The rain had a way of settling deep into the bones of Neo-Vastra. It didn't fall clean like it used to in the old world; it drizzled like acid-laced smoke—grey, metallic, heavy with dust and forgotten sins. In the Slum Sector-5, rain didn't cleanse. It only reminded people that even the sky wanted nothing to do with them.
Eliar Thorne, seventeen years and five months old, sat with his back pressed against the cold metal door of a broken supply shack, watching the rust drip from the roof like tears. His shirt was three winters too small, patched up with old bandages and safety pins. His right shoe had no sole. His left foot had no shoe at all.
It was quiet. Not peaceful. Just... empty.
A long stretch of silence had passed since the last person spoke to him.
Not out of concern. Not out of care.
His mother had passed away two days ago, coughing blood into a cloth that had once been her favorite scarf. No hospital took her. Not without credits. No neighbors helped. Not without fear.
Eliar had buried her alone.
No priest. No service.
Just him, a broken shovel, and an unmarked grave by the abandoned track where old transport trains once ran.
He hadn't cried.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because no one had ever taught him how.
---
Neo-Vastra was a shining city—if you stood at the top. From the glittering spires of the elite families, it looked like a utopia. Towers kissed the clouds. Neon lights danced in the sky. Skyports and hovercrafts floated between levels like dreams.
But below it all, in the Drift Zones, there was no light. Only rust, smoke, and the stench of human desperation.
Here, power wasn't earned.
It was inherited.
Born into bloodlines.
Gained through Ranking.
And Eliar?
He was Unranked.
No affinity. No bloodline. No system.
In a world where children awakened their abilities by age 10, Eliar had failed every single time. At 17, he was a joke even among the other slum kids.
"Thorne the Thorn, growing out of trash, thinking he's a rose," they used to chant.
Then they'd shove his face into the gutter and laugh.
Even the teachers at District Public 49 made no effort to hide their contempt. His name had been erased from attendance lists three times this year alone. He still showed up—why, even he didn't know anymore.
---
That night, hunger clawed at his stomach like a beast. The power grid had shut down again. He could see the fires from the richer sectors glowing like cruel stars on the horizon.
He curled up tighter.
Sleep didn't come easy.
His back still ached from yesterday's beating—the one where Kyren Vos, son of a middle-tier family, had dared him to crawl like a dog for a few credits. Eliar didn't. So they kicked him until he bled from his ears.
He had nothing left now.
No mother.
No food.
No purpose.
No future.
He didn't even flinch when the sky cracked with lightning.
But then… something flickered.
A glimmer—not from the clouds or the rain—but from within his mind.
[SYSTEM BOOTING...]
His eyes widened.
[USER: ELIAR THORNE – DETECTED]
[UNIQUE PATH: NEMESIS PROTOCOL – ACTIVE]
[CLASS: FORSAKEN]
He gasped and stumbled back, knocking over an old crate. A glowing interface hovered in front of him, etched in cold, silver light. It was real. He reached out with shaking hands, and the light responded—flickering softly like it recognized him.
[Welcome, Eliar.]
[This world has taken everything from you.]
[Let us take everything from it.]
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move.
Was this real?
Or was this just one final illusion before death took him too?
But no...
[SYSTEM LINKED.]
[Initializing Revenge Chain.]
[Tracking Targets: Kyren Vellore, Headmaster Venik, Garan Thorne...]
His blood froze at the last name.
Garan Thorne.
His father.
The man who abandoned them before he could even walk.
A man he had never seen, but hated all his life.
The interface didn't stop.
[Building Path... Scanning Guilds... Notifying Black Market Contacts...]
[Future Allies Detected: 4 Major Families]
[Stage 1 Objective: Survive. Rise. Be remembered.]
He was still shivering. But not from fear.
This wasn't mercy.
It wasn't luck.
It was a curse.
It was a gift.
For the first time in his life, someone—something—had chosen him.
And that meant one thing:
They were going to regret everything.