Rise Of The Monster Slayer

Aren drove his shovel into the wet earth, mud splashing up his legs. Rain soaked his tunic, but he didn't pause. His boots felt heavy with mud, blisters throbbing on his hands. The storm turned the slum paths into rivers.

The grave was almost finished.

A silent, tired crowd watched. At the grave, a woman clutched a shawl and wept over the plain coffin.

Her son was inside. He was only eight. Slum fever took him, as it had many this winter.

Aren gripped the shovel tighter. He ignored the blisters and kept digging.

People here couldn’t afford burials. The Holy Church of Lumina charged high fees for blessings. Many poor were left in alleys or sent to the incinerators beyond the city.

Aren hated this with a raw, aching fury.

Everyone deserved a name and a grave, even if the world ignored them.

At last, he hit rock and climbed out, wiping rain from his forehead with a muddy arm.

“It’s ready,” he spoke quietly, his voice husky from the cold.

The grieving mother bowed her head. “Thank you, Aren. The God bless you.”

He shook his head, looking down at his muddy hands. "You don’t have to thank me, Elara. Just take care of yourself."

Two men lowered the coffin. Rain beat the wood. Aren waited, then filled the grave.

An hour later, the crowd left. The hilltop cemetery was quiet again.

Wooden markers covered the hill. Far too many graves.

Aren leaned on his shovel, staring at the city beyond—white walls and golden spires glowing through rain. A place of wealth and safety.

But only for those born inside. For people like Aren—an orphan with nothing—it was another world.

“You’re going to dig yourself into an early grave one of these days.”

A voice pulled Aren from his thoughts. Rowan, with messy hair and a crooked grin, came up the hill with a burlap sack.

Rowan was Aren’s closest friend, another orphan surviving by scavenging the scrapyards. He was 17, same age as Aren.

“What are you doing here?” Aren asked, offering a tired half-smile.

Rowan snorted, dropping the sack into the mud with a wet thud. “I could ask you the same thing. You spent all day burying people again, didn’t you? For free, I’m guessing.”

“Someone has to do it, Rowan.”

"You’re impossible," Rowan sighed. "When will you think about yourself? You can barely feed yourself, let alone everyone else."

Aren shrugged, turning back to look at the glowing city walls. “When the world gives me a reason to be selfish.”

“The world isn’t going to hand you anything, Aren. It’s just going to take.”

“Maybe.”

Before Rowan could lecture him further, a small, energetic figure came sprinting up the muddy hill, her oversized boots splashing through the puddles.

“Big Brother Aren!”

Aren’s tired expression instantly softened into a genuine smile. “Lily.”

A little girl, about ten, hugged Aren’s legs. Her clothes were scraps, but her eyes shone with joy. She was like a sister to him.

She stepped back, hiding her hands behind her back with a mischievous grin. “Guess what I have?”

“Mud on your face?” Aren teased.

“No!” Lily giggled. “Well, yes, but look!” She revealed a small, slightly squashed half-loaf of bread. “I traded some tin scraps for it!”

Rowan blinked in surprise. “That’s actual bakery bread. Where did you find a merchant willing to trade for tin?”

"I have my ways," Lily said, breaking the bread and holding out half. "Here."

Aren frowned, gently pushing her hand back. “No, Lily. You eat it. You’re still growing.”

She crossed her arms and set her face in a stubborn pout. "You’ve been digging in the rain all day. You need it more than me. If you don’t take it, I’ll throw it in the mud."

Aren sighed. Once Lily decided, she never changed her mind. He took the bread; it was stale but tasted wonderful.

The three sat under a broken stone awning, looking over the slums—crooked shacks, rusted metal, smoke mixing with rain.

Lily chewed her bread thoughtfully, kicking her feet back and forth. “Big Brother Aren?”

“Hm?”

“When you become a Monster Slayer, will you leave us behind?”

Aren stopped chewing. Rowan immediately burst out laughing, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Become a Monster Slayer?” Rowan wheezed. “You still haven’t given up on that foolish dream?”

“It’s not foolish,” Aren said defensively, though he felt a flush of embarrassment heat his neck.

Rowan shook his head. "Aren, be realistic. Hunters have magic and noble blood. They fight monsters. You dig graves."

“Thanks for the encouragement,” Aren muttered.

“I’m just trying to keep you alive. Dreaming gets people from the slums killed.”

Lily glared at Rowan. “Big Brother Aren can do it. He’s braver than any knight.” Rowan’s words stung. Doubt twisted in Aren—was it foolish to dream, with nothing but a shovel? Memories haunted him: that winter night at his mother’s grave, powerless. He’d sworn never to stand by again. Still, doubt gnawed: could someone like him ever stand among the elites?

Suddenly, a harsh, booming voice echoed from the bottom of the hill, shattering the peaceful moment.

“Listen up, you slum rats! Tax collection!”

Aren’s blood ran cold. He shot to his feet, shovel slipping from his grip and falling to the mud with a dull thud.

Down in the street, the District Enforcer, massive and armed, kicked over a merchant’s cart.

Guards in Holy Church armor ringed him.

“The new Lunar Tax is due!” the Enforcer bellowed, his magically amplified voice ringing through the rain.

“Twenty silver coins per household! Payable by the end of the week! Anyone who defaults will have their property seized and be sent to the northern labor camps!”

Panic broke out in the streets below. Women screamed, and men shouted in outrage.

“Twenty silver?!” Rowan gasped, his face turning pale. “That’s impossible! We barely even see a single silver coin in a quarter! They’re just trying to purge the outer ring!”

Aren looked at Lily. If they couldn’t pay, she’d go to the labor camps—alone. She was ten. The thought hollowed him. Dreams meant nothing if he couldn’t keep her safe.

Then, the heavy, resounding toll of a massive bell echoed across the entire city.

BONG!.

BONG!.

BONG!.

The slum fell deathly silent. Everyone turned their eyes toward the inner walls. The Enforcer paused, his cruel smile fading.

A rider in polished silver armor galloped through the outer gates, carrying a massive banner depicting a crossed sword and a beast’s skull.

The emblem of the Vanguard Hunter Guild was impossible to mistake. Feared by monsters and commoners alike, the guild’s name inspired awe, but also unease—everyone in the slums knew that wherever the guild rode, danger, opportunity, and bloodshed always followed.

The rider halted in the center of the slum square, unrolling a magically glowing scroll. His voice thundered across the district.

“By order of the Vanguard Hunter Guild! An expedition will depart beyond the western walls at tomorrow’s dawn to clear the outer Wasteland! Due to expected heavy casualties, temporary recruits are being drafted from the outer districts!”

The crowd murmured nervously. A draft meant they were looking for meat shields.

The rider continued. “All able-bodied men may apply. Hazard pay for signing the contract is issued upfront.”

The rider paused, letting the words hang in the air.

“Twenty silver coins.”

Aren’s eyes widened. His heart pounded.

Twenty silver. The exact amount of the new slum tax.

“No,” Rowan said, seeing the look in Aren’s eyes.

He grabbed Aren’s arm. “No, Aren. You know what that is. It’s a suicide mission! They use the unranked as bait for the monsters. You won’t come back!”

Aren looked at the Enforcer, who was already smiling hungrily at the terrified slum dwellers. Then he looked down at Lily, who was trembling in the cold.

His dream and harsh reality crashed together in one desperate moment.

Aren gently pulled his arm out of Rowan’s grip. He reached down and picked up his heavy, mud-stained shovel.

“Take Lily home, Rowan,” Aren said, his voice hard. He turned his back on the graveyard and walked down the hill toward the silver-armored rider.

“I’m buying our lives.”