Auren couldn't sleep that night.
He tossed. Turned. Eyes fixed on the peeling ceiling of his cramped room. The silence was loud, crawling under his skin. Again and again, the scene replayed—the fists, the pain, the humiliation.
But by dawn, he'd made a decision.
He was going to Namsu.
Not to run away, but to rebuild himself. To rise. Make friends. Make something of this broken life.
When he stepped out of his room, a note lay pinned on the kitchen counter—his mother's delicate handwriting barely legible through the smudged ink.
"Train leaves at 2 PM. Go make a new life, son. The key to Grandpa's house is in the drawer."
She'd quit her job for this. Sold what little they had. All for him. That knowledge weighed heavy in his chest—but it also lit a fire.
He rushed to the bathroom, washed the night off his skin, and stepped out, a towel still around his shoulders—only to hear a sudden knock at the door.
Cautiously, he opened it.
His blood ran cold.
Standing there was him—the same brute who had beaten him the day before. Thick-necked, cruel-eyed, breathing like a predator. Before Auren could react, the man lunged forward, grabbing him by the hair and yanking him outside. His towel slipped. Panic surged.
"W-what d-do you want?" Auren stammered, heart pounding.
No answer ?
The man dragged him into a shadowed alley beside the house. Then came the belt. Again. And again. The world blurred into pain, his screams swallowed by the early morning silence. He curled up, powerless.
Then came the final blow—not with fists, but with humiliation.
The man took out his phone and recorded Auren, nearly naked, bruised, trembling. And without a hint of shame, he sent it. To everyone.
Then he left. Just like that.
Auren stayed there for a long time. Numb. Staring at the dust dancing in the sunrays. His breath was shallow. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks.
He clenched his fists.
That moment—that moment—was the death of the old Auren.
He would burn this pain into fuel. He wouldn't just go to Namsu. He'd conquer it.
With trembling steps, he walked back inside. He washed his wounds. Dressed. Then, carefully, he packed his bruises beneath layers of clothes. He looked at himself in the mirror. Still the same… but no. Something had shifted in his eyes. A storm brewed in the silence of his stare.
Hours later, his mother returned with a small bundle of fresh clothes.
"They're not much," she said, forcing a smile. "But I want you to wear them when you arrive in Namsu. Look new. Feel new."
Auren couldn't hold back anymore. He hugged her tight, burying his face in her shoulder.
"I'll make you proud," he whispered, his voice cracking.
Then, without looking back, he stepped out. Bag slung across his back. Shoulders straight.
By the time he boarded the train, the sun had begun its slow descent. The city outside the window blurred into streaks of gold and gray. He sat alone, eyes locked on the horizon.
Inside him, a fire burned.
Not just for revenge. Not just to escape.
But to rise so high, that no one—no one—could ever drag him down again.
And somewhere, deep within the fabric of reality, a gate shimmered faintly.
Waiting
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