Slave of Fate

"The same question came before me again and again, carrying the same answer. Yet that answer never fit me, or perhaps, I never fit into it."

"What does it mean to adapt

How do humans adapt to the world around them? What does it truly mean to fit into their society?

From what I understand, adapting is about adjusting oneself to new circumstances, changing one's behavior or will in response to the environment. It's a form of survival, they say. But this idea doesn't sit right with me.

I've never been able to fully adapt to this world, even though I was born into it. Why, then, do I feel like a stranger in my own society?

Humans talk endlessly about emotions—joy, sorrow, anger, love—yet I've never felt those things. I've watched them. Observed their actions, their words, their behaviors, thinking perhaps one day I would feel the same, but nothing has changed. Even at nearly nine years of age, I have yet to experience the emotions they claim are so important. And oddly, it doesn't bother me.

In fact, I realized that my understanding of adaptation is far different from theirs. For me, adapting means recognizing what is useful, accepting it, and rejecting what is unnecessary. That's why I don't feel the need to adapt to their emotions. I don't need them. They are weaknesses, distractions—things that only serve to hinder my purpose.

Perhaps my refusal to accept my own inadequacies, my incapability of being like them, has shaped this mindset. But in the end, I have no interest in changing. Not for anyone. Not for anything.

Rudra stumbled through the bustling city streets, a young boy, frail and thin, no older than eight. His long, black hair covered his face, almost as if shielding him from the world. It was a mess of tangled strands, hiding the bruises and cuts that marred his pale skin. But his eyes—their deep crimson glow shone like the dying embers of a fire, gleaming with an unsettling intensity.

His stomach growled. A sharp, aching sound that echoed in his ears, louder with each passing moment. It had been days since he had last eaten. His body, thin and frail, seemed to cry out for sustenance, but Rudra ignored it. The hunger gnawed at him, but it would not break his resolve. He had endured worse, and he would endure again.

As he walked, the vibrant scents of food wafted toward him from the nearby stalls. Roasted meat, fresh bread, sweet fruits—each one a tormenting reminder of what he lacked. But even though his body screamed for food, Rudra refused to beg. Pride was a luxury, but it was a luxury he would not relinquish.

"I should've taken something from that stall earlier," he muttered under his breath, his voice low and detached, as if even speaking to himself were an inconvenience. "But looking at the state of my body… Could I even outrun that merchant? He's healthier than me."

Rudra glanced down at his worn-out clothes, the fabric torn and ragged from days of use, and his shoes—barely held together by frayed threads. A slight, fleeting regret passed through him, but it was quickly dismissed. Regret never led anywhere.

The only thing that mattered was surviving another day.

He sighed again, his breath shallow, as he glanced at the sun. It was noon, but the time felt meaningless. A meaningless number in a world that had long ago forgotten the concept of time.

At least he had some juice left from the money he had found earlier. It was not much, but it would have to suffice.

Rudra's steps slowed as he walked past the food stalls, watching the people feast as he made his way toward the city's outskirts. He passed through narrow streets that became quieter with each step, until the sounds of the crowd faded behind him. The air grew still, the clamor of the city a distant memory.

As he continued down the road, his legs began to feel heavier. His body, deprived of food and rest, began to give in. Finally, his legs gave way beneath him, the exhaustion catching up all at once. But it wasn't just fatigue that stopped him. No, something else held him in place.

Ahead, an old, weathered house stood, a small oasis amidst the chaos of the city. It was a simple structure, but something about it called to him. It was out of place here, the fresh coat of paint on its exterior standing in stark contrast to the dilapidated surroundings.

"I can't go any further," he muttered, his voice empty of emotion, as he gazed at the house. "I'll rest here. The balcony is warm today."

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a warm night. The thought of sleep, of just lying down without the constant pressure of hunger, made him pause. He moved toward the balcony, his movements slow but deliberate, and lay down among the flowers. Their fragrance was faint but comforting, offering a fleeting sense of peace.

For a moment, he allowed himself to rest, the weight of his hunger and exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

But the peace was short-lived.

A sudden chill ran down his spine. The air, which had been warm just moments ago, shifted violently. It grew colder, then warmer, then colder again. Rudra sat up with a jolt, his senses sharpened as his eyes scanned the surroundings.

Something was wrong.

In the distance, he saw a rush of people moving toward the center of the city. Their movements were frantic, filled with panic. Curious, Rudra followed. The streets were now filled with strangers, their eyes wide with fear, their voices low and hurried as they made their way to the heart of the city.

Rudra stepped forward, unnoticed in the chaos, his thin figure slipping between the crowds. He moved through the sea of people, observing the rich, the powerful, the healthy. They were all so different from him—tall, strong, healthy. Everything he lacked.

But something about the air had changed. It wasn't just the people. It was something deeper.

"I guess that's what happens when you eat full meals a day…" Rudra muttered, though his words lacked any real emotion. "But this… this air feels strange."

He stood still for a moment, trying to understand what was happening. The night had come earlier than usual, and the sky seemed unnaturally dark. So dark that even the moon's light couldn't dispel the shadows.

"Was the sky always this dark?" he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

And then it happened.

The moon, once pale and distant, grew brighter. It shone with an intensity that lit up the entire city, casting long, eerie shadows over the streets. It was almost too bright, like an unnatural light that pierced the very fabric of night.

But it wasn't just the moon. The world had shifted.

The moon's light turned red, a deep crimson that seemed to stain the very air. The people around him stopped, staring at the sky with a mixture of awe and fear. The night had grown darker, yet the moon's glow was blinding, casting an unsettling hue over everything it touched.

Rudra stared up at the sky, his eyes narrowing as the first raindrops began to fall.

At first, they seemed harmless, like any other rainstorm. But as the droplets fell, they shimmered, reflecting the moon's red light. It wasn't rain. It was blood.

The blood rain poured down, slow at first, then faster, each droplet stinging as it made contact with the skin. The air was thick with the scent of iron, the world around him silent except for the whispers of the fallen.

The people were silent now, as if they had no words left. They stood in awe, some trembling, others frozen in place.

Rudra's heart beat steadily in his chest, his crimson eyes reflecting the blood-red moon above. He did not feel fear. Nor did he feel sorrow. He merely stood there, watching the rain as it continued to fall with whispering words it the

**The coming era of blood.**