equals. We sharpened each other, forced each other to grow. And in those rare, fleeting moments between battles, we laughed. We sat under the night sky, drinking cheap alcohol and swapping stories of our pasts, of the things we had lost, of the things we dreamed of becoming.

For the first time in years, I felt like I had a brother.

But the world doesn't let men like us have peace.

Not for long.

Jaeger had fought to escape his past. He wanted to protect. To change things.

And me? I just wanted the world to remember my name.

That difference was what shattered us.

Jaeger believed in something bigger than himself. But me? I only ever believed in survival.

When the past came for me, when the things I had done finally caught up… he stood in my way. He chose honor over brotherhood.

And in that moment, we weren't friends anymore.

We weren't rivals.

We were enemies.

All my life, I had wanted one thing—to be seen, to be respected, to be admired, just like people once admired my father.

But in my hunger to rise above my past, I had become the very thing I swore I'd never be.

A man with nothing left.