No one is born a thief in Ereko.
They are made - like blades in fire.
The streets of Obanji do not give. They take.
Your name. Your blood. Your breath.
Barumo knew this.
He had once walked in palace silk, hands wrapped in honor. Now, he roamed the shadows, cradling a child with no name, no voice - only fear. The boy's eyes, barely six rains old, held the look of someone who had already seen death.
"Hold it," Barumo whispered, guiding the boy's small fingers over the cold iron of the flint rifle.
"Like this?"
"Yes... now point it."
"At who?"
Barumo's jaw clenched. "At the world."
They were surrounded by the darkness of a broken kingdom, where power was currency and life was cheap. Barumo had one purpose now: turn this boy into something the streets would fear.
Because in Ereko, only monsters survive.
Ereko was not built for children.
Its stone walls were soaked with centuries of betrayal, and the gutters carried more than rain - they carried whispers of the forgotten. Merchants hawked broken goods, nobles passed with their noses high, and beneath their feet, the true kingdom pulsed - the undercity, the gutter realm, the shadow alleys. This was where Zaru lived.
Zaru moved like smoke between stalls, bare feet light, eyes sharper than his years. Bread. He needed bread. Old Ma's loaf sat like gold on her table, still steaming.
He waited. Watched.
She turned.
He struck.
Grabbed. Ran. Shouts behind. A dagger grazed his shoulder, but he didn't stop.
He never stopped. Not in Ereko.