The snow kept falling.
The ground was unrecognizable as a road, covered instead by a slippery layer of ice. Snow, trampled by people and vehicles, had melted and refrozen several times, resulting in a messy surface where white ice mixed with dirty water. Patches of slush, puddles, and uneven terrain made it treacherously easy to slip.
This was the Northern 9th District, a rarely visited area within the Verdant Veil.
Abandoned buildings lined the streets—temporary housing left from the mining boom. Already fragile when constructed, these structures had deteriorated over the past decade due to neglect and rain erosion, leaving them in ruins.
“Woof, woof—”
A filthy stray dog rummaged through a trash bin in the snowy street, pawing for anything edible. But it was evident that the surrounding area offered little sustenance. The only nearby establishment, a small, lifeless tavern, had long since seen its trash picked clean by rats, feral cats, and scavenger birds.
Occasionally, a large truck rumbled through the streets, headlights cutting through the harsh weather, breaking the stillness with noise and motion.
Thud…
The stray dog knocked over the trash bin, which rolled a few times before coming to a stop.
Frightened by the sound, the emaciated dog—its ribs visible and one leg lame—hobbled away in leaps.
In the dim, snowy afternoon, silence returned once more.
Twenty minutes later, a boy dressed in tattered clothing emerged from the distant haze of the snowstorm.
He walked slowly, pausing to rest now and then, seemingly conserving every ounce of strength. His dirty face was hidden beneath a hat, making it hard to discern his features.
As he drew closer, his ragged clothes came into view—an assortment of mismatched, worn-out winter garments layered haphazardly to protect his frail body.
Stopping by the overturned trash bin, the boy crouched and rummaged through it. Like those before him, he found nothing useful.
He straightened, glancing around before finally spotting the faintly lit, relatively intact tavern nestled amidst the ruins.
Standing at a distance, he studied the tavern for a long time before slowly approaching. Stopping a short distance away, he circled partway around it, carefully observing.
Eventually, he committed the tavern’s location to memory and, conserving his energy, left the same way he had come, disappearing into the snowstorm.
To most, this might have seemed like a chance encounter, but two days later, the boy returned to the tavern’s vicinity—this time with a companion.
Both children were young, likely under ten years old, dressed in similarly mismatched, ragged clothing. From the shadows of the snowstorm, they cautiously watched the tavern, which glowed faintly with light and exuded a trace of warmth.
They had no intention of entering the tavern, merely observing from afar. Taking turns to rest, they waited until dusk, when a plump woman emerged, carrying bags of trash, which she deposited in a bin some distance from the tavern.
After the woman left, one boy woke the other, and together they approached the bin, tearing open the newly discarded bags to search for food.
Amid the rotting garbage, they found leftovers, half-moldy vegetables, and fruits. Carefully selecting the usable scraps, they packed them into a relatively clean bag and left.
This routine repeated over the following days as they gradually learned the tavern’s trash disposal schedule. Timing their visits ensured a better chance of finding food—six out of ten times, they succeeded. Staying nearby all day was unnecessary, as it drained their limited energy. Moreover, the children had other similar “locations” to patrol.
To them, every source of food was precious.
But life was not always so cooperative.
“Grrr—woof—” A snarling stray dog growled at the two boys as they approached the trash bin. Its filthy, matted fur was tangled, with bald patches revealing oozing, yellowed wounds.
Baring yellowed teeth, the dog emitted a stench of decay, white vapor puffing from its mouth in the frigid night.
The boys, holding wooden sticks, cautiously approached the trash bin. One threw a stone in an attempt to scare the dog away.
After sizing up the boys and noting their advantage in numbers, the dog retreated begrudgingly, yielding the bin.
The boys resumed their search, gathering what they could. But before they could leave, a chorus of barks drew near.
The first dog had returned, this time with reinforcements—five dogs in total, of varying breeds and colors: yellow, white, black, and gray. All shared the same traits—filthy and emaciated.
Emboldened by their numbers, the dogs attacked. The boys fought back, swinging their sticks and managing to fend off one or two, but the others quickly lunged.
One dog latched onto a pant leg, another bit at a wrist, and a third tried to circle behind to go for the throat. The boys noticed in time to prevent the attack, but panic set in.
Pain radiated from their legs as teeth tore through their thin clothing. Desperately, they swung their sticks, landing only a few solid hits amidst frantic, wild strikes.
As one boy managed to shake off the dogs clinging to him, the largest dog lunged, pinning the other boy to the snowy ground.
Standing on his chest, its foul, hot breath reeked of decay as its yellowed teeth aimed for his throat.
Fortunately, the boy on the ground anticipated the attack, raising his arm to shield his neck. The dog’s teeth sank into his palm, puncturing flesh and striking bone, sending waves of pain that nearly caused him to faint.
The other boy, having shaken off the surrounding dogs, rushed to his companion’s aid, striking the large dog repeatedly with his stick. But the blows had little effect. Tasting blood, the dog grew more ferocious, biting the boy’s jaw and tearing through flesh.
In desperation, the standing boy remembered something. Dropping his stick, he pulled a small knife from his coat and stabbed the dog.
“Yelp!” The dog howled in pain and leaped away, finally freeing the boy beneath it.
Both boys, now gasping for air, grabbed their sticks and knife, facing off against the pack once more. Both sides were injured, and the fight turned into a tense standoff, each wary of the other.
Time slowly passed, and the hands exposed to the cold air gradually lost sensation, while the blood-soaked palms continued to unsettle the two boys.
Despite this, they didn’t run away. Running in the snow consumed significant energy, and falling would provide their pursuers a dangerous opportunity.
The stray dogs kept barking, and eventually, their noise attracted someone from the tavern.
A grown man, cursing under his breath, came over. Seeing the five wild dogs circling around, he shouted loudly, scaring off these hesitant creatures. These starving stray dogs, with limited strength, were only formidable against children. Against an adult, they didn’t stand a chance.
When the man saw the two boys who had been cornered, he frowned and muttered a few more curses, telling them to leave quickly.
Supporting his injured companion, the two boys slowly disappeared into the snowstorm.
Without proper medical care and not knowing if they had contracted rabies, coupled with significant blood loss, their future didn’t look promising.
…
“If it weren’t for me holding you up that day, you would’ve died in the snow,” said Grid years later when he brought up the incident with Valk.
Valk thought for a moment. “I remember it was you who got bitten by the dog, and I was the one who helped you back.”
“You’re mistaken. You’re the one who got bitten. If you don’t believe me, check your palm; the scar should still be there,” Grid replied.
Sure enough, there was a scar on Valk’s palm. In fact, his entire body bore scars, and at times, he couldn’t even remember how he had gotten them.
“Alright,” Valk conceded. Grid was always quick with his words, and Valk often struggled to argue back.
The days of scavenging on the streets, fighting stray dogs and rats for food, felt like a distant memory. They now lived in a small church, taken in by a kind-hearted priest. The church also served as an orphanage, housing many children with similar experiences.
Among the children, many had congenital defects or suffered mental and emotional issues due to their traumatic pasts. Compared to them, Grid and Valk were relatively well-off.
Another winter arrived, and the two sat with the other children in the church hall. Although the large space wasn’t well-heated, it was far better than the outdoors, where frostbite came easily.
About ten children sat on either side of the long table, waiting quietly. The clock on the wall ticked away, approaching 7 PM, when Berys hurriedly returned.
“Hey, good evening,” he greeted, carrying a large bundle as he entered the hall, waving to the children.
“Good evening, Father Berys!” the children responded cheerfully. Even the more reserved ones followed their companions’ lead and greeted him.
“Good, good. Hello, children. Here’s today’s food,” he said with a smile, placing the bundle on the table and opening it. Inside were cheap, freshly bought loaves of bread. Though the taste was mediocre, there was plenty to go around.
Sitting in the warm room, the children grabbed the bread and ate hungrily, while Father Berys watched from the side. His gaze carried a mix of joy and disdain, a complicated expression.
Time passed, and the once-young children grew up. Some remained as reserved as they had been, while others became rebellious or complacent, content to rely on the food the priest provided each day.
Father Berys observed these changes and adjusted his approach.
For the reserved children, he simply checked in occasionally. For the rebellious ones, he attempted discipline but would ultimately ignore them if they didn’t listen. As for the complacent ones, he gave them small tasks to complete. The more intelligent and obedient children, however, received his patient guidance and occasional treats.
Though this seemed reasonable, the children quickly noticed the disparity in his treatment. Some began flattering Father Berys, while others would cry and complain about being bullied or hungry, hoping to gain his favor or leniency.
At first, Father Berys didn’t notice these little schemes, but over time, he became aware of them. From then on, he grew colder and more openly partial.
To the well-behaved and intelligent children, he showed daily care. For those he disliked, he simply provided food and ignored their complaints.
To some children, Father Berys was a kind and patient figure worthy of respect. To others, he was strict and indifferent. Still, others saw him as a hypocrite seeking fame through rescuing children.
If three different children described Father Berys, it might seem like they were talking about three different people. Yet all their accounts were true, describing the same man.
At fifteen, Grid returned from playing outside, hungry, and began rummaging through the church cabinets for food. Father Berys happened to walk into the kitchen and saw him.
“Looking for something?” the priest asked coldly.
“Yes,” Grid replied, sensing something was wrong and stopping his search.
“There’s nothing here,” the priest said, glancing at the empty countertop before leaving.
Moments later, Father Berys returned with a bag of breadcrumbs, which he tossed toward Grid. The bag fell to the dirty floor before Grid could catch it.
“Take it and eat,” the priest said with a glance before turning to leave.
Grid slowly picked up the crumbs, but a deep discomfort lingered in his heart.
If the priest had treated everyone this way, it might have been easier to accept. But that wasn’t the case.
Another child, a girl who often praised Father Berys and followed him around, always received his warm smiles. He bought her better, tastier food, exempted her from chores, and even taught her transcendent knowledge, hoping she would eventually gain special abilities.
Once, a sponsor invited Father Berys for drinks, and Grid secretly followed, hoping to snag some good food.
It was there that he overheard Father Berys’s true thoughts.
“Sigh, saving these kids might seem noble to others, but some of them are just… revolting. I tried to suppress that feeling, but I realized there’s a reason why some of them were abandoned,” he said, slurring slightly from the alcohol.
“Like sewer rats—stupid, deceitful, sneaky, lazy. Who would want kids like that?”
“If it weren’t for a few good ones among them, I wouldn’t have stayed this long.”
“Last month, I prepared some things for a winter festival cake, and the next day, they were gone. Later, I found one of them sneaking around the kitchen. I wanted to grab a stick and beat him.”
“But I can’t. Doing that would ruin my reputation.”
“Even stray dogs are better than some of these kids.”
“Hahaha, come on, Father Berys. We understand your struggles. Think about it—ten years ago, who were the people sneaking into this town to mine illegally? Petty thieves, robbers, thugs. Naturally, their offspring wouldn’t be much better.”
“But, you know, in the Federation, there are always those ‘kind souls.’ They live comfortably and indulge their endless compassion. To get them to spend money, we need to put on a show, right?”
“Come on, drink up. Let’s film the church and surrounding area tomorrow with some emotional music. This will work.”
“As for those worthless brats, just give them enough to survive. They’re like stray dogs—some don’t even qualify as ‘human.’ Why waste more time on them?”
“Hahaha…”
The laughter echoed in the tavern, while Grid slowly walked away.
Outside, snow was still falling. The world was a gray expanse of white and silence.
Walking through the icy streets, Grid’s footsteps crunched against the frozen ground. He looked at the dirt and slush frozen into the snow, his hands and feet cold.
It reminded him of long ago, wandering through the freezing night like a filthy stray dog.
Wasn’t being alive enough? Shouldn’t survival be a kind of happiness? But for some reason, he didn’t feel the joy he once had.