Time did not pass in the Garbage of Humans; it accumulated.
Days folded into weeks, weeks into months, each one leaving behind a thin layer of dust, habit, and the slow erosion of anything that might once have been hope.
I was still eight.
Jasmin was nearing nine.
We had survived the winter by sharing the same corner near the hearth, trading warmth, rations, and silence.
The silence was useful. It allowed observation without expenditure of words.
I had adapted to the hierarchy without becoming part of it.
I moved like smoke—never in the way, never drawing attention, always watching.
The larger boys had lost interest in me as a target; I gave them nothing to provoke.
The old ones ignored me; I offered no threat to their scraps.
The guards saw only another body that did not cause trouble.
Jasmin and I had formed an unspoken pact.
We shared what we could half a crust of bread when one had more, a blanket when the nights turned bitter, information about which guard was distracted on which shift.
We simply existed in parallel orbits, close enough for mutual benefit, far enough to survive independently if one of us failed.
When she slept beside me, her breathing steady and even, the pressure in my chest returned not as pain, but as a persistent signal.
I dissected it nightly, in the dark, while the hall exhaled the collective exhaustion of the forgotten. Attachment. Love was a word people used to justify irrational decisions.
This was simpler: recognition of value.
She was not merely useful.
She was irreplaceable in a way no other person here was.
When she spoke of the evaluation at fourteen, her eyes sharpened; when she shared her last bite without hesitation, she proved something fundamental.
She saw me as I saw her: a piece that increased the probability of survival.
That symmetry was rare. Rarity increased value.
It gave my thoughts direction.
It turned the endless waiting into something with edges a goal beyond mere endurance.
If I remained essence-dead, I would die here.
She would die here.
Or worse she would be selected for the evaluation and vanish into the capital's machine, never to return.
The thought produced a faint tightening in my chest.
Just the recognition that her absence would represent a net loss. Loss was unacceptable.
Therefore, I must change the equation. The decision crystallized one morning after rations.
I stood and walked to the manager's room without hesitation.
Torv was there, as always, propped in his chair like a broken statue. One leg missing, one arm ending in a scarred stump. His face was a lattice of old wounds—knife scars, burns, the deep pockmarks of essence backlash that had ended his fighting days. He looked up as I entered.
No surprise.
Only mild curiosity.
"I need permission to go to the library," I said.
"Two hours away.
I want to study for the evaluation."
He laughed once, the sound dry and scraping.
"You're eight. The evaluation is six years from now.
You think books will grow you an essence?"
"I think knowledge is a variable I can control," I replied.
"Essence I cannot. Not yet.
But the evaluation tests more than essence. Pattern recognition. I can improve those."
He studied me for a long moment.
Then he leaned back, chair groaning under his weight.
"You're not like the others they beg They cry. You just ....."
I waited.
He reached into the drawer with his remaining hand.
Pulled out a small metal card old, scratched, stamped with a faded temple seal.
"This gets you into the restricted section The old part. Books nobody touches because they think they're cursed. Some say reading them makes people go mad"
"Take it "
"Bring it back.
If you lose it, I'll make sure you match me one hand, one leg."
I took the card.
He watched me leave.
I felt the weight of his gaze He did not trust me.
I stepped out into the gray morning Two hours to the library.
I would return before dusk.
The road was muddy, the sky low and indifferent.
I walked without hurry Hurrying is a waste of energy.
I thought about Jasmin.
About the way she looked when she spoke of the capital eyes sharp, voice low, as if saying it too loudly would jinx it.
About the way she had once pressed her shoulder to mine during a cold night, not for warmth, but for shared vigilance.
The pressure in my chest increased.
I reached the library.
An old stone building, half-forgotten, guarded by a single priest who barely glanced at the card.
I entered the restricted section without pause Dust.
Shelves leaning like dying men.
I pulled down volumes that looked untouched.
Essence theory.
'Ritual failures.'
'Hidden origins.'
'The Origin monster.'
'The two liquids. '
I did not read for pleasure or fun
I read for advantage.
Hours later, I left with three books concealed under my rags.
The card returned to Torv.
On the way back, the road narrowed through overgrown trees.
A figure stepped out.
Isises
Sixteen.
Blue essence, but warped.
He could force his own blood to surge, thicken muscle, increase strength on demand.
A bully's gift.
He believed he loved Jasmin.
he think his Love was threatened by me.
He blocked the path.
"You've been too close to her," he said.
"Too close."
I stopped.
He stepped forward.
Blood rushed beneath his skin.
Muscles bulged unnaturally.
"You think you're special? Noble blood?Stay away from her. Or I swear i swear i will crush every muscle of yours you bastard."
I met his eyes.
"did you look me in the eyes just now"
[ (BLEU ESSENCE ) BLOOD MANUPILATION :HAMMER ARM]
He swung Fist like stone.
Connected with my head the pain, bright, immediate.
Then my chest air forced out, ribs creaking.
The pain in my head and chest was constant but manageable. Bruising across the temple, ribs tender when I breathed too deeply. I did not waste energy on anger or resentment.
He stood over me.
"Next time, I WILL BRAEK EVRY FUCKING BONE OF YOURS."
He left.
I lay on the muddy road until the ringing in my ears dulled to a low hum and the copper taste of blood in my mouth thinned to a faint memory.
Isises had left without looking back. His footsteps had faded into the trees, heavy and satisfied. He had delivered his message. He had enforced his claim. There was no need for further expenditure on his part.
I pushed myself up slowly. One palm pressed into the cold mud. Then the other. Then knees. Then standing. The world tilted once, a brief warning of concussion, then steadied. Ribs protested with every inhale bruised, not cracked.
Temple throbbed in time with my pulse Lip split, blood drying in a thin crust No nausea Recovery time: two to three days of reduced movement
I walked the remaining distance back to the orphanage without haste. Limping slightly to protect the ribs. Not from weakness. From efficiency. I did not waste energy on anger. Anger was an emotion that clouded judgment. Isises had acted rationally from his perspective: he perceived a threat to something he valued, and he removed the threat with the minimum force necessary to establish dominance The calculation was sound. My error was allowing the threat to become visible before I could counter it That error would be corrected.
When I entered the hall, the light had already turned gray and thin. Most of the occupants were scattered in their corners, some gnawing on the last crumbs of the day, others staring blankly at the walls. Jasmin was waiting near our spot. She saw me the moment I stepped through the doorway. Her body stiffened. She stood quickly too quickly and crossed the distance in seconds.
"Germain what happened to you?"
Her voice was low, controlled, but the concern was unmistakable. Eyes wide, scanning the damage: the swelling temple, the split lip, the way I held my side to keep pressure off the ribs.
I sat down carefully, back to the wall.
"Isises. On the road back."
She knelt in front of me. Hands hovering, not touching yet.
"He did this because of me."
"No,"I said.
"Because of him. And because of me. I allowed my proximity to you to be noticed without being prepared to respond. That was my mistake."
She exhaled sharply through her nose. Her jaw tightened.
"I'll talk to him. Tell him to—"
"No."
She looked at me. "Why not?"
She sat back on her heels. Her eyes searched mine for several seconds.
"You're not angry."
"I am not."
She nodded once, as if that answer was expected. Then she stood, fetched a damp rag from the water bucket, returned, and pressed it gently to my temple.
The coolness reduced the swelling slightly. I let her continue. Her fingers were steady. Careful. She did not flinch at the blood.
While she worked, I thought about training.
Not wild swinging or reckless charging. Not the crude brawling the larger boys practiced. Training meant control. Precision. Leverage. Knowledge of anatomywhere to strike for maximum effect with minimum risk. Knowledge of movement how to avoid, how to redirect, how to turn an opponent's strength against him.
I had no essence.
No physical advantage. Therefore, I must develop the only advantages still available: mind and preparation. Training would begin immediately. Alone, at first. Then, when ready, with whatever tools I could acquire.
Jasmin finished cleaning the visible blood. She sat beside me, shoulder brushing mine. Closer than before. The contact registered. The pressure in my chest increased—sharp, insistent, almost painful. I allowed it. It had become a signal. A reminder of what was at stake.
I stood again, ignoring the protest of my ribs. Walked to Torv's room. Knocked once.
i Entered.
Torv looked up from his table. Saw the swelling, the split lip, the careful way I held myself. Raised an eyebrow.
"did Someoneforce his self on you" he said
"Teach me to fight," I said.
"You're serious."
"Yes."
He laughed—short, rasping. Then the laugh died when he saw I was not joking.
"Boy Look at me One hand. One leg Scars from battlesI couldn't teach my own child to throw a punch without falling over myself."
"I do not need you to demonstrate," I said.
"I need you to tell me what you know what should i know like Anatomy some Weak points How to use leverage when strength is absent."
" You survived your hole life fighten,your experience That is more important than most here can say."
He studied me. Long silence. Then he leaned back, chair creaking.
He exhaled through his nose.
"Fine. But not because I pity you Because I am bored And because watching you get broken might be entertaining."
He gestured with his stump.
"Sit Tomorrow After rations I'll tell you what a one handed, one legged cripple remembers about killing a man with his bare hands."
I nodded once and Turned to leave.
I left without answering.
Back in the corner, Jasmin was waiting. She did not ask what I had done. She simply made space beside her.
I sat. Our shoulders touched. The pressure in my chest settled—not gone, but contained. A tool now. A focus.
Tomorrow I would begin. Training i will be the first man to be good without essence
Not out of desperation Not out of anger Out of necessity.
The board was still small But the pieces were finally moving.
.