The bridge led to Old Town, a place caught between the slums and the main city. Year by year, more of its land had been swallowed, its buildings torn down to make way for finer homes and cleaner streets. But for now, there were still plenty of abandoned buildings left standing.

  Oswald stumbled into one of the many old buildings in the area. Once inside, he fought to steady his breath, chest heaving, his vision blurring as grit clung to his lashes. Each inhale filled his throat with dry, stale air, and the faintest traces of piss from some vagrant long gone. Damn. At least I lost the Black Hounds.

  The thought barely settled before he pushed against the wall, trying to get back on his feet. The moment he shifted, pain tore through him, like claws raking through his side. The breath left his lungs in a choked gasp.

  His legs buckled, and he collapsed back onto the floor with a choked gasp. It was as if fire coursed through his veins, but the worst of it came from his right eye. Oswald felt like something had burrowed into his skull, twisting, pulling, carving into him.

  A cough wracked Oswald's body, and he felt the unmistakable warmth of blood rising in his throat before he spat it onto the floor. He curled in on himself, trembling as he rode out the agony. Damn it... knew usin’ the eye was gonna catch up to me sooner or later. This shit’s gettin’ worse. Used to have a few days before it hit, now I’m feelin’ it in just a few hours.

  Using his right eye always came at a cost. Even Oswald understood that much.

  But knowing didn't make it hurt any less. The burning in his skull, the sick lurch of his stomach, the weakness clawing at his muscles, it was all getting worse. Despite this, he forced himself to breathe, the way he always did when he needed to pull himself together. After all, he had no plans on dying here. Not after all the effort he put into running away.

  When the shaking finally dulled to a tremor, he pressed his palms to the ground and pushed himself upright slowly. His limbs felt heavy, but he managed to get one foot under him, then the other. The pain hadn't faded, but he could move, and that was enough.

  Oswald pressed a hand to his ribs, wincing as he shuffled forward. Every step sent sharp jolts of pain through his body, but standing still wasn’t an option. He needed to move, if only to keep his mind from sinking too deep into the pit of exhaustion clawing at him.

  He dragged himself along the wall, brushing against rough, peeling plaster. A long breath rattled from his throat. Shouldn't have used the eye so much. Should’ve held back a little. Maybe then I wouldn’t be coughin’ up blood in some abandoned dump.

  But even as the thought crossed his mind, something twisted inside him. But what was I supposed to do? Get torn apart by those bastards? Let ‘em drag me back? Nah. Ain’t a single damn part of me that believes I’d still be breathin’ if I didn’t have this power.

  His right eye throbbed, like it was reminding him of that truth. He lifted a hand, pressing his fingers against the patch covering it. Just the thought of peeling it back made his stomach churn. It wasn’t the pain that got to him. It was the way it made him feel like something else was lurking behind that eye.

  Damn thing’s like a damn weight chained to me. Hurts a lot, makes me sick, but it’s kept me alive. If I didn’t have it… I’d be dead. Simple as.

  That was the truth, wasn’t it? He could regret it all he wanted, could curse the pain and the exhaustion, but at the end of the day, it was a part of him. A part he couldn’t afford to hate.

  His grip on the wall tightened. I’m gonna survive. And I ain’t just gonna scrape by. Gonna be the kinda adventurer people talk about for years, a legend. Someone who don’t gotta run anymore.

  The weight in his chest didn’t vanish, but something in him settled, like a tether pulling taut instead of fraying apart. His body still ached, but he shoved himself forward, step by step.

  Oswald gradually explored the building as he stumbled around. A broken table was near the entrance, its legs snapped clean through. A few scattered chairs sat in the far corner, coated in dust thick enough to smother any trace of color. This place was probably a tavern once. Bet it used to be packed too.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  At the very least, the bar still stood, though time had worn it thin. Splintered shelves loomed behind the counter, stripped of their bottles, their emptiness echoing the silence of the place.

  But what caught Oswald’s eye wasn’t the bar. Against the back wall, a cluster of old posters clung stubbornly to the crumbling plaster.

  The edges curled in on themselves, and most had faded into obscurity, the ink bleeding into yellowed parchment. Despite this, he stepped closer and let his gaze drag over them.

  There were still a few posters that were legible. One in particular caught his eye.

  THANK YOU, SELENE WHITEHEART! SLAYER OF THE WORLD EATER!

  Below the words, an illustration depicted a towering dragon, coiled in death at the feet of a lone swordswoman. The details of her face had faded over time, but Oswald didn’t need to see them to know exactly who she was.

  He huffed out a breath, a rare smile tugging at his lips. Damn. She really took down a dragon all by herself?

  Oswald's fingers hovered just over the image, tracing the outline of the beast’s massive head. That's what a real adventurer looks like… One day, I wanna be like that. Not just scraping by, not just running. I wanna be the kind of person who don’t gotta run at all.

  His smile faded slightly as his hand fell away. The boy knew he wasn’t there yet. But every great adventurer had to start somewhere, right?

  Oswald’s gaze drifted from the dragon-slaying legend to another poster tacked haphazardly beside it. This one, had artwork depicting a large colosseum.

  THE 44TH TOURNAMENT OF CHAMPIONS - FINAL RESULTS

  1st Place: Aldric Fane (Reward: 10,000 gold)

  2nd Place: Rodrick Vale (Reward: 5,000 gold)

  3rd Place: Cassian Draeven (Reward: 1,000 gold)

  Even Oswald recognized these names. Aldric was called a prodigy, a master of the blade, untouchable in the arena. Rodrick was no pushover either. That guy fought like a berserker, breaking through his opponents’ defenses with sheer force. And Cassian was a duelist with a sword so fast it left afterimages in its wake.

  Oswald clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose. Would’ve killed to see them all fight in person… too bad I can't afford tickets.

  He tried to picture the roar of the crowd, feeling the thrill of warriors pushing themselves beyond their limits for the chance at glory. A tournament like that wasn’t just about who was the strongest, it was about proving you belonged among the best. One day, I'll be sure to win the whole thing. If I get 1st place, I can probably buy a mansion filled with servants. Imagine that, having dozens of people to do all the boring stuff in the house.

  But the more Oswald thought about it, the more he came to accept how unprepared he was. If he wanted to even be able to compete, there was one skill that he desperately needed. All of the champs knew how to use their mana cores. Can't imagine I'd last long without bein' able to at least do that.

  Oswald exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. He could fight, sure. But without being able to use mana? It wouldn't be enough. Ain’t got nothin’ but time right now. No reason not to try, at least one more time.

  He moved away from the posters, stepping carefully through the wreckage of the abandoned tavern until he found a relatively clear patch of floor near the bar. Lowering himself down, he crossed his legs, placing his hands on his knees as he rolled his shoulders back. Alright. Just gotta focus.

  Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply through his nose, holding the breath for a moment before exhaling slowly. The world around him dulled, the dim light behind his eyelids flickering as he turned his focus inward. At first, there was only the steady thud of his own heartbeat. But then, beneath that, he saw something.

  Faint, thread-thin glimmers in the dark. That’s gotta be it, mana.

  He narrowed his focus, trying to pull those strands closer, to grasp them, to will them into something real. But the more he tried, the more they slipped away, dissolving like mist between his fingers. He furrowed his brow, pushing harder, only for the threads to scatter entirely.

  Oswald gritted his teeth. Tch. Figures.

  With a sharp exhale, he opened his eyes. Gotta figure this whole mana core thing out. Ain’t gonna get far as an adventurer if I can’t even use my own damn core properly.

  But brooding on it wasn’t gonna change anything right now. He pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders. No point sittin’ around. I should head to the city proper, maybe try my luck at the adventurer's guild again. Not like I got much of a future here in the slums anymore after that stunt I pulled.

  Oswald flexed his fingers, then took a moment to remind himself where he kept his hidden stash of coins. But first things first, I still got that money tucked away. Should be enough to get by for a bit, if I can find it.

  With that thought, Oswald turned toward the door and stepped out into the empty streets. He couldn't stay hiding forever. Once I’m outta Old Town, I'll head to the adventurer's guild and sign up proper. It'll be a new start for me.