Slum Prince

Four long years slipped by like smoke drifting through cracked alleyways and beneath sagging rooftops. Time here didn't march forward. It crept. Slow and unyielding, it folded itself into the ragged breaths and desperate cries of the city's poorest. Each day blurred into the next, stained with the same sour smells of sweat, stale bread, and rot.

Emery learned to walk by stumbling over splintered boards and heaps of reeking garbage tossed carelessly into forgotten corners. His small feet found uneven paths between muddy puddles and shattered cobblestones, wincing at the sting of crushed glass buried beneath warped planks. The world was jagged and unforgiving, and he adapted.

He learned to speak not from books or lullabies, but by listening to the slurred dialects of drunkards and criminals, the broken tongues of beggars, thieves, and vendors peddling stolen goods in shadow-drenched alleys. Emery's sharp eyes memorized every twist and corner, every scam and hustle, every stench-thick crevice where death seemed to wait a little longer than it should.

This world was brutal. Raw. Merciless in its hunger and hierarchy.

But it whispered echoes of a life Emery had already lived.

He had survived blood-soaked jungles and cartel warfare, the cold betrayals of glass boardrooms, and the long, bloody climb to rule over shadows. Poverty? That was nothing.

Because he was Emery.

Emery Vane.

Just smaller.

By four years old, he spoke five regional dialects with the poise of a seasoned trader. His fingers counted coins faster than any fence tucked behind a stall. His "parents," if the word still meant anything, no longer treated him like a child. Mara, his mother, hands worn rough by years of hard labor, called him "Little Boss" with a weary smile when he corrected her sums. Joren, his father, a city guard scraping to survive, often stumbled home late, reeking of cheap ale and quiet bitterness. Not violent, just hollow. A man splintered by a world that left him behind.

Emery tolerated him.

Because Emery had a plan.

In Althar, the world ran on magic and muscle. On their twelfth birthday, every child was sent to a crumbling school for a single day, just long enough to be taught the basics of magic, how it worked, what it cost, and who held it. The teachers were often traveling alchemists, crooked sorcerers, or drunk city mages who sold dreams for coin.

But until then, children were left to the dirt and the knives.

One afternoon, that dirt turned red.

A local bully, older, taller, and swollen with misplaced confidence, waited near a pile of trash in the square. His grin was wide, his eyes mean. He clutched a wooden stick in both hands, tapping it against the stone with slow, deliberate rhythm.

"Boss's brat," he sneered. "Thinks he's hot shit."

The stick swung.

Emery didn't see it coming.

His head snapped sideways, white stars bursting behind his eyes. He dropped to one knee, copper pooling in his mouth.

But instead of crying or running, he stood.

Slowly. Quietly. He wiped the blood from his lip and raised his head. His eyes were cold. Flat.

Then he lunged.

Fists flew, small, sharp, and fast. He didn't fight like a child. He fought like something older. Like something that had bled before and had learned how to make others do the same. The older boy reeled under the sudden assault, arms flailing as Emery drove his fists into ribs and jaw, cracking bone and pride. Blow after blow until the bully collapsed into the mud, wheezing.

Emery stood over him, chest heaving, fists trembling with the ghost of fury.

Around them, the slum children stared.

He looked up and spoke just loud enough for them to hear.

"Kneel."

Silence.

The fallen boy groaned and shifted, but did not rise.

Then another boy sprang from the side, a lean, wiry rat with wild eyes and dirty fists. His strikes came fast and wild.

Emery caught a glancing blow to the shoulder, stumbled, then ducked under a swing. The boy drew a dagger from his belt, desperation burning in his grip.

But Emery slapped the blade from his hand and drove a fist into the boy's gut. He dropped to the dirt, gasping for breath.

The crowd of children fell still.

A few of the tougher ones backed away slowly. Others dropped their gazes. The rest remained frozen, watching the boy in rags and bruises who now stood at the center like a crowned wolf.

That night, beneath the sagging porch of their shack, Emery sat alone.

His hands still shook from his first fight in his new body. He wasn't just happy. He was thrilled.