Born in the slums, Ray never knew warmth—only the sharp edge of survival.
His earliest memories were of cold nights, cracked walls, and the distant cries of people who had lost everything.
And standing at the center of his tiny world was Lara—his mother.
Lara was a woman of contradictions.
Her beauty had once stolen the breath of nobles, with hair as dark as a moonless night and eyes of deep crimson, a trait Ray inherited.
But madness had taken root in her heart long before Ray was born—nurtured by betrayal, abandonment, and despair.
Some days she held him close, whispering that one day the Gods would save them.
She spoke of destiny, of divine mercy, of cosmic justice waiting just beyond their suffering.
Other days—most days—she screamed that gods didn't exist, that they were lies told to idiots, that no one was coming.
Her hatred, her fear, her bitterness all crashed onto Ray.
She loved him and despised him in equal measure—because he looked like the man who ruined her life, yet he was also the only reason she kept trying to survive.
Ray understood both sides of her.
And he loved her anyway.
The slums offered no mercy. Children scrounged for scraps. Drunks wandered the alleys. Crime ruled the night. Yet Ray clung to one dream—a childish wish that kept him alive:
He wanted to become a knight.
Knights were honored, respected, revered. They walked through the city with polished armor and righteous pride.
They were symbols of hope in a world that offered so little of it. Ray would watch them from rooftops and alley corners, imagining himself marching behind them.
A knight.
Someone who mattered.
But reality was cruel.
Even as a boy, he worked tirelessly in a rundown tavern called The Rusted Tankard—where poor men drowned their misery in cheap ale.
The owner, Garron, treated Ray better than anyone else ever had—almost a father, but never quite able to be one.
"Boy, keep your head low," Garron always warned. "People don't need a reason to break someone weaker."
Garron protected him when he could, but the tavern wasn't a fortress. The men who came were rough, abusive, unpredictable.
Ray learned to endure insults, fists, and humiliation to survive each day.
And then Damon entered his life.
Damon Hartwick—the legitimate son of the noble who fathered Ray.
The opposite of Ray in every way: blonde hair, perfect posture, silk clothes, and the smug superiority of someone who never suffered. The first time Damon walked into the tavern, Ray greeted him politely. But Damon's eyes locked onto Ray's crimson-black gaze.
Recognition.
Disgust.
Jealousy.
"This trash… looks like me."
That was enough.
Damon beat Ray bloody that day—because he could. He returned again and again, using Ray as a punching bag when his ego needed soothing.
Garron tried to intervene once, and Damon nearly had him arrested.
"Touch me again," Damon warned, "and I'll burn this place down."
From then on, Garron could only watch as Ray endured every blow.
Ray healed every time.
Ray survived every time.
Because he still had a dream.
Because he believed things would one day get better.
He didn't know it, but the day everything changed would begin like any other.
Damon arrived with more than arrogance—he came with armored guards bearing the Hartwick crest. They stood outside the tavern like executioners.
"Ray," Garron whispered urgently, "run. Something's wrong."
But Ray didn't run.
His mother was inside.
Damon entered, smiling cruelly.
"Today's the day you learn your place, bastard," he said, grabbing Ray's hair. "Father told me everything. You shouldn't exist."
He threw Ray across the tavern. Tables shattered. Patrons fled. Guards poured in, overturning furniture, dragging people out—destroying the only place Ray had ever felt safe.
Damon wasn't venting this time.
He came to erase him.
Ray fought back desperately—dodging, struggling, trying to breathe—but Damon slammed him with a chair leg, breaking it across his back. The world spun. Blood filled his mouth. His consciousness wavered.
Then Lara burst in.
Her crimson eyes—wild with fury and terror—saw her son on the floor. For the first time in years, she didn't scream at him. She didn't blame him.
She ran to him.
"Stop!" Lara shrieked. "Stop hurting my son!"
Her voice cracked—not with madness, but with fear.
Damon sneered. "Move, wench."
She didn't.
So he struck her.
Ray watched as his mother—his complicated, broken, beloved mother—fell, blood spreading across her temple.
She didn't move.
Something inside Ray shattered.
His vision blurred. His breathing turned ragged. His heartbeat roared. Rage—pure, primal—erupted inside him. His hand reached blindly.
A broken shard of glass.
Damon laughed—until Ray lunged.
The shard pierced Damon's throat.
Blood gurgled. Damon choked, eyes wide with disbelief. Guards froze, then chaos exploded. Someone screamed. Someone ran. Someone shouted for reinforcements.
Ray heard none of it.
Only his own heart breaking.
He crawled to his mother, shaking, crying, begging. But Lara was gone. Damon's blood pooled across the floor.
Half-dead and desperate, Ray ran.
He didn't look back.
Ray fled across the kingdom. Hartwick declared him a criminal, a murderer, a stain to be erased.
Every village whispered his name. Every guard post bore his sketch. Every night he slept in fear.
He ran because stopping meant death.
He ran until the western shores were behind him.
In his exile, one truth shattered his last childhood dream:
Not everyone could become a knight.
Only noble blood mattered.
Power belonged to the privileged.
His dream died.
But a new path appeared.
Stories.
Rumors.
Whispers.
Of a distant land—the Eastern Continent—where strange powers thrived and even peasants could rise.
Desperate for strength, Ray sailed across the sea.
The Eastern Continent was beyond imagination—mountains, forests, mystical beasts, people with eyes like fire or frost. Power felt alive there.
One night, half-starved, Ray met a mysterious old man who studied him silently before handing him a weathered cultivation manual.
"This path defies fate," the man said. "If you truly seek power—take it. But it will demand everything."
Ray took it.
He had nothing left to lose.
He vanished into the mountains.
There he trained—through storms, sickness, starvation. His body decayed. His fingers split and bled. His breath grew ragged.
Pain became his companion.
Days blurred into months.
Months into years.
He trained until his body failed.
In the end, death claimed him quietly in the cold.
Yet he didn't regret it.
He died chasing the strength denied to him.
He died seeking vengeance.
He died refusing the fate forced onto him.
He died with his will burning brighter than ever.