Leveling From Hell

The air in that room was always suffocating. The small window, covered in thick dust, barely allowed sunlight to enter, and the cold of the stone floor bit deeper than any prison cell.

Arzael awoke there, his dim red eyes staring at the dull ceiling. His head still felt heavy, his body weak, and his stomach roared with emptiness. Only a thin piece of cloth separated him from the hard floor that seemed to drain away every ounce of warmth from his body.

"…strange… it feels like I've had a very long dream…" he muttered hoarsely.

He tried to get up, supporting his frail, scarred body with trembling arms. His legs shook, knees nearly buckling under the weight of his own body. But he forced himself to stand.

His stomach growled violently. The pain made him bite his lower lip until the metallic taste of blood spread across his tongue. He glanced toward the rotten wooden door, then staggered toward it.

When the door creaked open, the empire's long corridor swallowed him whole. Red banners adorned the walls, each bearing the imperial crest, but to him they felt more like blood-soaked cloth glaring at him with hatred.

Servants passing by immediately stepped away, their faces stiff, eyes filled with disgust. Even the guards on duty lowered their gazes—not out of respect, but because they didn't want their sight tainted by his presence.

Arzael lowered his head. He had grown used to such looks. But still, each step that moved away from him, each sharp whisper that pierced his ears, tore his heart a little more.

Yet he remained silent and kept walking, letting the world shift away from his path, until at last he arrived at the massive doors of the kitchen.

The imperial kitchen was always bustling. The aroma of food, clattering pans, voices of servants calling back and forth. But when the frail child stepped in, all chatter died instantly. Knives froze against cutting boards. Pans fell silent. And a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on him at once.

The air turned cold.

Arzael scanned the room, searching for the face he longed for. "I wonder… where's Aunt Neria…" he whispered, almost inaudible.

"Why are you here?!" A sharp voice from one of the servants shattered the silence. "Guards! Drag him out at once!"

Arzael flinched, his body tensing. "N-no… I'm just looking for Aunt Neria…" he said, his voice trembling.

Two guards rushed in. Their rough hands gripped his thin arms, dragging him mercilessly.

"I didn't steal anything… I only wanted to find Aunt Neria!" Arzael cried, his eyes welling with tears.

"Liar!" one of the guards spat on the floor. "Cursed child, you're probably trying to steal food again! Filthy trash!"

His small body was hurled outside, crashing onto the stone floor. Pain shot from his back to his chest, forcing a harsh cough from his lips.

Another guard sneered at him cruelly. "You know that old maid, Neria? She's being punished now. All because of you."

Arzael froze, eyes wide. "…Punished? Why…? What did she do wrong?"

"Idiot!!" A kick slammed into his stomach, folding his body in half. "She's punished for daring to feed you! You really are a curse, sucking the life out of others!!"

The boy writhed on the ground, clutching his stomach, his breath ragged. But his eyes, though filled with tears, still searched… still hoping to find the one person who showed him kindness.

'Aunt… Neria…'

After minutes of staggering steps, he reached the imperial courtyard. Noble children played there, laughing, chasing a silk ball. But their laughter died instantly when they noticed him.

Their little eyes widened, their faces twisting into masks of disgust and fear.

"Stay away from him!" shouted a blond-haired boy. "They say if he touches you, your skin will burn!"

"Really?! That's terrifying!" another child gasped.

"Look at his eyes! Red like a demon!"

Arzael froze, his body stiff. His heart ached, but he tried to speak gently. "I don't want to bother you… I just want to find Aunt Neria."

But his words only fueled more mockery.

"That old maid? They say she was punished because of a cursed brat like you!"

"Just leave, demon!"

A stone flew, striking his forehead. Blood trickled down his face.

"Agh…" His hand instinctively covered the wound. But more stones followed, and cruel laughter echoed, cutting deeper than the physical pain.

Arzael bowed his head and ran off, tears mixing with blood on his small face. He returned to his room, shut the door, and sat against the wall.

A broken whisper slipped from his lips, scattered by sobs.

"…I never asked to be born like this…"

His red eyes stared blankly at the floor. His body trembled, hunger gnawing at him. And at last, exhaustion consumed him—he fell asleep there, blood still drying on his forehead.

…

Evening came. The door creaked open softly. An old woman entered, carrying a tray with a piece of stale bread and a bowl of thin porridge. Her eyes were weary, her wrinkled face etched with sorrow, yet her gaze brimmed with tenderness.

She noticed the wound on Arzael's forehead, and her heart ached. Gently, she cleaned it and wrapped it with a strip of cloth.

"Poor child…" she whispered.

She placed the food beside him and left quietly.

Not long after, Arzael stirred awake. His head was heavy, but when his hand touched the bandage on his forehead, his eyes widened. He turned, and saw the food beside him.

"…Aunt Neria?" he murmured.

Tears welled up. A faint smile appeared on his face for the first time. He devoured the food hungrily, each bite a blessing that kept him from breaking.

The next morning.

Arzael woke earlier than usual. Though his stomach still hurt, a small flame of spirit burned inside him. "I didn't get to see Aunt Neria yesterday… I have to find her."

He stepped outside, his eyes searching desperately, refusing to give up. And finally, in the courtyard, he saw her.

"Aunt Neria!!"

His small body ran forward, cutting through the cold gazes around him. He threw his arms around the old woman's legs, burying his face in her worn, simple skirt.

"Auntie… I looked for you all day yesterday… where were you?" His voice trembled, full of longing.

The old woman froze for a moment, then gently caressed his head with loving hands. Her smile was soft, though her eyes shimmered with tears. "I'm sorry, dear… yesterday I wasn't feeling well."

Arzael smiled, his eyes shining. For a moment, the world felt lighter.

But the happiness didn't last.

A boy with neatly kept white hair entered the courtyard, followed by a group of noble children. Arrogance etched his expression. He was Aelric Agareth—Arzael's half-brother.

His gaze immediately locked onto the scene Arzael clinging to an old servant woman, in front of everyone. A cruel grin spread across his face.

"Look, everyone…" his voice rang out, loud enough to echo across the courtyard. "That old servant… she's lower than a dog. No wonder she takes care of the cursed child."

The other noble children burst into laughter, mocking, repeating the insult.

"Filthy!"

"Dog!"

"Cursed child!"

Arzael froze, his body stiff. His hands still clung to Aunt Neria's skirt, but his heart felt shattered into pieces.

Neria tried to calm them. "Aelric, don't speak like that…"

But the boy's sharp gaze turned on her. "Silence, wretched servant. Do you think you have the right to defy imperial blood?"

The courtyard erupted in laughter. No one moved to stop it.

Seeing that, Arzael clenched his fists and stepped toward Aelric.

'Damn you…'