No man is truly equal; we are all born into a world of inherent inequality. People often tell me that hard work is the key to achieving anything in life, but such claims are nothing more than comforting lies fools tell themselves. This unfair world does not reward effort alone—it favors the gifted, not just those born into privilege or high social status but also those endowed with unequal genetic advantages. Talent, intelligence, and physical capabilities are not evenly distributed, making success an uphill battle for some while others climb with ease.

  For some, these disparities are an abstract reality—a truth they can acknowledge but never truly feel. For others, like me, they’re a lived experience, etched into every corner of existence. There was only one entity I could blame for the mess that was my life: God. The same God who let my father abandon us, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions and broken promises. The same God who gave me a stepfather who stuck around for reasons that never felt right. The God who allowed my mother to run off with my sister, leaving me stranded in a house steeped in bitterness and regret.

  While my stepfather’s occasional violence—letting his friends use me as their punching bag for "stress relief"—should have broken me, it didn’t. That wasn’t what gnawed at me the most. What truly crushed me was the realization that I had no future.

  I was 20, and I had nothing to my name—no education to speak of, no friends to lean on, no girlfriend to share my burdens with, and no sense of purpose to pull me forward. Each day was a relentless grind, working a dead-end job that drained what little life I had left in me. The paycheck barely kept me afloat, leaving no room for hope or ambition. There was no dream to chase, no goal to strive for, only the suffocating monotony of an existence that felt more like a sentence than a life. I was utterly alone, trapped in a void of despair, with no end in sight.

  That night, as the weight of the world pressed harder against my shoulders, I sat alone in my barren room. The air was heavy, the silence suffocating, and the rope hanging above the chair seemed to call to me. It was freedom, I told myself—freedom from the pain, the guilt, the endless fight against a world that didn’t care.

  I stood, my movements slow and deliberate, and stepped onto the chair. My hands trembled as I tied the rope around my neck, my breath shaky but calm.

  I stared at the empty walls, the stillness of the room matching the emptiness in my heart. There was no anger left, no fear—just a bitter resignation.

  Then I kicked the chair.

  The world jerked violently.

  “Hhrrrgh—!”

  Pain. White-hot pain. The rope bit into my throat, crushing, searing. My body thrashed involuntarily, clawing at the air, at the noose, at anything to stop the agony. I couldn’t breathe. It hurt. It hurt so much.

  I wanted—

  Present

  What... What was all this? The gods wanted to use me now? After all this time? After abandoning me again and again, leaving me to fend for myself when I needed them the most? And Nyarava—what was her game? She had a plan for me, sure, but why did she choose me—out of everyone—and why now? Where was she when I cried out for help, when there was no one, when everything was crumbling around me? Why now, when I’ve already learned how to survive without their so-called divine mercy? Why do they care now?

  The man claimed we were brought here by chance, but that was a lie. I could feel it in my bones. It doesn’t add up. If some people never receive these “gifts,” as he said, then this wasn’t random. We were handpicked. Selected. But for what? Some divine agenda? A war we never asked to be part of? It made me sick to think of it, like we were just pieces on a board, moved by forces who didn’t care if we lived or died, so long as we served their purpose

  And me? They thought I’d just play along? After everything I’ve endured? My life has been nothing but regret, loss, and endless struggle—fighting for scraps in a world that seemed determined to break me at every turn. There was no one to save me. No helping hand, no gods, no one. I’ve clawed my way through every moment, bleeding and battered, only to be abandoned time and again. And now they think they can swoop in, make me their pawn, and force me to clean up their messes? Fulfill their selfish, petty schemes?

  I wasn’t about to forgive them for their silence, for the years of suffering when their so-called gifts were nowhere to be found. If they wanted to use me, they’d learn the hard way that I wasn’t theirs to control. I’d take their power, sure. I’d let them think I was their obedient little tool. But in the end? I’d make them regret ever choosing me.

  They had abandoned me. And now, I’d make them pay for it. I’d use them for my gain—and mine alone.

  My gaze locked onto the screen, unblinking, as a sharp heat prickled behind my eyes. My lips pressed into a thin, taut line, and my nails bit into my palms, leaving faint crescents. Each breath I took came shallow and slow, as if holding back something about to break loose.

  “You… you can’t be serious!” I shouted, my voice shaking with anger as I glared at Jacquin. My left hand scratched at my head furiously, the other thrust out in a gesture of frustration, as though trying to physically push the idea away.

  “This isn’t real... THIS HAS TO BE A JOKE!” my voice cracked as he took a step back, his face twisted with disbelief. “Something like this—this isn’t happening!”

  A sharp, nauseating churn twisted in my stomach. The sensation was unbearable, as if my insides were tying themselves into knots. I felt the bile rising, my throat tightening, and every breath tasted sour. My whole body tensed, and for a moment, I thought I might vomit right there on the marble floor.

  I couldn’t help but feel a surge of disgust. This so-called god wanted to use me now? Where were they before, when I truly needed help? Why now, of all times? The timing felt like a cruel joke, an insult more than a blessing.

  The room fell into an uneasy silence.

  “This is real,” Jacquin said finally, his voice steady and unshaken. His calm demeanor only made the tension worse. “Everything I’ve told you is real—this world, your presence here. I’ve met others like you before, other outworlders. It’s not uncommon for someone to have a… panic attack when the truth hits.”

  “You’re a fucking liar!” I spat, my hand dropping to my side, clenched into a trembling fist.

  The rest of us watched in stunned silence, frozen in place. No one dared to move or speak. Lucian shifted uncomfortably, his gaze fixated on bel in an almost pleading manner, as though willing him to stop with sheer force of will. His eyes bore into Bel, silently urging him to back down, but Bel wouldn’t meet his stare. Instead, Bel’s gaze remained locked elsewhere, unyielding and defiant, leaving Lucian’s silent attempts at intervention futile. With a quiet sigh of frustration, Lucian’s eyes fell to the floor, his discomfort and helplessness palpable.

  Jacquin tilted his head slightly, a faint, almost condescending smile tugging at his lips. “Oh? And what exactly did I lie about?” he asked, his tone calm but laced with challenge.

  “This whole thing!” my voice grew louder, desperation bleeding into my words. “Do you think I’m stupid? That we were just picked randomly to come here? You obviously know why we’re here—don’t you?”

  “Stop shouting, boy. This is an office, and I am an officer. Treat me with respect, ,” Jacquin’s voice was cold, authoritative, his eyes narrowing on Beliah like a hawk sizing up its prey.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  My lips curled into a bitter smile. “...Or else what? You gonna kill me? Come on, then. Do it,” I spat, his voice hollow, his mind a blank void. The words tumbled out without thought, a desperate attempt to push back against the suffocating tension.

  Jacquin exhaled deeply, the sound deliberate and composed as he reached for a pair of black leather gloves resting on the table. The faint creak of the leather broke the oppressive silence as he slipped them on with methodical precision, his movements unhurried and cold.

  “This wasn’t supposed to be my job,” he began, his voice calm but edged with an unsettling chill. “Normally, the inspectors would have greeted you, explained things, and made this easier for everyone. But… due to certain circumstances, they called for me in their absence.” His gaze never wavered from Beliah, sharp and calculating, as he adjusted the gloves with a detached ease. “You see, the inspectors have another responsibility—beyond the niceties. Their duty is to root out weeds. Parasites that leech off what we’ve built.”

  Jacquin stepped forward, the weight of his words pressing down on the room. His eyes locked onto Beliah with unnerving clarity, his voice dropping to a near whisper that cut through the air like a blade. “And you, boy, are a weed.”

  The room froze. A suffocating silence gripped the air, thick and heavy with tension.

  Jacquin straightened to his full height, his imposing frame casting a shadow that seemed to stretch across the room. Each step he took toward Beliah felt excruciatingly slow, his boots landing with the finality of an executioner’s march. Beliah stood frozen, unable to move, his legs rooted to the ground as if chained by fear. His mind screamed at him to run, but his body refused to obey.

  “We don’t let just anyone into our country,” Jacquin continued, his voice icy and resolute, each word delivered with a deliberate precision that made them cut deeper. “We root out the dangerous ones. The ones who don’t belong. And you…” He leaned in slightly, his piercing gaze boring into Beliah, stripping him bare. “Your eyes tell me everything I need to know. You’re a weed. A threat. I take no joy in this, but my duty is to protect my people. Surely, you can understand that.”

  His gaze flicked briefly to the others, who stood frozen, their faces pale with shock.

  “Please, stop!” Sophia cried, her voice breaking the silence, trembling with desperation.

  Jacquin turned his head toward her with an almost gentle expression, a calmness that belied the cruelty in his actions. “Don’t worry, dear,” he said, his voice soft yet unyielding. “This will be quick. You’ll thank me when it’s over.”

  He closed the final gap between me, his hand extending with eerie precision, fingers curling around my throat like a steel vice. The grip was immediate, cutting off my air. My vision blurred as the pressure mounted, my body instinctively struggling against the unrelenting force.

  His hand gripped my throat and lifted me effortlessly, like a rag doll. I didn’t fight back. My hands instinctively went to his wrist, but it wasn’t to stop him—it was because of the pain. My chest burned, my lungs screamed, and saliva dripped from my lips as I struggled to draw even the faintest breath.

  “...May the gods forgive you ,” Jacquin muttered coldly, his voice distant, as though this was nothing more than routine for him.

  “... …”

  My vision blurred, the edges of the world darkening with every second.

  Ah, how ironic—to be dying like this. I hate it. I hate all of this. Every moment, every breath, it’s all been so exhausting. Trying to stand, trying to push forward, only for the world to shove me back down over and over again. What’s the point of it all?

  Maybe this is for the best. Maybe it was always meant to end like this. The gods… they never cared. Not once. They only pick their favorites, twisting the rest of us into pawns for their games. And me? I was never one of the chosen. Maybe this is the mercy they couldn’t give me.

  But I always wanted --

  My fist clenched, tighter than ever before, driven by a force I couldn’t explain. Before I could think, my arm shot up. My knuckles struck Jacquin’s cheek with a sharp crack, the sound reverberating through the room. He hadn’t expected it—not from me.

  Jacquin staggered back, his grip loosening. I fell to the ground, gasping and coughing, my throat burning with each ragged breath. My heart pounded, and I didn’t know if it was from fear, anger, or… something else.

  Even as I knelt there, clutching my neck and gasping for air, I couldn’t understand why I’d done it—why I’d struck him. I thought I wanted to die. I was ready for it to end, for everything to stop. So why had my body moved?

  Was it instinct? Some primal need to survive? Or something deeper I couldn’t grasp? My mind replayed the moment—the crushing grip on my throat, the suffocating finality, and then my fist, striking without thought.

  I didn’t know what scared me more—Jacquin’s cold fury or the realization that some part of me, buried deep inside, still wasn’t ready to let go.

  “...Screw them,” I rasped, my voice hoarse but steady. I didn’t care if I was talking about the gods, Jacquin, or the whole damn world. Maybe all of them. It didn’t matter.

  “I was going to give you a quick death,” he said, his voice cold and laced with menace, “but you just had to do that.”

  "Strangling me to death doesn’t exactly count as quick," I remarked, my voice edged with defiance.

  Before I could react, he rushed forward in a blur, his movements as swift as they were precise, like when he dealt with the skinny boy earlier. His fist was raised, aimed directly at my face, and I braced myself for the impact that never came.

  In an instant, I was no longer in his path. My vision shifted, and I found myself staring at his side.

  “Boss, that’s a bit much, even for you,” a voice said casually, the tone lighthearted and carefree.

  I turned my head to see a man standing beside me. He wore a grey uniform that stood in stark contrast to Jacquin’s all-black attire. Slightly older than me, his curly hair framed a face with a neatly trimmed beard, and his entire demeanor exuded an effortless charm, as though the tension in the room didn’t even register to him. Unlike Jacquin, whose uniform bore the insignia of an eagle, his displayed the symbol of a dragon, its intricate design coiled with a sense of power and mystery.

  “How about we forgive and forget, yeah?” the man added, smiling faintly.

  Jacquin’s anger didn’t falter. His narrowed eyes turned toward the newcomer. “What do you think you’re doing, Niru?”

  His hand suddenly held a pen, as if it had materialized out of thin air where I had been standing, and Jacquin caught it with effortless precision.

  Niru raised his arms in mock confusion, glancing between me and Jacquin. “Helping a kid. What does it look like?”

  “That kid is an enemy of this kingdom ,” Jacquin growled, his tone dripping with disdain.

  “For talking back to you? Come on, Boss, if that’s the standard, my head would’ve been on a platter years ago,” Niru quipped, his grin widening.

  Jacquin took a step forward, his fists still clenched. “Do you really want to do this, Niru?”

  “Not particularly,” Niru said with a shrug, unfazed. “Actually, I came to tell you the commander looking for you. So, your call—do you want to keep trying to kill this kid, or do you want to deal with the commander for keeping him waiting?”

  Jacquin froze, the weight of Niru’s words settling over the room. For a moment, the tension was suffocating.

  "Are you serious, Captain? If you’re lying, this would be a blatant violation," Jacquin said, his voice sharp and accusing, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized Niru.

  Niru didn’t respond. Instead, he shrugged nonchalantly, the corners of his mouth quivering upward in a faint, careless smirk.

  “…Fine,” Jacquin muttered, his voice tight with restraint. He turned toward the door, his movements slow and deliberate, his composure unbroken.

  As he reached the doorway, Jacquin halted, his hand resting on the frame. “Leave them here. None of them are to leave this room without my inspection,” he commanded, his voice cold and firm. He turned his head slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto Niru. “And remember, Captain—regardless of whose unit you’re in, I am still the Vice Commander. Show some respect.”

  With that, Jacquin opened the door and walked out, shutting it behind him with a soft but decisive click.

  Niru let out a soft whistle, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Of course, sir,” he replied, his tone light and teasing, but just shy of outright mockery.

  Niru turned his gaze to Bel, his expression a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Damn, kid, you’ve got guts—standing up to the Vice Commander like that? Not many walk away from something like that in one piece.” With a casual grin, he reached out and ruffled Bel’s hair.

  “...Uh,” I muttered, my tone awkward but sincere. Strangely, I didn’t mind the gesture—some small, buried part of me even found it comforting. Still, determined to keep up a strong front, I lightly swatted Niru’s hand away, my expression guarded.

  I wasn’t used to receiving complaints, and when I did, they always stuck with me. There was a time when my entire purpose seemed to revolve around trying to earn even the smallest acknowledgement from my stepdad, even if it was a complaint. But no matter how hard I tried, he never did.

  Niru chuckled, unfazed, and straightened up. “Well, I guess it’s time for me to figure out what comes next.”

  He turned to the group with an easygoing grin. “Alright, everyone—looks like you’re under new management now.”