"The Solarian Edge: Blade of the Astral Realm"

The rain on the battlefield was a cold, indifferent curtain, washing away the blood of the fallen. But the blood in his memories—that was a stain that would never fade. It tasted of ash and iron, a constant reminder of the life he'd been forced to endure.

"Since my father died of lack of medicine..." The words echoed in his mind, a hollow, bitter chant. He could still see the gauntness of his father's face, the sunken eyes that held no hope. "They knew he would die. They just didn't care."

He remembered the day he'd gone to the mansion, the grand stone edifice that stood as a testament to their cruelty. He'd knelt in the mud, his hands outstretched, begging for medicine, for anything. The laughter that had greeted him was like a physical blow, a sound that ripped through his soul. Then came the kicks, the blows that rained down on him, the taste of blood filling his mouth. He'd curled into a ball, trying to protect himself, but there was no escape. The swelling in his face was a constant, throbbing ache, a badge of their contempt.

"It still taunts me."

Even after that, a flicker of desperate hope had remained. Perhaps, if he was useful, if he was docile, they would leave him be. He'd scrubbed floors until his hands were raw, cleaned the stables until the stench of manure clung to his skin. He'd kept his head down, avoided eye contact, tried to become invisible.

But there was no escaping their gaze. He was a slave, a thing, and they would not let him forget it. The other servants, those who had been broken and twisted by the system, found their own sense of power in his misery. They'd shove him aside, laugh as he stumbled, whisper insults as he passed. He'd learned to eat scraps in secret, hiding in the shadows, hoping to find a moment of peace, a morsel of sustenance.

One day, he'd found a discarded bun, half-crushed but still edible. He'd snatched it up, eager to stave off the gnawing hunger. He'd retreated to a dark corner, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

Then, the supervisor found him. A hulking man with a face like weathered stone and eyes that held no warmth. He'd ripped the bun from his hands, thrown a bucket of icy water over him, and kicked the food into the dirt.

"Disgrace!" he'd roared, his voice thick with contempt. "Wasting food like a pampered lord!"

The water had soaked through his thin clothes, the cold seeping into his bones. He shuddered, breath hitching as his ribs protested with sharp, burning pain. The kicked bun lay in the mud, a testament to his powerlessness. His fingers twitched, wanting to retrieve it, but he knew better than to move too soon.

His stomach churned, the emptiness inside him a far crueler torment than the cold. His breath came in ragged gasps as he willed himself to stay silent. The air was thick with tension, every second stretching unbearably. The supervisor lingered for a moment, watching, savoring his humiliation. Then he turned and walked away, boots crunching against the wet stone.

As soon as the sound of footsteps faded, he dropped to his knees. His fingers dug into the mud, closing around the crushed bun. He wiped it on his sleeve, trembling hands lifting it to his lips. The taste of dirt mixed with stale bread, but he ate it anyway. He chewed slowly, swallowing down the shame along with the food.

"Because I had to survive."

That was his life. A cycle of labor and humiliation, a constant reminder of his place in the world. Scrubbing their floors, feeding their horses, being nothing more than a tool to be used and discarded. Even the children, born into privilege, knew their place above him. They were born with power, with the right to command. He was born with chains, with the obligation to obey.

And now, he was a slave soldier, forced to fight in a war that was not his. The battlefield was just another form of servitude, another way for them to control him. But something had changed. The taste of blood was different here. It wasn't the blood of his humiliation, but the blood of his defiance.

The rain still fell, but he no longer felt its sting. His heartbeat pounded like war drums in his skull, drowning out everything else. He was no longer just a slave. He was a soldier, and he would fight.