Tap* Tap* Tap*Splash*Tap* 

Footsteps echoed dull thuds as a dirty grayish-green-skinned child with black hair and wearing dirty rags ran with his bare feet on the empty streets. On the way, he also stepped on a small puddle of what he suspected was urine, but it did not bother him as he had a more urgent thing to worry about.

"GET HIM! GET THAT LITTLE THIEF! HE STOLE MY PURSE!"

"STOP! THIEF!"

Thud* Thud* Thud*

Behind him echoed the voices of the man he had just pickpocketed (And got unluckily discovered by him and the guards.). Now, he was running for his very life as he ran through the all-too-familiar back-alleys of the slums and attempted to run away from the armed guards, the vigiles of Lamaria.

If he were to get caught by the guards, he knew all-too-well what his fate would be. At best, he would need to reimburse the man 5 times the value of his goods, which will lead to his enslavement due to his inability to pay. At worst, death by beheading without the right to object. Such were the rules in the great city of Lamaria.

Looking in front of himself, he saw a few stacked fruit crates. A toothy grin flashed on his face as he pushed down the fruit crates, making them fall on the ground and blocking the guard's path.

That ought to buy me some time. He thought to himself.

As he continued running, he heard the curses of the two human guards behind me.

"COME BACK HERE, YOU DAMN DIRT-BLOOD!"

Dirt-Blood, a word that made him grimace. In the Great Lamarian Empire, a human supremacist empire, those born as a half-breed to two different races, especially humans and another race, were called, Dirt-Bloods. He, as a half-human half-orc, was naturally a Dirt-Blood. That derogatory nickname greatly upset him, but he had to suck it up like he always does.

Ignoring his negative thoughts, he kept running and running, taking forks and turns until he finally arrived at a certain bricked wall. His eyes immediately locked on a certain area in the wall where the bricks were a bit loose. Quickly yet carefully, he removed a few bricks, revealing a small cavity, before crawling inside, barely fitting inside. After getting inside, he carefully returned the bricks into place, turning his vision almost black from the lack of light.

It was his adoptive father's, an old thief's tricks. He had multiple such walls prepared. It had saved him multiple times from being caught, and today will likely not be an exception.

Just then, he heard the rapid thudding footsteps of the sandals of the guards. He immediately quieted his breath as he heard the guards talking.

"He went over here! I am sure of it!"

"I don't see anything... Let's check the other way."

After waiting for a few minutes, he heaved a sigh of relief as he exited the hiding spot before covering it again. After that, he ran in the opposite direction from what he thought the guards took.

Along the way, he warily trod back to his hideout, making sure to hide his new bounty from any possible desperate thug or vagabond in these dirty parts of the slums inside his worn clothing, a sack of potatoes he makeshift into a single piece of clothing. While he already saved up to buy some slave clothing, a tunic made out of wool, and even leather sandals, he chose to wear these clothes. After all, what better disguise to wear for a poor orphaned pickpocket than to wear rags? Besides, wearing better clothes means he is making himself a target in the slums. It was wisdom imparted to him by his adoptive father.

After walking for some time, he arrived at a small and old single-room brick house. It was a moss-covered house with a rotten old door at the entrance. The bricks looked brittle with signs of cracks. Its age was unknown to him, as he lived there most of his short life.

Walking to the old door, he pushed it open with a loud creak. It did not have a lock outside, nor was a lock useful in these parts. A lock signified that there was something worth locking after all. It was not something that he wished to brand his house with, even at the risk of an intruder.

Walking inside, he saw the old room that made up the house. There was a bed made out of hay in one of the corners of the house, a kitchen bereft of most of its utensils in another corner, and a small wooden table with two chairs in the center of it. The roof was cracked, and it was obvious in a glance that it would not entirely block rainwater from seeping in. Other than that, however, it served its purpose as a shelter.

Closing the door behind him and locking it with the inside lock, a simple wooden plank that prevents the door from being opened by the wind or trespassers while he is inside, he took out the purse he stole and spilled its contents on the dirt floor. Sparkling silver and bronze coins shone on the ground from the light that came out of the window.

He counted the coins carefully before he suddenly widened his eyes in both disbelief and joy!

Two large gold coins! Two whole large gold coins! I hit the jackpot!

The currency in the Great Lamarian Empire is divided into large gold coins, small gold coins, large silver coins, small silver coins, large copper coins, small copper coins, and half/quarter variants of each small coin. Each large coin was worth 2.5 times the small coin, gold was worth 25 times silver, and silver was worth 16 times copper. That meant, a large gold coin was worth 2.5 small gold coins or 1000 small copper coins. Normally, he would be lucky to pickpocket even a few small silvers, let alone 2 large gold coins.

The monthly wage of a praetorian guard, who is part of the emperor's army, is 60 silver coins, which means I just got two months of a praetorian guard's wage! A large loaf of bread is worth merely 2 small copper coins. 2 large gold coins are easily enough to feed me for a year!

However, after he calmed down, he realized just how foolish his thinking was.

"Gold coins are good and all, but I can't use them. What kind of a beggar has gold coins? I would more likely get arrested, robbed, or murdered if I showed them... Oh well, I can only stash them for now... When I grow up, I might be able to use it..."

Going to a certain corner of the house, he started digging with his bare hands a small ditch before a small wooden chest revealed itself. Opening it up, it revealed a stash of coins. Most of which were copper and silver with a few pieces of small gold coins in the mix. That was his personal stash.

His adoptive father, an old, retired halfling thief named Rizor, taught him all that he knew before passing away. The old thief, although not his real father, treated him like his own son. Even though he didn't inherit anything other than this old dilapidated house, the old thief gave the half-orc child the name Mog and even passed on his life experience.

From learning how to read and write to doing advanced arithmetics and calculations. From knowing how to hide and pickpocket to knowing how to run when caught in the act. From learning basic disguise to basic survival lessons and handling a knife in a fight. These life skills were invaluable, and Mog absorbed them all like a sponge. By the age of 9, where the old thief passed away from old age, Mog learned all that could be taught to him.

If Mog was not a half-orc, just his scholarly skills alone would have allowed him to get adopted into a well-off merchant family bereft of sons, becoming the de facto heir to the family. Alas... None-humans, especially half-bloods, were heavily discriminated against. Some certain laws and regulations even prevented half-bloods from taking positions of power in the empire. The few cases where a half-blood took a position of power were only due to extreme achievements in the military, Championship in the arena, extreme magical talent, or extreme martial power. None have earned it from scholarly means.

Those who use half-bloods for intellectual occupations were ostracized. Hence, that path was useless to him. He was too young and weak for manual labor, and due to his lineage, his pay would be lesser, barely enough to stay alive, let alone save anything. He lacked magical talents, so no mage guild or temple would accept him. His only legal options for development were the arena, the military, and the adventurers guild.

The arena only accepted 18-year-olds and above, and it had low survival rates, especially for half-bloods who got special treatment. The military was the same, with the minimum requirement being 18-years-old and half-bloods usually assigned to the vanguard, aka, the meat grinder. The adventurers guild was the most valid choice, being far more tolerant than the two former options. Although it was equally as perilous, if not more than the other two, he could at least control his own life and death. While it was less stringent, Mog needed to be at least 14 to join it as a trainee. Currently, he was only 10, 4 years short of his goal.

He dreamt of becoming a great adventurer and paving his way in society before living a leisurely retirement. Alas... To reach that goal, he not only needed to stay alive until he reached 14, he also needed money and proper gear. Without money, he wouldn't be able to sleep at inns, feed himself, or train. Without the proper gear, he would find himself dead in some wild goblins' stomach.

After putting away the coins, save a few coppers, he buried the chest back inside the dirt and covered and compressed the soil until he was sure it was inconspicuous.

Exiting the house, he looked at the sky. It was noon now. He looked at an inconspicuous grave by the side of the house, the gravestone being a plank with the name Rizor Quickhand. That was his father's grave. He didn't know who his real mother and father were, and they have left him nothing to his name apart from a pendant that signified he was a Lamarian citizen. Even as an orphan and half-blood, they cannot take this right from him.

Going up to the grave, Mog silently came up to it, bowed silently, and then left. Unbeknownst to him, two pairs of eyes in the dark were watching him with a covetous glint, as if looking at prey...