The days that followed did not get better.
They never did.
After that incident, no one truly cared for Noc anymore.
No family.
No home.
Only a decision made out of convenience.
In the end, he was brought to a small church orphanage on the outskirts of the region.
Not because anyone pitied him.
Not because anyone wanted him.
But because it was easier to place a child like him somewhere than to let him die alone on the streets.
The building was old.
Cracked stone walls stood beneath a roof that leaked whenever it rained. Thin moss had grown between the gaps in the stone, and narrow windows let in only slivers of light. Even in the middle of the day, the interior remained dim, cold, and stagnant.
Inside lived children like Noc.
Unwanted.
Unneeded.
Unchosen.
They were fed.
Given beds.
Taught prayers.
But never truly seen.
An old woman who oversaw them, Sister Elma, once said in a flat voice, "You should all be grateful to God that you still have a place."
There was no warmth in her words.
No smile.
Only a statement.
A fact, as far as she was concerned.
"There are many children out there who never even make it here."
A small boy beside Noc muttered under his breath, "Grateful, she says…"
But he said no more.
There was no point.
The caretakers were not cruel.
But they were not kind either.
They simply did what was required of them.
Like everyone else in this world.
Without emotion.
Without attachment.
And there, Noc learned something new.
He was no longer beaten like before.
No longer pelted with stones.
No longer used as entertainment.
But he also meant nothing.
He became invisible.
And that was somehow worse.
Because when someone is hated, at least they are acknowledged.
But when someone is unseen, it means their existence itself no longer matters.
The days passed slowly.
Quiet.
Monotonous.
He woke early.
Cleaned the cold stone floors.
Carried water from the old well, though the rope often jammed.
Repaired fragile wooden furniture with hands too small and tired for the task.
And every time he worked, no one praised him.
No one noticed.
It was simply done.
As if that was the only reason he existed.
One day, a child asked him, "Why are you always silent?"
Noc did not answer immediately.
He kept scrubbing the floor.
A few seconds passed before he finally said, in a low voice, "If I speak… what changes?"
The child fell silent.
And after that, he never asked again.
Noc's body slowly hardened.
Not from training.
From labor.
From necessity.
From the desperate need to become stronger.
And yet, he was still weak.
Not fast enough.
Not strong enough.
Not enough of anything.
The other children began to find their own paths.
Some were adopted.
Those days always felt strange.
There were smiles.
There was hope.
But there was also something else hidden beneath them.
Jealousy.
Unspoken.
Quiet.
Painful.
One child, before leaving, said, "I'm getting out of here."
His voice was full of certainty.
Noc only watched him go.
Not envious.
Not sad.
Just observing.
And somewhere in his heart, he already knew the truth.
He probably won't come back.
Some children were taken away to work.
Adults came, spoke little, and left with them.
Some disappeared.
No explanation.
No announcement.
One night they were there.
The next, gone.
And no one asked why.
Because everyone understood that the answer might be worse than not knowing.
Noc stayed.
Like a shadow that never quite belonged to the room.
Yet one thing never truly left him.
The memory of his father.
Old stories.
Battlefields.
Honor.
The dream of becoming someone.
"A soldier…"
He repeated the word softly one night, when everyone else was asleep.
When no one was watching.
When he could pretend his voice belonged to him alone.
At the time, a child lying beside him whispered, "You're still thinking about that?"
Noc did not turn.
"Yes."
The other boy let out a soft chuckle. "You? A soldier?"
There was no mockery in his tone.
Only confusion.
Noc stayed silent for a moment, then answered in a quiet, even voice.
"…At least it's better than becoming nothing."
He stared at the ceiling.
"Even if I die… at least I tried."
The other child did not answer.
But after that, he never laughed at Noc again.
It was not a grand ambition.
Not some magnificent dream.
Only a simple desire.
To not be meaningless.
To stand.
To be counted.
To not be trampled into the dirt.
And for the first time, Noc began to try.
He lifted wood.
Practiced simple motions.
Stab.
Swing.
Repeat.
Behind the church.
When no one was watching.
But his body did not follow.
His hands trembled.
His steps faltered.
His breathing turned unstable.
And every time, he failed.
One day, the wooden stick slipped from his grasp and hit the ground.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then, very softly, he said, "...Why can't I?"
There was no answer.
There never was.
But he kept trying.
Because it was the only thing that felt even remotely like a way out.
As he grew older, he eventually left.
Not officially.
Not with permission.
He simply went away one night.
Standing before the church gate, he looked back one last time.
No one stopped him.
No one searched for him.
As if his existence had never mattered at all.
"...Fine."
He turned and walked away.
The journey that followed was nothing like he had imagined.
There was no hope.
No opportunity.
Only people like him.
Runaways.
Smugglers.
Men who did not talk much and cared even less.
They moved quickly, without waiting for anyone behind them.
One night, when they stopped in a dry forest, one of them looked at Noc for a long moment.
"...Kid."
Noc turned.
"If you die on the road," the man said, spitting to the side, "we won't bury you."
Silence.
Noc nodded once.
"...Yeah."
The man narrowed his eyes, as if expecting fear.
Pleading.
Hesitation.
But there was none.
"Hah… weird."
He snorted. "Kids like you usually cry first."
Noc did not respond.
Because to him, that was not a threat.
It was simply a fact.
Days passed.
His feet blistered.
Bled.
But he kept walking.
He learned something quickly.
If he fell, no one would pick him up.
And sure enough, one time his foot slipped and his body crashed onto the rocky ground.
Pain flared through him.
Burning.
Sharp.
But when he looked ahead, the others kept moving.
No one stopped.
No one turned back.
Noc slowly rose to his feet, drawing in a shaky breath.
"If I fall behind…"
He swallowed.
"I die."
And from that moment on, he never allowed himself to fall again.
Not because he became stronger.
But because he left himself no other choice.
When they finally reached the border of Solvenhart, there was no welcome.
No miracle.
Only a heavy gate and cold guards.
"Documents."
One of the smugglers handed something over.
The guard glanced at Noc.
"You."
His eyes were flat.
"This kid's coming too?"
"Yes."
The guard exhaled once.
"...Don't cause trouble."
Noc lowered his head and walked through.
Without realizing it, he had left one world behind only to enter another that was not much different.
Through an illegal route, with a small group of smugglers, he continued onward.
One of them looked at him strangely.
"You're still a kid."
Noc answered without hesitation, "I can walk."
The man let out a rough laugh.
"If you die on the road, don't blame us."
Noc did not reply.
Because that was never the issue.
His goal was simple.
The Kingdom of Solvenhart.
A place said to value strength.
To value soldiers.
To value those who could fight.
A place where, perhaps, he might become something.
The journey was harsh.
Dirty.
Dangerous.
Some fell ill.
Some were left behind.
Some never woke up again.
But Noc did not stop.
Because for the first time in his life, he had a purpose.
Still, reality did not change just because he hoped.
When he stood before a recruiter in Solvenhart, his body was examined, his posture judged, his movement weighed like worthless meat.
At last, the man let out a tired sigh.
"Not possible."
Simple.
Flat.
Without emotion.
Noc looked at him.
"...Why?"
"Your body is weak."
There was no hatred in the answer.
No insult.
Just fact.
"We can't use someone like you."
Silence.
It was colder than mockery.
Sharper than cruelty.
Because it was final.
In the end, he became a porter.
A carrier.
A load-bearer.
Someone who walked behind.
Always behind.
One day, a soldier tossed him a sack and said, "Carry this."
Noc barely managed to catch it.
"If you drop it," the man smirked, "don't expect us to wait."
Noc nodded.
"...Yeah."
He walked behind the soldiers.
Always behind.
Watching others fight.
Watching others be respected.
And himself be treated as nothing.
But he endured.
Because it was better than nothing.
Or at least, he wanted to believe that.
Then came the opportunity.
An expedition to the continent of Cerythralis.
Dangerous.
But open.
A man asked him, "Are you sure?"
Noc answered, "Yes."
"Do you have a reason for joining?"
He hesitated only once.
"...Because I have nowhere else to go."
That was enough.
He was accepted.
The voyage to Cerythralis was by merchant ship.
Large.
Old.
Crowded with people who did not truly want to be there.
And from the first day, Noc understood exactly where he stood.
"Oi, porter."
A sack was thrown at him hard enough to jolt his arms.
He nearly stumbled.
"Catch it properly."
Laughter followed.
Noc lowered his head.
"...Yeah."
He lifted the sack.
Silent, as always.
On the second day, he was carrying water.
His steps were slow and careful.
Someone deliberately bumped his shoulder.
The container tipped.
Water spilled across the floor.
"Look at that."
"He can't even walk properly."
More laughter.
Noc stared at the wet floor for a moment, then said quietly, "...Sorry."
"Sorry?"
The man stepped closer, mocking him.
"Can 'sorry' replace that water?"
Noc did not answer.
Because he already knew there was no right answer.
On the third day, the sea wind grew stronger.
The ship swayed.
Several passengers became sick.
Noc among them.
His body was weak.
His stomach empty.
But he kept moving.
When he paused, leaning against a wooden support, a voice cut through the air.
"Oi."
A boot struck his leg.
"Don't slack off."
Noc opened his eyes.
"...I'm still working."
"With that face?"
Laughter broke out again.
"Look at him."
"Like a walking corpse."
"Why is someone like that even here?"
"Bait, maybe?"
The laughter only grew louder.
Noc closed his eyes for a moment.
Then straightened again.
Without replying.
Without looking at them.
Because he already understood.
They did not see him as human.
At night, he sat alone in the corner of the ship.
Cold wind.
Black sea.
Silence.
And in his hand, wrapped carefully around his palm, was the red scarf his mother had made for him long ago.
He had kept it hidden for so long that the cloth had begun to feel less like fabric and more like memory.
He stared at it for a long time.
His throat tightened.
For one brief moment, the scarf was not just a scarf.
It was his mother's hands.
Her warmth.
The last ordinary kindness she had ever given him.
Noc clenched it hard enough to wrinkle the cloth.
His jaw tensed.
His shoulders shook.
And then the tears came.
Not softly.
Not cleanly.
He bent forward, gripping the scarf with both hands as though it were the only thing keeping him from breaking apart completely.
"...Why?"
His voice came out rough.
Broken.
Angry.
The wind tore at his face, but he barely felt it.
"Why did this happen?"
His fingers tightened around the red cloth until his knuckles went white.
The memory of his mother's smile came back to him all at once, and with it came something worse.
The hollow in his chest.
The rage.
The helplessness.
The fact that no prayer had answered them.
No god had come.
No mercy had arrived.
His tears fell onto the scarf.
Drop by drop.
He pressed it to his face like a child trying to return to a place that no longer existed.
"...Ma..."
The name barely left his lips.
His breathing shook.
Then, with a trembling voice full of grief and fury, he whispered, "I hate this…"
Not the scarf.
Never the scarf.
But the world that had taken her.
The world that had left him with nothing but cloth and memory.
He buried his face deeper into it.
And for that one moment, he was no longer silent.
No longer empty.
Only a child who had lost everything and had nowhere left to put his pain.
The old man sitting nearby watched him for a while, then said quietly, "You've got something you refuse to let go of."
Noc did not look up.
He only held the scarf tighter.
After a long silence, the old man added, "That means you're still human."
Noc gave no answer.
Because he did not know how to believe that.
On the last day before arrival, a soldier stood in front of him and looked him over.
"Do you know why you're here?"
Noc said nothing.
"Because people like us…"
The man smirked.
"...Need people like you."
Silence.
Noc nodded once.
"...Yeah."
Not because he agreed.
But because he had known from the start.
When the ship finally docked, nothing changed.
No miracle.
No new life.
Only a different shore.
A different name.
The same cruelty.
And Noc remained what the world had always made him.
A maggot.
Still, once again, the world gave him no grand role.
He remained a tool.
Bait.
A body pushed forward.
"Walk ahead."
"Check for traps."
"If something's there, shout."
No one told him to be careful.
No one cared whether he returned or not.
And when the creature appeared, everything became clear.
He did not run.
Not because he was brave.
Not because he had accepted his death.
But because his body was too slow to escape.
And when the fangs tore into him, he heard them laughing.
Not screaming.
Not panicking.
Laughing.
"They laughed."
The thought returned to him in an instant.
Empty.
Cold.
He should have died there.
But he did not.
He survived.
In the same way as before.
Dirty.
Low.
Without dignity.
With blood.
With mud.
With rot.
And there, at last, he understood.
"This world… is rotten."
There was no emotion in the realization.
Only fact.
"And I…"
He looked down at his own hands.
"...am not something that can live in a clean place."
He exhaled slowly.
"...I am just a maggot."
No denial.
No hatred.
Only acceptance.
"And maggots…"
His eyes narrowed.
"...live in rot."
Then, back in the present, Noc returned to his hut.
The memory still burned in him.
The scarf still felt warm in his hand even after all those years.
He lowered his head and muttered, almost to himself, "Only one thing."
"A way to survive."
"I am weak."
"That will not change."
His eyes were empty.
Cold.
"But…"
Something hardened behind them.
"...I can still live."
His fingers tightened around the red scarf.
"And if this world only respects the strong..."
He lifted his gaze.
"...then I'll make them believe I am strong."
The silence inside the hut deepened.
"If they want a monster..."
His expression turned darker.
"...I'll become that monster."
And this time, he did not hesitate.
Not anymore.