Dirt clung to Ali’s calloused hands. He scraped another handful of parched earth over the shallow grave, the coarse granules resisting, then falling. A small, tarnished locket, his mother's last possession, now lay beneath a fresh mound. His father’s rusted carving knife and a single, cracked leather-bound book followed, symbols of a life he never chose. Three meager items. The last vestiges of a past he intended to leave buried. A month ago, he’d buried his father. Today, he buried their legacy.
His breath plumed in the cool morning air, a stark contrast to the burning in his chest. No tears came. They never did. Only a cold, hollow ache where sentiment should have been. A lifetime of blows had hardened him, flayed away all tenderness. He was a jagged stone, chipped and worn, but unyielding.
Slowly, Ali straightened, his back protesting with a dull throb. Hours of digging had left him weary. But the weariness was a familiar friend, a constant companion since his earliest memories. This farm, this land, it offered nothing but toil and misery. It had claimed his father, inch by agonizing inch, just as it had slowly eaten away at Ali’s own spirit.
He scanned the horizon. Scorched fields stretched out, a testament to the latest dry season. Skeletons of crops, brittle and grey, dotted the cracked soil. Beyond, the distant, hazy outline of Idnnfojcgdigcg, a cluster of mud-brick shacks clinging to a dust-choked river. He felt no pull to it, no sense of belonging. The village had offered only disdain, pity, or outright cruelty.
This desolation had been his entire world. A world of beatings for spilled milk, of hunger pangs that gnawed sharper than any wild beast, of loneliness so profound it felt like a second skin. His father, a man broken by grief and circumstance, had known only one way to parent: through the lash and the fist. Ali had learned early that affection was a weakness, and trust, a fatal flaw.
Pushing the memories aside, Ali turned his back on the small burial mound. There was nothing left here. No reason to stay. His path lay elsewhere, far from this cursed patch of dirt. He would not become another forgotten shadow in Idnnfojcgdigcg’s oppressive gloom.
Inside the dilapidated shack, the air was thick with the scent of dust and stale smoke. The few remaining items were either broken beyond repair or too heavy to carry. Ali’s gaze swept over the single cot, the rickety table, the empty hearth. He owned nothing but the clothes on his back, a worn satchel, and the dull knife tucked into his belt.
Reaching for his satchel, he checked its contents: a meager loaf of dry bread, a small pouch of dried meat, and a waterskin, half-full. Survival rations. Enough for a few days, if he rationed carefully. He couldn't afford to be weak, not now. Not ever.
He tightened the straps of the satchel over his shoulder. The weight felt reassuring, a tangible anchor in a world of uncertainty. He had faced worse odds. He had always survived. This was just another challenge. A new beginning.
Stepping out of the shack for the last time, Ali didn't hesitate. He didn't look back at the fields, the burial mound, or the crumbling structure he’d called home. Each step was deliberate, carrying him away from the wreckage of his past. The sun, a pale disc in a sky tinged with ash, began its slow descent.
His boots crunched on the gravel path leading out of the farm. The sound was the only company he had. He walked with a steady, relentless rhythm, each stride a declaration. He was leaving. He was free. Or, at least, he was moving towards the possibility of freedom.
The village of Idnnfojcgdigcg appeared on his left, a collection of forgotten lives huddled against the encroaching wasteland. No one waved. No one called out. They wouldn't. He was Ali, the quiet orphan, the boy who endured. Invisible. Unimportant. Just the way he liked it.
Soon, the last of the shacks faded from view. The path widened, becoming a rough, winding road that stretched towards the distant mountains. Those peaks, sharp against the fading light, represented the unknown, the world beyond his small, miserable existence. He imagined the bustling city, the Adventurer's Guild, a place where strength mattered, where he could carve out a new identity.
He pictured a life where he didn't have to constantly look over his shoulder, where he didn’t have to fear the next blow. A life where he could be his own master. The thought fueled his steps, injecting a rare burst of energy into his tired limbs. He would make it. He had to.
Hours passed. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples. A chill wind picked up, rustling through the sparse, thorny bushes that lined the road. Ali pulled his thin cloak tighter around him, the fabric offering little warmth against the biting cold. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it. Discipline was paramount.
Every instinct, honed by years of deprivation, screamed at him to find shelter before nightfall. But he pushed on. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and Idnnfojcgdigcg as possible. He wanted to outrun the ghosts, the memories, the crushing weight of his past.
The world around him grew dimmer, shadows lengthening, distorting familiar shapes into monstrous silhouettes. The air grew heavy, thick with an unspoken anticipation. A prickle of unease ran down his spine. This felt different. More than just the approaching night. The very air hummed with a strange energy.
He gripped the hilt of his knife, his knuckles white. Habit. Always prepared. Always alert. It was the only way he knew how to be. A lifetime of fighting to survive had etched caution deep into his very being. Nothing was ever truly safe. Nothing was ever truly given.
Just as the last sliver of sun vanished below the horizon, plunging the world into twilight, a sound ripped through the air. Not the howl of a wolf, nor the cry of a night bird. This was deeper, more primal. A guttural roar, filled with raw power, vibrating through the very ground beneath his feet.
Ali froze. His head snapped up, eyes darting across the darkening sky. His heart slammed against his ribs. The sound came again, closer this time, accompanied by a sudden, immense pressure in the air. He tasted ozone. Then, a shadow, impossibly vast, eclipsed the setting sun – a crimson-eyed dragon, descending with terrifying speed.