He heard the laughter before he saw them. It was the sound of bored, cruel youth, and it cut through his apathetic haze like a knife.
"I told you he hides in this shithole!" a voice called out, echoing in the narrow alley.
Arthur's head snapped up. His body screamed in protest, but pure animal fear was a louder master. He tried to press himself deeper into the shadows of the alcove, to become invisible.
Three figures blocked the mouth of the alley, silhouetted against the dim light of the street. Teens, maybe sixteen or seventeen, dressed in the rough tunics of apprentices. They had the bored, confident cruelty of predators who knew they were at the top of their small food chain.
"Is that him?" one asked, his voice a mix of excitement and disgust. "The Empty?"
The leader, a lanky boy with greasy hair, stepped into the alcove. His eyes, full of contempt, landed on Arthur. He smiled. "Yeah. That's the one. The god-spat. The Failed Hero."
He took another step, and Arthur flinched, pulling his knees to his chest.
The boy's smile widened. "Aww, look. It's scared."
"He's pathetic," the second one said, joining him. "He's not even a man. He's just a curse."
The leader stepped forward and, with no warning, drove his boot deep into Arthur's stomach.
Arthur's body folded. He couldn't even scream. The air was driven from his lungs in a silent, agonizing whoosh.
But as the boy laughed and stepped back to let his friend have a turn, something inside Arthur snapped.
It wasn't courage. It wasn't strength. It was the last, desperate, cornered-rat instinct of a thing that refused to die so pathetically. After six weeks of being kicked, starved, spat on, and treated as nothing, this final, casual act of brutality was one too many.
As the second kid lunged in, Arthur, with a guttural, inhuman snarl, uncoiled.
His weak, starved muscles screamed, but he threw himself forward from the ground, grabbing the second kid's ankle. It was a clumsy, desperate lunge. He had no plan. He just... reacted.
The kid yelped in surprise, stumbling.
For one, single, glorious second, Arthur felt a flash of... something.
Then the leader's boot connected with the side of his head.
"The fuck?!" the leader roared, his voice cracking with surprise and sudden rage. "It touched you, Karl!"
The world exploded in red-hot, blinding pain. Arthur's grip on the ankle vanished as he collapsed, his head bouncing off the cobblestones.
"It tried to fight?!" the third boy shrieked, as if the very idea was an offense. "The vermin tried to fight?!"
The beating that came before had been sport.
This one was extermination.
They were on him in an instant, their earlier playfulness gone, replaced by a vicious, frenzied anger. How dare he? How dare this nothing, this curse, show defiance?
"You fucking piece of shit!"
A boot smashed into his already-bruised ribs, and he felt a sharp, wet crack. The pain was so intense, so total, that it stole his breath and blacked out his vision for a moment.
"Think you're tough, huh?!"
Someone grabbed his hair and slammed his face into the brick wall. He felt his nose shatter, a horrific, crunching sensation followed by a gush of hot blood that filled his mouth.
"He's not even a person!"
They were kicking him, punching him, stomping on him. He was a doll being torn apart. He tried to curl up, but a kick to his arm broke his guard. Another kick caught his jaw, snapping his head back. He tasted a tooth chip.
He was screaming now, a hoarse, bubbling sound muffled by the blood in his throat.
"Please," he choked out. "Stop... please..."
"Shut up, curse!" the leader spat, and stomped on his hand. Arthur heard the small, dry snap of bones.
In the red, agonizing haze, Arthur saw the alley entrance. A figure was passing by—a merchant, his face visible in the street's lantern light. The man paused, looked into the alley, and saw what was happening. He saw the three boys beating a bloody, unmoving heap on the ground.
Their eyes met.
The merchant's face twisted into a sneer of pure disgust. He spat on the ground, just outside the alley, and kept walking.
He had seen. And he had done nothing.
The boys, emboldened, laughed. "See?! No one gives a shit about you!"
A woman pulling a small cart hurried past, her eyes fixed forward, pretending she hadn't heard the screams, pretending she hadn't seen the blood. She pulled her cart a little faster.
That was the blow that truly broke him. Not the kicks. Not the broken bones.
It was that.
The world saw. The world knew. And the world agreed with the beating. He was a pest. An infestation. And you don't save vermin; you exterminate it.
The teens, finally bored and breathing heavily, stepped back. Arthur was a ruin. He was a puddle of blood, grime, and shattered bones, barely recognizable as human.
"Fucking disgusting," the leader panted, wiping his bloody boot on a cleaner patch of stone. "I think I broke my toe on its ribs."
"Serves it right," the boy named Karl said, rubbing his ankle. "Fucking vermin."
"Let's go. I need a drink. And I need to get this thing's filth off me."
They left, their laughter and boasts fading down the street.
Arthur lay in the filth. He didn't move. He couldn't.
He was a broken image of pain. His ribs were shattered. His nose was a ruin. His jaw throbbed. His hand was a mangled mess. Blood was everywhere. Every breath was a fresh, shallow agony, a wet, gurgling sound.
This was it.
His one act of defiance had earned him a death sentence. He had tried to be a rat that bit back, and the world had crushed him for it.
He closed his eyes, the faces of the merchant and the woman who walked by burned into his memory.
He was ready to rot. He was done.
He just lay there, bleeding in the gutter, waiting for the end.
*****
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