- Kyle Valtier’s POV -

The ruling elite have always believed that the city of "Zirathion" is the literal embodiment of God’s heaven on earth—or at least that’s how its rulers and wealthy elites try to portray it in the holographic advertisements broadcast on every corner.

Gigantic glass skyscrapers that embrace the clouds and pierce the atmosphere, elevated streets paved with light and smart energy panels that absorb the shock of footsteps, and air that is centrally filtered even from the scent of human sweat and the stench of poverty drifting from other cities.

It is a city designed specifically to isolate the rich from the filth of the real world burning below.

But the absolute truth understood by people like me—those of us who grew up in the dark depths and drank its bitterness—is that every towering palace, no matter how high it rises, needs deep, dark sewers to drain its filth.

And despite the pure white snow covering the top of the skyscraper where my luxurious wing—the penthouse—is located, and despite the absolute luxury I bought with my stolen wealth, I had grown tired of sitting in the warm pool with invisible edges.

The absolute emptiness and excessive narcissism that float within this suite bring suffocating boredom.

I needed to walk.

I needed to see faces, hear chaotic noise, and feel the pulse of real life... even if it was miserable and pitiful.

I got dressed.

I no longer wore those worn-out rags or the cheap military uniform I used to wear in Elysium. I wore a pure black silk shirt, and over it, my long black coat made from rare "Manticore" wool—worth the budget of a small city.

I descended through the fast glass elevator, passing hundreds of illuminated floors, heading down toward the "Lower Sector" of Zirathion.

The place that tourist cameras never reach, and where elite police never set foot.

Here, the white snow doesn’t last long; the moment it touches the ground, it mixes with factory ash, cheap engine oils, and chemical waste, turning into sticky gray mud—poisonous and disgusting.

The neon signs here don’t advertise luxury perfumes or flying cars. Instead, they flicker weakly and intermittently above cheap bars reeking of low-quality alcohol, unlicensed surgical clinics selling human organs, and worn-out wooden and metal stalls selling everything—from processed meat of questionable origin to stolen electronics and weapons.

I walked calmly, my hand in my coat pocket. My custom-made Italian leather shoes stepped over the gray mud without anything sticking to them, thanks to a thin insulating layer of Aitra coating my feet.

I enjoyed the mixed smells hitting my nose: cheap spicy spices, exhaust from old generators, and the scent of sweat from laboring humans fighting for a dinner meal.

This is the real world... 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

I thought with a faint smile—a cold, mocking smile hidden beneath my coat collar.

Elysium is burning in the background because of me, and the Samian investigators are grinding their heads in the rubble searching for a single thread that leads to me, while I’m here... shopping and strolling like a king on vacation.

My gaze swept over the passersby.

Exhausted workers with pale faces, drunk mercenaries staggering and cursing, and petty thieves watching me from dark corners.

But... no one dared approach me.

The act of "Recruit Kyle"—weak and cowardly—was over.

I despise those movements deeply—I hate hiding my strength and bending my back like a slave.

I no longer conceal my aura.

I allowed a very small fraction of my pure "killing intent" and the dark aetheric pressure of the Black Joker to leak into the cold air around me.

The result was magical.

Every thief or highway robber who even thought of stealing from me froze in place the moment I approached.

Their eyes widened with animalistic terror, their bodies trembling,

and they stepped back, opening a wide path for me—as if death itself was walking on two feet.

I was completely at ease, immersed in a feeling of absolute superiority and total control over my surroundings.

And suddenly...

Amid the dense crowd, beside a narrow dark alley emitting the smell of rust and urine... my enhanced physical senses caught something unaffected by my aura.

Something extremely light, barely perceptible, slipped like the shadow of a snake toward the inner pocket of my coat.

It wasn’t killing intent—it was a bold, shameless "intent to steal," lacking any respect for danger.

As a professional killer and the Black Joker, my reaction didn’t require thought.

My instinct moved before my mind.

Faster than the blink of an eye, and without even bothering to turn around, I pulled my left hand from my pocket and clamped my fingers down brutally—like steel pincers—around the wrist that dared reach toward me. I squeezed with enough force to crush bone.

"AAAAAAAH!"

A sharp, torn scream filled with pure pain immediately cut through the noise of the market.

"Have you grown tired of keeping your fingers, you—"

I began my sentence, ready to break the wrist of a professional thief and twist his arm around his neck to crush his will to live.

But I stopped.

The words died in my throat.

The force I was applying vanished instantly, and I loosened my grip slightly when I realized the size of the wrist I was holding.

It was thin—extremely frail—barely thicker than a dry, dead branch.

I slowly lowered my gaze.

It wasn’t an adult professional thief.

It wasn’t a street criminal from the lower gangs of Zirathion.

It was... a child.

A small girl, tiny in size, no more than eight years old at best.

She was wearing an oversized winter coat, far too big for her, with torn sleeves and covered in stains of old grease and dried mud.

She writhed beneath me.

Her small knees nearly collapsed into the gray sludge from the pain I had caused her wrist.

Tears pooled in her eyes like floods, and she trembled like a soaked bird under a snowstorm—terrified to death of my grip and the aura she had just sensed.

But what made me freeze for a moment wasn’t her age, nor her scream...

It was her appearance—and what she did after that scream.