The hot wind blew as the sun peaked in the sky. Underneath a tall, oak tree, a boy of four years was crouching, watching golden weaver ants march from the soil to the tree trunk.

  The boy’s skin was pale like a candle on his dirty-white shirt, his ruby-red eyes like dying stars on his face. Curious, he reached out his hand, poking one of the thumb-sized gold-like ants.

  Alarmed, the ant climbed his index finger, crawling onto his palm. Feeling the tickling sensation, the boy flipped his hand—when the ant bit his skin, its abdomen raised as it sprayed formic acid.

  The boy bit his lower lip. The bite wasn’t too painful, but it still hurt.

  “Why do you bite me? I’m not food,” he said, raising his hand closer to his face.

  The ant glared at him, waving its thorax unyieldingly. To it, the boy was a threat—a predator that could destroy its colony.

  “ZETHIR!”

  Suddenly, a hysteric voice called out. Turning around, the boy, Zethir, found his mother rushing toward him, a wooden ladle in hand.

  “Where have you been, you child?!” His mother scolded, grabbing his arm and dragging him off. “Don't play with bugs,” she said, swatting the ant on his palm.

  “Why are you here?” Zethir asked, his gem-like eyes gazing up at his mother's dull-red ones.

  His mother's brows furrowed, her eyes turning fierce as she pinched his shoulder.

  “You child, watch your tone, la!” She tutted in frustration. “Your father's home, he's looking for you. Who knows, maybe the bastard wants to sell you for money.”

  Blinking in confusion, Zethir tilted his head. “I have a father?”

  He asked. In his four years of life, he never once saw the man who should’ve raised him.

  “Otherwise? Did you think I fucked a tree and you came out from a fruit?” His mother scoffed, before gnashing her teeth. “That bastard comes home once every five years, so obviously you haven't seen him before!”

  As she said so, the mother-son duo reached the doorsteps of a wooden, dilapidated house. When his mother opened the door, Zethir saw a man sitting on a chair like a sack of potatoes, a bottle of beer in hand.

  “Witch! Ye’ back,” he said, earning a scowl from his mother.

  “Billian, call me that again and I'll turn you into a woman!” She screamed, but the man just placed the bottle of beer in his mouth, taking a long sip.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  His mother clicked her tongue, dragging him inside the house.

  “‘s zat my son?” His father asked, motioning with his chin to Zethir.

  “Damn right,” saying that, she yanked Zethir's hand, throwing him toward the man.

  “If you're gon’ take him, just get it over with. I'm damn hungry and the pot won't stir itself!” His mother glared at his father, before storming into the kitchen. Not long after, the clattering of pans and pots could be heard.

  Meanwhile, Zethir stood in front of his father.

  The man had deathly pale skin, just like him and his mother, as well as oily black hair, but his eyes were brown. Not only that, his cheeks were sunken like a starving man, and dark circles gathered below his eyes.

  “What’s yer name?” The man asked, taking another sip from the bottle. However, he later frowned, peering inside his drink.

  The beer had run out.

  “I'm—” Zethir tried to answer. But then, his father raised the glass bottle and threw it at his head.

  “Giv’ me ‘nother beer!” He yelled.

  Zethir stumbled back, his head spinning. Seeing him like that, his father raised his feet sluggishly, giving him a push.

  “...it hurts,” he mumbled, tears forming in the corner of his eyes. Reaching for his forehead, he felt warmth in his fingers.

  Looking at his hand, blood coated his skin like viscous glue.

  “Well?! Are ye gonna get it or not?!” His father screamed, struggling to stand up.

  Zethir lowered his head, trying to steady his vision. “O-okay.”

  Like a drunkard, he walked toward the kitchen. He didn't know where to get beer, but surely, his mother did, right?

  However, just as he entered the kitchen, he failed to grab the wall and support himself. Tripping on his own foot, he fell to the floor, hitting his head again as more blood gushed out.

  “Yih?! What're you doing?! Get out! Get out!” His mother shrieked, running to kick his body out of the kitchen.

  “Fuck off! I'm cooking!”

  After yelling so, she closed the door leading to the kitchen, leaving her son's unconscious body on the ground.

  At the same time, Zethir’s father waited for his son, only to fall asleep without getting his second bottle of beer.

  {=|=}{=|=}{=|=}

  The house was cleaned today, with no dust to be found. The furniture was tidied up, and both Zethir and his father dressed neatly. His father sat on a sofa, while Zethir was standing beside him.

  “Hmm,” sitting on another sofa in front of them, a man scrutinized Zethir’s thin body. Seeing the bandages on Zethir’s head, he couldn’t help but frown.

  He was wearing a white suit, and a red silk cape adorned his back.

  “Four years old, but he looks like a skeleton. He has no aptitude for magic either, and I doubt he can do any labor,” he said, shaking his head and leaning back on the sofa.

  Just as he did, the bandages on Zethir’s head bloomed with red. His wounds opened up, but neither man said anything. Nor did they care.

  “You want to sell me this? I told you I need something to marry my daughter, she’s getting old,” the man sneered at Billian.

  Billian rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to speak. Though the words coming out of his mouth were slurred, like snakes twisted to knots.

  “A’ least he's warm,” he said.

  “Billian,” the man frowned. “My daughter's twenty-four. She wants a child, and I want a grandchild. How in the world do you expect that thing to give us that?”

  “... Y' can wait a few years?” Billian, asked, acting confused.

  The other man laughed, unable to believe the man before him. “Look, go sober up or talk to the mirror. Ask which gear of your brain failed to turn.”

  Billian’s brows nearly touched, his lips downturned. “Goryo… You're in my house, remember.”

  Goryo’s eyes narrowed, his dark-orange eyes gleaming in amusement.

  “And what? You'll fuck me up?” Goryo sneered. “Listen here, drunken boy. I don't care how much beer or drug you inhale, but keep your delusion in check. Wouldn't wanna fuck up one day, eh?”

  Billian stood up, veins appearing on his jaw as he clenched his teeth. Goryo remained seated, resting his chin on the back of his hand.

  “Sit down,” Goryo ordered, but Billian clenched his fists. Then, before he could react, Billian sent him a punch to the face!

  “Fuck—” Goryo growled, standing up only to feel a punch to his throat.

  “Billian, you don't know who you're fucking with!” Goryo coughed, but Billian's ears were full of wasps, his fists thirsty.

  Zethir watched, unblinking, as his father pummelled the other man helpless. Until Goryo took out a pocket knife and shoved it into Billian’s throat—who stumbled back, eyes rolling back and body going limp.

  “Fuck me,” Goryo wiped off the blood on his now crooked nose. Then, his eyes went to Zethir's body

  “You his son, right?!” He yelled, stomping toward Zethir.

  Zethir didn't flinch—even as the man's fist filled his vision and sent him flying to the wall.

  “That'll teach ya, ptui—” He spat on Zethir's face. Seeing that the boy had no reaction, he frowned, raising his foot…

  “Tsk. Don’t worry, I’ll tell another trader to pick you up.”

  In the end, he only kicked the ground before leaving.

  A while later, Zethir stood up, his world silent and still. Subconsciously or not, he stumbled toward his father, standing over his dead body like a living statue.

  That was the scene his mother walked into when she returned home.