Cherreads

I was born a peasant

blackyboy
14
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 14 chs / week.
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Synopsis
In the Kingdom of Oura, your soul is weighed by the gold in your pocket. The "High-Bloods" float in the sky-cities, breathing purified air and playing God, while the "Low-Bloods" crawl in the mud of the Slums, mining the very crystals that keep the cities afloat. ​Han-wool is a "Rat"—a scavenger with a foul mouth and a lethal swing. He doesn't want a revolution; he just wants a warm bowl of rice and for his sister to stop coughing up blood. But when he finds a "Core" dropped by a fleeing Noble, he becomes the most wanted man in the world. ​He's not a hero. He’s a peasant. And he’s about to make the High-Bloods bleed just as red as the rest of them.
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Chapter 1 - Prologue

The rain in the Slums was acidic, the kind that turned your skin into a map of itchy red welts. Han-wool spat a glob of dark phlegm into the puddle, watching it swirl.

"Fuck," he croaked, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. "If the rain doesn't kill us, the hunger's gonna finish the job by Tuesday."

Beside him, Old Man Gwak was busy trying to light a damp cigarette. "Stop your bitching, kid. At least you still have both your legs. I saw the Overseers take Minsu's left one this morning for 'tax interest.'"

"Minsu was a dumbass," Han-wool snapped, tightening the dirty bandages around his hands. "He tried to hide a grain of sugar in his cheek. You don't hide things from people who can smell greed from a mile away."

A scream echoed from the Sector 4 gates. The sound of a heavy, steam-powered whip cracking against meat followed.

Han-wool didn't look up. He couldn't afford to. In this world, looking up meant you were looking at the High-Bloods, and looking at them was a death sentence.

"They think we're dirt," Han-wool whispered, his grip tightening on a rusted iron pipe. "They think we're just the fertilizer for their goddamn roses."

He looked at the glowing city in the clouds—shimmering, beautiful, and sickening.

"Well," he grinned, showing a chipped tooth. "It's time to show those bastards what happens when the dirt starts moving

The silence that followed the scream in Sector 4 was worse than the noise itself. It was that heavy, suffocating quiet that happens when everyone else realizes they aren't the one being beaten—and they're too terrified to breathe in case they're next.

Han-wool felt a phantom itch behind his ear. A twitch.

"Kid," Gwak warned, his voice dropping an octave. "Keep your eyes on the scrap. Don't do something that'll get us both turned into mulch."

Han-wool didn't answer. He just watched a drop of oil slide down the rusted pipe in his hand. Cr-ack. Another whip strike. This time, the scream didn't follow. Just the wet thud of a body hitting the mud.

"They're bored," Han-wool muttered, his jaw muscles jumping. "The Overseers are just fucking bored. It's sport to them."

Suddenly, the sky didn't just glow; it screamed.

A high-pitched, metallic screech ripped through the smog. Up above, one of the luxury transport pods—the sleek, white-and-gold "Swallows" that the Nobles used—was trailing thick, black smoke. It veered wildly, clipping the edge of a soot-covered chimney before spiraling toward the dead-zone behind the scrap heaps.

BOOM.

The impact shook the ground, sending a shockwave that rattled the teeth in Han-wool's head.

"Holy shit," Gwak gasped, dropping his damp cigarette. "That... that's a Sky-Pod. If the Scav-Guild sees that, they'll swarm it in seconds."

Han-wool was already moving. He didn't run like a hero; he ran like a rat—low to the ground, weaving through the shadows of the rusted shipping containers.

"Han-wool! You crazy bastard, come back!" Gwak hissed, but his knees were too shot to give chase.

Han-wool reached the crash site in under three minutes. The air here was thick with the smell of ozone and expensive perfume—a scent so out of place in the Slums it made his stomach turn. The Swallow was smashed open like a cracked egg. Blood, bright and terrifyingly red, was smeared across the white hull.

Inside, a man in silk robes was slumped over the controls, his neck bent at an angle that shouldn't exist. But it wasn't the body that caught Han-wool's eye.

It was the silver cylinder rolling out of the man's limp hand.

It pulsed. A rhythmic, violet light that felt like a heartbeat. A High-Density Mana Core. This single piece of tech could power a Slum sector for a year—or buy a ticket to the Sky-City and a lifetime of safety.

"Found you, you beautiful little prick," Han-wool whispered, reaching out.

"Don't... touch it..." a weak voice croaked.

Han-wool froze. From the wreckage of the passenger seat, a girl dragged herself out. Her face was covered in dust, but her eyes—piercing, golden eyes—were wide with terror. She wasn't an Overseer. She was a Noble. One of the "Gods" from above.

Han-wool looked at her, then at the pulsing Core, then back at the girl. He tightened his grip on his iron pipe.

"Listen here, Princess," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "In the Slums, finders keepers isn't just a saying. It's the only law we got. So you can either shut the fuck up and let me take this, or I can make sure you never say another word to anyone."

The girl didn't beg. She didn't cry. She just stared at him with a hollow, haunted look. "They're coming for it," she whispered. "And if they find you with it... they won't just kill you. They'll erase your entire bloodline."

Han-wool let out a jagged, humorless laugh.

"Joke's on them," he said, snatching the Core. The heat of it burned through his bandages. "I'm the last one left. There's nothing left to erase."

In the distance, the sirens of the Enforcer squads began to wail—a high, predatory sound that meant the hunt had begun.