Chapter 150 – Cinder’s First Kill
The streets of Rotroot were a maze of decay and desperation — a festering wound beneath the city's polished surface. The air was thick with the stench of rot, smoke, and forgotten dreams. Here, in the underbelly, merchants hawked contraband, rogues whispered deals in shadowed alleys, and the desperate clawed at any chance of survival.
Cinder stumbled through the narrow lanes, breath ragged, eyes darting. His small frame was no match for the brutal slavers who stalked him like wolves scenting prey. They had recognized the value of a child like him — raw potential, no ties, perfect for the Flesh Tribunal's auction block.
"Don't run, boy," snarled the tallest slaver, his hooked blade gleaming wickedly. "You'll fetch a high price. The Flesh Tribunal pays well for fresh flesh. Especially those with... unusual talent."
Cinder's heart pounded. His hands trembled, but his face was a mask of calm. Years of hardship had carved a hollow space inside him — fear no longer ruled here.
The slavers closed in, their footsteps echoing in the confined alleys. There was no place to run.
The first blow came swift — a crude strike meant to incapacitate. But something snapped inside Cinder.
The blade hung in the air, halted not by fear, but by raw instinct.
He reacted with cold precision, twisting beneath the slaver's strike. His small hands found a weak spot under the arm, fingers digging in hard, crushing ribs with a sickening crack.
The slaver's eyes widened, the breath escaping in a painful hiss.
Cinder didn't hesitate. With a ferocity born from years of silence and suffering, he grabbed a jagged shard of rusted metal from the ground — a discarded relic from some forgotten ruin — and plunged it deep into the slaver's throat.
Blood spattered, dark and thick, staining Cinder's hands, face, and clothes.