Twilight faded into evening.
Ray sat atop a pile of scrap metal.
Discarded furniture. Broken electronics.
Useless junk. Rusted metal.
A small hill where all manner of discarded things clung together in a tangled embrace.
Its height offered a sweeping view of the surrounding landscape.
Scrap heaps rose in every direction.
This was the dump on the outskirts of Sector 50.
Ahead stretched an endless, desolate wasteland.
Behind lay a city of crumbling concrete buildings—the only home Ray had ever known.
Sector 50, now fully consumed by slums.
He lowered his gaze.
Below, boys in grimy, tattered clothes wandered the scrap heaps with tongs and sacks.
Like Ray, they were street orphans surviving by scavenging.
But unlike him, they moved in pairs or trios.
Each group formed its own gang.
A necessity here.
Take or be taken.
Kill or be killed.
A merciless law of the jungle.
In Sector 50, survival demanded unity.
Rattle— A flashlight rolled down the slope with a thud!
It skidded to a stop at a group of boys' feet.
They looked up at Ray.
Eyes locked momentarily.
“…….”
“…….”
After weighing Ray's indifference, the boys snatched the flashlight and ran.
Ray showed no reaction.
He merely thought:
That thing’s worthless anyway.
His eyes tracked their movement toward the dump's central clearing.
Arriving breathless, the boys offered their prize to a figure in the clearing’s heart.
Not a person—a creature of jagged stone.
Two meters tall, with limbs like rough-hewn rock and a metallic silver-gray sheen.
Creak— Creak—
Sector 50’s adults called it the Golem.
None knew its origin, master, or purpose.
It had dwelled here since forgotten times.
But one truth endured:
The Golem collected specific scraps from the dump.
Offer it the right item, and it rewarded you with food—canned goods, biscuits, even precious chocolate.
“Here! Take it! Take it now!”
The boys brandished the flashlight before the stone creature.
Their shouts carried clearly to Ray.
Whirr—
Red light pulsed from the Golem’s hollow eyes.
It studied the flashlight, then turned away with earth-shaking steps.
The boys chased it, waving their offering in vain.
Another group arrived with different junk, only to meet the same rejection.
“Dammit! Why won’t it work?!”
“Let’s smash that rock bastard!”
“Don’t! They say it slaughtered people who attacked it!”
The Golem’s whims defied patterns.
Today’s treasure might be tomorrow’s trash.
Yet the slim chance of reward kept the scavengers trying.
Ray climbed down from his perch.
Clank. Clank. Thud!
His descent was steady, stair-like, never slipping.
He scanned the area, collected pre-marked items, then approached the clearing.
“Here.”
Ray extended his bag toward the Golem.
Crimson light bathed the contents.
Creak—
The Golem upended the bag into its maw.
Clunk! Plop!
Scraps vanished into its stony body.
The creature shuddered, mouth clamping shut—then opened again, offering food from within.
3 cans of food. 2 packs of biscuits.
1 loaf of bread. 1 chocolate bar.
If rationed carefully, this was enough to last one person at least three days.
The other boys watching the scene gaped in astonishment.
"Hey, check that out."
"How does he get that much every day...?"
Muttered whispers rose from all directions.
"...What if we try it this way?"
"Stop talking nonsense. That's Ray, the Ghost of 17th Street."
Ray paid no attention, long accustomed to such reactions.
Silently packing the provisions into his bag, he turned toward the dump's exit.
"......"
It didn’t take long to sense pursuers closing in.
Two behind the left pile.
Two behind the right.
Three more trailing stealthily from the rear.
Seven in total.
No small number.
Their intentions were transparent.
Ray glanced at the bag slung over his shoulder.
He halted at a spot ideal for confrontation and turned to face them.
"Come out. How long do you plan to follow me?"
No response.
Only when he mimed crushing the bread under his foot did rustling movements finally betray them.
"Sharp senses. We were being careful too."
Seven opponents emerged as expected.
Clubs, brass knuckles, and crude weapons glinted in their hands.
"Ron." Ray’s voice cut through the tension. "I warned you last time. Show your face again, and I’ll ensure you never walk on two legs."
The largest boy in the group—flame-haired Ron—flinched when their eyes met.
But emboldened by their numbers, he snarled,
"Ancient history. I barely remember."
His words slurred through missing front teeth—shattered by Ray in their last fight.
"Twenty-three days ago. Not so ancient if you’re counting."
"That’s not the point!" Ron’s rage bubbled over.
Everything about Ray grated on him:
The unreadable face.
Those piercing, emotionless eyes.
Even his controlled breaths and subtle movements.
But none of it mattered now.
Soon, Ray would be writhing in the dirt, begging for mercy.
Last time: three. This time: seven.
He’d handpicked six of their gang’s best fighters.
Ray—the Ghost of 17th Street—
A nickname earned through silent movements and expressionless demeanor.
Renowned for his skill, yes, but no match for seven.
While Ray’s frame was average for his age, Ron’s crew rivaled grown men in size.
We’ll crush him.
Ron’s smirk bloomed unchecked.
Time to reclaim dominance over 17th Street.
"Make this easy," he barked. "Drop the bag and scram. I’ll let you leave in one piece."
A lie.
Whether Ray surrendered the food or not, Ron intended to break him.
"Liar."
Ron twitched. The street kids’ fear of Ray stemmed from more than just fists.
"It’s a lie."
Deception failed against Ray.
Never meet the Ghost’s gaze—he’ll see through your lies.
A legend proven true through multiple incidents.
"Arrogant punk...!" Ron hissed through clenched teeth.
Ray had somehow exposed his hollow promise—no matter.
"Kill him! Tear him apart!"
He drove his fist deep into the opponent's stomach.
As the thug collapsed with a wet thud, a straight punch came flying toward him.
"Die!"
He pivoted sharply on his left foot, twisting his body to the right.
Whoosh!
The punch grazed past his face.
With full force, he slammed his right elbow onto the opponent's outstretched arm.
Crunch!
"Gaaah!"
He kicked the stumbling opponent, sending him reeling backward.
The man collided with another approaching thug, both crashing to the ground in a tangled heap.
The fight had been utterly one-sided.
The junkyard echoed with the smack of flesh against flesh and the snap of breaking bones.
Exactly five minutes later, every boy except Ron lay moaning and writhing on the ground.
Ron gaped in disbelief.
"Numbers don't make a difference."
Ron couldn't process what he'd just witnessed.
Had Ray been holding back his true strength all this time?
"St-stay back! D-don't come closer!"
"I warned you. Show your face again, and I'll break both your legs."
Ray closed the distance with measured steps.
Ron's lips quivered as he scrambled backward, shoes scraping against gravel.
Clang!
His back hit something metallic.
A rusted heap of scrap metal blocked his retreat.
Ron fumbled out a switchblade, the blade snapping open with a click.
"F-fuck off! Stay back, you freak!"
Ray paused.
His gaze fixed on the trembling knife.
"A monster, you say?"
The reflection showed a face warped and bleached like weathered stone.
Perhaps the label wasn't entirely wrong.
Maybe he wasn't so different from the hulking golems guarding the city gates.
Ray first noticed his difference at age ten.
"Why aren't you crying?"
"That's a deep cut from your fall. Doesn't it hurt?"
He knew pain.
Saw the blood oozing down his shin.
But why should that necessitate tears?
"Kael got beaten up by 7th Street gang."
"...Aren't you angry?"
Why get angry?
What even was anger?
Sniffle "Bello's dead... What do we do now?"
"Not a single tear from you."
That's when it crystallized.
The thing others called "emotions" – he felt none of them.
"You're creepy."
People drifted away until only silence remained.
He stared at his calloused palms.
Am I broken?
He tried mimicking others.
Strained to feel something.
Sometimes, a faint stirring pulsed in his chest –
—a moth fluttering behind bone.
But was this emotion?
He had no baseline for comparison.
Years crawled by.
One.
Two.
Three.
Six winters passed.
His efforts yielded nothing.
Perhaps this numbness was better.
An asset in the slums.
No fear in brawls.
No hesitation when knives flashed.
No need to interpret subtle social cues.
He'd developed a better method anyway.
"Stay back, you monster!"
Ray focused on constricting his pupils.
The world shifted.
Crimson as arterial spray.
Cobalt like midnight oceans.
Golden as spring forsythia.
Countless hues shimmered around him –
—a living oil painting swimming with mana.
The building blocks of magic.
The fabric of reality.
Not that Ray cared about academic definitions.
He simply used the energy to read hearts.
Ron's chest pulsed with murky umber light.
Every person carried an invisible chalice there.
Emotions dyed its contents:
Ruby for rage and passion.
Sapphire for scorn and apathy.
Topaz for joy and anticipation.
The rules rarely bent.
"A blade? We don't break that rule lightly."
Ray's voice stayed flat. "Planned to stab me from the start?"
"I-I found it! In the scrap pile!"
Lie.
The muddy mana swirling in Ron's chest vessel betrayed him.
Clang.
"D-don't! I'll kill you!"
Ray advanced, ignoring the shaking knife.
His eyes remained locked on Ron's sternum.
The umber glow darkened to pitch black.
Fear.
Pure, primal fear.
Ray's lips curved without warmth.
"Liars reap what they sow."
#001. The Boy on the Scrap Pile (1)
Twilight faded into evening.
Ray sat atop a pile of scrap metal.
Discarded furniture. Broken electronics.
Useless junk. Rusted metal.
A small hill where all manner of discarded things clung together in a tangled embrace.
Its height offered a sweeping view of the surrounding landscape.
Scrap heaps rose in every direction.
This was the dump on the outskirts of Sector 50.
Ahead stretched an endless, desolate wasteland.
Behind lay a city of crumbling concrete buildings—the only home Ray had ever known.
Sector 50, now fully consumed by slums.
He lowered his gaze.
Below, boys in grimy, tattered clothes wandered the scrap heaps with tongs and sacks.
Like Ray, they were street orphans surviving by scavenging.
But unlike him, they moved in pairs or trios.
Each group formed its own gang.
A necessity here.
Take or be taken.
Kill or be killed.
A merciless law of the jungle.
In Sector 50, survival demanded unity.
Rattle— A flashlight rolled down the slope with a thud!
It skidded to a stop at a group of boys' feet.
They looked up at Ray.
Eyes locked momentarily.
“…….”
“…….”
After weighing Ray's indifference, the boys snatched the flashlight and ran.
Ray showed no reaction.
He merely thought:
That thing’s worthless anyway.
His eyes tracked their movement toward the dump's central clearing.
Arriving breathless, the boys offered their prize to a figure in the clearing’s heart.
Not a person—a creature of jagged stone.
Two meters tall, with limbs like rough-hewn rock and a metallic silver-gray sheen.
Creak— Creak—
Sector 50’s adults called it the Golem.
None knew its origin, master, or purpose.
It had dwelled here since forgotten times.
But one truth endured:
The Golem collected specific scraps from the dump.
Offer it the right item, and it rewarded you with food—canned goods, biscuits, even precious chocolate.
“Here! Take it! Take it now!”
The boys brandished the flashlight before the stone creature.
Their shouts carried clearly to Ray.
Whirr—
Red light pulsed from the Golem’s hollow eyes.
It studied the flashlight, then turned away with earth-shaking steps.
The boys chased it, waving their offering in vain.
Another group arrived with different junk, only to meet the same rejection.
“Dammit! Why won’t it work?!”
“Let’s smash that rock bastard!”
“Don’t! They say it slaughtered people who attacked it!”
The Golem’s whims defied patterns.
Today’s treasure might be tomorrow’s trash.
Yet the slim chance of reward kept the scavengers trying.
Ray climbed down from his perch.
Clank. Clank. Thud!
His descent was steady, stair-like, never slipping.
He scanned the area, collected pre-marked items, then approached the clearing.
“Here.”
Ray extended his bag toward the Golem.
Crimson light bathed the contents.
Creak—
The Golem upended the bag into its maw.
Clunk! Plop!
Scraps vanished into its stony body.
The creature shuddered, mouth clamping shut—then opened again, offering food from within.
3 cans of food. 2 packs of biscuits.
1 loaf of bread. 1 chocolate bar.
If rationed carefully, this was enough to last one person at least three days.
The other boys watching the scene gaped in astonishment.
"Hey, check that out."
"How does he get that much every day...?"
Muttered whispers rose from all directions.
"...What if we try it this way?"
"Stop talking nonsense. That's Ray, the Ghost of 17th Street."
Ray paid no attention, long accustomed to such reactions.
Silently packing the provisions into his bag, he turned toward the dump's exit.
"......"
It didn’t take long to sense pursuers closing in.
Two behind the left pile.
Two behind the right.
Three more trailing stealthily from the rear.
Seven in total.
No small number.
Their intentions were transparent.
Ray glanced at the bag slung over his shoulder.
He halted at a spot ideal for confrontation and turned to face them.
"Come out. How long do you plan to follow me?"
No response.
Only when he mimed crushing the bread under his foot did rustling movements finally betray them.
"Sharp senses. We were being careful too."
Seven opponents emerged as expected.
Clubs, brass knuckles, and crude weapons glinted in their hands.
"Ron." Ray’s voice cut through the tension. "I warned you last time. Show your face again, and I’ll ensure you never walk on two legs."
The largest boy in the group—flame-haired Ron—flinched when their eyes met.
But emboldened by their numbers, he snarled,
"Ancient history. I barely remember."
His words slurred through missing front teeth—shattered by Ray in their last fight.
"Twenty-three days ago. Not so ancient if you’re counting."
"That’s not the point!" Ron’s rage bubbled over.
Everything about Ray grated on him:
The unreadable face.
Those piercing, emotionless eyes.
Even his controlled breaths and subtle movements.
But none of it mattered now.
Soon, Ray would be writhing in the dirt, begging for mercy.
Last time: three. This time: seven.
He’d handpicked six of their gang’s best fighters.
Ray—the Ghost of 17th Street—
A nickname earned through silent movements and expressionless demeanor.
Renowned for his skill, yes, but no match for seven.
While Ray’s frame was average for his age, Ron’s crew rivaled grown men in size.
We’ll crush him.
Ron’s smirk bloomed unchecked.
Time to reclaim dominance over 17th Street.
"Make this easy," he barked. "Drop the bag and scram. I’ll let you leave in one piece."
A lie.
Whether Ray surrendered the food or not, Ron intended to break him.
"Liar."
Ron twitched. The street kids’ fear of Ray stemmed from more than just fists.
"It’s a lie."
Deception failed against Ray.
Never meet the Ghost’s gaze—he’ll see through your lies.
A legend proven true through multiple incidents.
"Arrogant punk...!" Ron hissed through clenched teeth.
Ray had somehow exposed his hollow promise—no matter.
"Kill him! Tear him apart!"
He drove his fist deep into the opponent's stomach.
As the thug collapsed with a wet thud, a straight punch came flying toward him.
"Die!"
He pivoted sharply on his left foot, twisting his body to the right.
Whoosh!
The punch grazed past his face.
With full force, he slammed his right elbow onto the opponent's outstretched arm.
Crunch!
"Gaaah!"
He kicked the stumbling opponent, sending him reeling backward.
The man collided with another approaching thug, both crashing to the ground in a tangled heap.
The fight had been utterly one-sided.
The junkyard echoed with the smack of flesh against flesh and the snap of breaking bones.
Exactly five minutes later, every boy except Ron lay moaning and writhing on the ground.
Ron gaped in disbelief.
"Numbers don't make a difference."
Ron couldn't process what he'd just witnessed.
Had Ray been holding back his true strength all this time?
"St-stay back! D-don't come closer!"
"I warned you. Show your face again, and I'll break both your legs."
Ray closed the distance with measured steps.
Ron's lips quivered as he scrambled backward, shoes scraping against gravel.
Clang!
His back hit something metallic.
A rusted heap of scrap metal blocked his retreat.
Ron fumbled out a switchblade, the blade snapping open with a click.
"F-fuck off! Stay back, you freak!"
Ray paused.
His gaze fixed on the trembling knife.
"A monster, you say?"
The reflection showed a face warped and bleached like weathered stone.
Perhaps the label wasn't entirely wrong.
Maybe he wasn't so different from the hulking golems guarding the city gates.
Ray first noticed his difference at age ten.
"Why aren't you crying?"
"That's a deep cut from your fall. Doesn't it hurt?"
He knew pain.
Saw the blood oozing down his shin.
But why should that necessitate tears?
"Kael got beaten up by 7th Street gang."
"...Aren't you angry?"
Why get angry?
What even was anger?
Sniffle "Bello's dead... What do we do now?"
"Not a single tear from you."
That's when it crystallized.
The thing others called "emotions" – he felt none of them.
"You're creepy."
People drifted away until only silence remained.
He stared at his calloused palms.
Am I broken?
He tried mimicking others.
Strained to feel something.
Sometimes, a faint stirring pulsed in his chest –
—a moth fluttering behind bone.
But was this emotion?
He had no baseline for comparison.
Years crawled by.
One.
Two.
Three.
Six winters passed.
His efforts yielded nothing.
Perhaps this numbness was better.
An asset in the slums.
No fear in brawls.
No hesitation when knives flashed.
No need to interpret subtle social cues.
He'd developed a better method anyway.
"Stay back, you monster!"
Ray focused on constricting his pupils.
The world shifted.
Crimson as arterial spray.
Cobalt like midnight oceans.
Golden as spring forsythia.
Countless hues shimmered around him –
—a living oil painting swimming with mana.
The building blocks of magic.
The fabric of reality.
Not that Ray cared about academic definitions.
He simply used the energy to read hearts.
Ron's chest pulsed with murky umber light.
Every person carried an invisible chalice there.
Emotions dyed its contents:
Ruby for rage and passion.
Sapphire for scorn and apathy.
Topaz for joy and anticipation.
The rules rarely bent.
"A blade? We don't break that rule lightly."
Ray's voice stayed flat. "Planned to stab me from the start?"
"I-I found it! In the scrap pile!"
Lie.
The muddy mana swirling in Ron's chest vessel betrayed him.
Clang.
"D-don't! I'll kill you!"
Ray advanced, ignoring the shaking knife.
His eyes remained locked on Ron's sternum.
The umber glow darkened to pitch black.
Fear.
Pure, primal fear.
Ray's lips curved without warmth.
"Liars reap what they sow."
