1 Chapter 1

"It's really not a dream." 

Konlan held his head in his hands. The burning reek of excrement and urine threatened to overwhelm his mind that was already on the verge of breaking. 

For the last year he had barely clung to existence; spending the nights huddled in doorways and the days pitifully begging for strangers' coin. 

He was so weak and starved of food that his perception of time had become hazy and chaotic. Often he found himself staring blankly at the cracks in the bricks beneath his feet. 

There was no warning to his transmigration. One minute he was lying in bed and the next he was floating lifelessly in the sewers of a completely foreign place. 

'I can't even speak the language. How am I supposed to survive?' Konlan languidly thought to himself. 

The level of education in the new medieval world he found himself in was pitifully low. The ability to read and write was enough to secure a well-paying job for the rest of a person's life. 

Konlan was a college student. While he had never excelled at school, years of systematic education had left him with a more than sufficient literacy proficiency and comprehensive mathematic skills. 

"None of that means shit since I can't communicate." He cursed through gritted teeth. 

The body he inhabited was weak and severely undernourished. Judging by the slight stubble on his chin he was likely to be in his late teens. 

The sight of his rippling reflection in brownish pools of rainwater filled him with a profound sense of hopelessness. 

Sickly pale skin, thin yellowish hair and eyes that told of countless hardships. Konlan had no idea how his predecessor had managed to survive for so many years. 

What all of this meant was that not even the kindest of strangers would pay him any attention. There was no kind benefactor waiting around the corner to rescue him from his current life. 

His destiny was bleak and harsh. He would spent the rest of his life fighting for survival in alleyways until the day came where he no longer had the strength to raise his fist. 

He could feel it. Day by day. The strength leaving his body. 

"Fuck." 

Konlan chuckled hoarsely. His ghostly laughter echoed in the blackened alley. 

In a situation where all hope seemed lost, human beings had two choices.

Lay down and wait for death. 

Or. 

Fight. 

The foul air in the alleyway suddenly became colder. The murky puddles of stagnant water reflected a cruel emotion in Konlan's brown eyes. 

'Even if all that awaits me is death. I have to try.' 

The slums were governed by various conflicting forces. Each one used their own means to bend the slum's citizens to their will.

There were gangs that spoke only with violence, using blood to paint their own doctrines. There were the tails of noble families that secretly profited from murder and exploitation. 

There were even cults led by madmen, all proclaiming themselves the saviour. Although why a so called saviour would choose to live amongst the rats and shit Konlan did not know. 

All of these organizations could crush him to death just by lifting a finger. His target lay far elsewhere. 

Malcom Towur. 

A slimy middle-aged man who's pot-belly and chipped yellow teeth told that he was no stranger to ale and meat. In the slums, eating enough to survive was already a daily struggle. It was for this reason that Malcom stood out. 

The promise of a full stomach held infinite allure to the citizens of the slum. Alliances, friendships and even love could be torn apart simply for a slice of bread. 

Malcom was rumored to have originally been a farmer. Like so many others he had travelled to the city in hope of finding a new life. The city, like it had done to countless others, slowly corrupted that naive and hopeful youth until his soul was stained black. 

After years of labouring till his hands and feet bled, Malcolm snapped. The kindness and honesty in his heart was replaced by a pit of bitterness and envy.

Malcolm held lofty goals. He dreamed of owning a grand house in the inner city and drinking wine and basking in the sun with a beautiful wife by his side.

His mistresses could remain in the hallway.

It didn't take long for Malcolm to come up with a profeteering idea. Slaves.

Slavery was outlawed across the kingdom, but this didn't stop the dealings that took place in the shadows. In fact the outlawing of slavery allowed slave-traders to double and triple the price of their so called goods.

This was the power of greed. It flowed like water, slipping in between the cracks and filling the pockets of wicked nobles with gold.

"Oh don't look at me like that! Come on sweetie! I won't hurt you, no no, you're much too precious for that." Gripping the cage bars tightly Malcolm stared inwards with a laviscous grin.

In the cell a woman wearing rags trembled in the corner. The helpleness and terror in her eyes filled Malcolm with a sick sense is satisfaction.

"Eat up baby, your skin won't stay so soft without eating!"

Malcolm tossed his head back and roared with chilling laughter, "You look even better that roasted ham! Perhaps I should save my coin and toss you over the fire instead!"

His eyes gleaming with perverted joy, Malcolm whistled a tune and rapped on the

bars of the other cages. As he passed he lazily tossed in a piece of dry bread and a lump of cheese covered in mould.

"Dinner time my lovelies! Aren't you excited?!" Malcolm yelled.

His voice echoed back at him from the narrow walls of the carelessly converted housing facility.

Malcolm was a paranoid and fearful man. It was these qualities that had allowed him to rise up to where he was now.

"Don't cry, don't cry! Perhaps your new masters will give you a new dress! Or perhaps they'll turn you into one!" Revelling in the superiorty he felt over the caged slaves, Malcolm stroked the weighty pouch hidden in a secret pocket in his jacket.

The slaves would never receive true justice. Their families would never be brought back to life and their hometowns would soon fade from their memory.

Many of the slaves would choose to end their lives the second they got hold of something sharp. But, for a few brief moments these slaves got to experience something unlike ever before.

A masked figure, dressed only in black crept silently through the hall. The slaves in their cages watched on wordlessly, their minds overan by shock.

Raised aloft in the right hand of the masked figure was a large rock. The worn edges of which showed that its owner regularly found a purpose for it.

Konlan snuck closer and closer until his breath could almost ruffle the thinning hairs on Malcom's head.

Then.

Crunch.

Malcom's lifeless body slumped to the floor. His twisted grin would remain frozen on his face for the rest of time.

Crimson blood and grey brain matter oozed out from a huge wound in his head.

Konlan clenched the rock tighter and steadied his breathing. I

Now he stood, coldly observing the body of the man he has just murdered.

There was no need to hide the corpse. The kingdom's officials would not step foot in the slums even if the death toll was in the thousands.

Konlan squatted.

Crunch!

Crunch!

Crunch!

'Serves you right you fucker.'

The jagged edges of the rock shone with a dazzling crimson in the moonlight. The eyes of the slaves were fixed on that red colour, unable to look away.

Konlan swiftly found and removed the money pouch from Malcom's pocket. Despite the dead body oozing blood at his feet, he found himself experiencing a strange sense of peace.

Turning to the cages that lined the hallway Konlan sighed deeply, "I will set you free, but I can't look after you."

The screech of rusty metal echoed as a key turned in its lock.

After freeing several slaves, Konlan stopped and handed the key to a tall middle aged man.

With trembling fingers the man accept the key, "Thank you."

Konlan stared at the man for several moments. Then nodding his head he stepped back.

Soon the mysterious black clothed figure could no longer be seen.

The slaves embraced one another. It was apparent that they had been captured from the same village. Perhaps even they had been tricked into slavery, promised riches by merchants, who hid their wolfish greed under a veil of generosity.

Konlan's footsteps kept him company as heavy rain drops drummed out a beat on the cracked dry ground.

Above his head a vast sea of stars twinkled. For a moment he contemplated the beauty of this glimmering tapestry untouched by industrialization. 

Then the moment passed and the cold air of the night pricked at his skin. The ever present furrow in his brows grew deeper as he wrapped the long tattered cloak tighter around his body. 

There were no street names in the slums. Konlan relied entirely on his memory to navigate his way back to the shelter he called home. 

Despite the chill creeping into his bones, he was grateful for the heavy rain.

In the slums it was no exaggeration to say that a sharpened blade lurked around every corner. The cover of the rain blanketed the sounds of his movement from prying ears and dissuaded the desperados who might've otherwise caused him trouble. 

'A cornered animal fights the fiercest.' Konlan thought to himself. 

The mighty Temerian kingdom had harsh and strict laws. Crime was punished without mercy. Those caught would have their faces permanently disfigured by 9 iron nails. Every time they looked in a mirror they would be reminded of their idiocy and arrogance. 

Even the nobles of the kingdom, who's conceitment and superiority were engraved into their very bones, feared the king's banner. 

The slums were one of the few places the kingdom's power could not touch. 

So instead the citizens reverted back to a far more primordial system.

Power. 

Konlan had inherited very little from his predecessor, but it's worth was immeasurable. 

Each night before he slept Konlan inspected his most valuable possession; a short knife. 

The knife was crudely made, it's blade roughly embedded in an ugly and unpolished hilt from an unknown tree. The blade itself lacked any sense of skill, the metal still bore several distinctive imprints where the forger's hammer had landed off its mark. 

Yet every day Konlan stroked this knife with a reverent gaze. 

There was only one thing special about the knife. 

It cut. 

Under the blade's edge not even treated leather could pose the slightest resistance. 

He had no clue as to how such an extraordinary weapon had ended up in the grimy unwashed hands of his predecessor, but he did not question it. 

Although any soldier would howl with laughter at Konlan's horrible form and boorish use of force, 9 lives had come to an end by this knife. 

After walking for most of an hour Konlan finally arrived at his destination. While he was hugely reluctant to rely on anyone other than himself, he had no choice but to grit his teeth and pay an oren a week to the bloodhound gang. 

The decision of where to live was not one he took lightly. The bloodhound gang were a group of criminals lead by a disgraced soldier. They made their money from gamblers and drug addicts. 

In their eyes another resident merely meant another sum of coin falling into their laps. Perhaps Konlan could resist the charm of fortune and pleasure for a few months, maybe even a year. 

But one day, when his will was at its lowest he would reveal just a hint of weakness and from that day he would be ensnared forever. 

Konlan stared at the sky through the cracks in the carelessly made roof. Mercifully the rain had eased. Otherwise he would have no choice but to sleep curled up painfully in the one corner of the shack where the roof did not leak. 

His bed, which was nothing more than some crudely joined sticks and a layer of straw, provided little comfort, but at least it was something. 

The sound of gentle rhythmic breathing gradually filled the shack. 

As he drifted off to the respite of sleep Konlan's face suddenly twitched, as if he had heard some strange sound. 

In his half asleep state Konlan seemed to have heard a voice whisper to him. 

Regardless, it didn't matter. Dreams were exactly that; meaningless. 

But that voice. 

It seemed to have said....