"— Stop, stop! Ahhh, it hurts! Please, stop! I didn't do anything wrong!
The scream cut through the narrow alley behind the school like a dull knife, scraping against the damp walls.
No one heard.
Or worse: no one wanted to hear.
A boy with black hair and black eyes — eleven years of existence and already with a body marked by a world that had no patience for him — was lying on the ground, curled up, protecting his face with his arms while kicks and punches hit him from all sides.
Around him, three boys of the same age formed a tight circle.
They weren't bullies — they were heirs training cruelty.
The tallest was the leader: red hair like badly tamed fire, blue eyes as cold as jewels buried in snow.
His posture made it clear he had never heard the word "no."A noble's son.Used to giving orders.
Used to seeing the world bend at his feet.The other two, smaller and pale, had no courage of their own.
They had courage borrowed from the leader — the cowardly courage of those who know they won't be punished. They followed him like shadows trained to obey.
The redhead leaned down slowly, approached the boy on the ground and narrowed his eyes with a contempt so solid it almost had weight.
Then he spat.
The saliva fell near Yuta's face like a sentence.
— Tsk… your mistake was being born.
Yuta didn't answer.
He couldn't.Air fled his lungs with each blow.
The world shrank, becoming the hard ground, the shoes kicking his ribs, the metallic taste of blood rising in his mouth.
And all he could do was curl up even more — a small body trying to fit into an even smaller space — while the violence continued to fall on him like poisonous rain.
Later, we find the boy walking alone along the sidewalk of a modern, restless city.
Buildings rose like indifferent giants, cars rushed by with aggressive horns, and crowds ran from one side to the other as if every second was too precious to waste looking at someone like him.
For any child, especially someone small, thin and still injured… that environment would be overwhelming.
Frightening.
Cold.
But Yuta walked with the posture of someone who had already learned, far too early, that no one would stop to help him.
Not to ask if he was okay.
Not even to notice that he was bleeding.
It was as if the entire world had decided he was invisible.
When he reached the traffic light, the boy stretched out his thin arm and pressed the button. A dry click echoed, muffled by the noise of the city. He waited.
Waiting was something Yuta knew how to do better than any other child his age.
While the light didn't change, he lifted his face, staring at the gray sky.
The heavy clouds seemed to reflect exactly what he felt inside — a tired emptiness, muffled by thoughts a child of 11 should never have to carry.The wind passed, gentle but cold. And Yuta stood there, still, quiet… trying to rebuild, for a moment, a thought that wasn't pain or loneliness.
My name is Yuta Uzurugi. I'm eleven years old. And if you're wondering why those boys beat me…
well, I'll explain.
Where do I start?
This world is similar to yours in many things:
pollution choking the horizon, cars honking like impatient beasts, buildings so tall they seem to poke the sky, cell phones, fast transportation…
But there is one difference.
Just one — and it changes everything.
Right in the center of the city stands a colossal castle.
Of ancient stone, wide walls, flags fluttering as if mocking the wind. Yes, a castle — in the heart of a modern metropolis.
And it exists for a simple reason:
We are ruled by royalty and nobility.
Not because the people chose them.
But because there is no one strong enough to oppose them.
The reason?
Magic powers.
When a person is born, they receive an ability.
Just one.
Something unique, like an invisible mark in the blood
These powers vary absurdly. Some are wonderful. Others are so pathetic they feel like a cruel joke from fate.
But it's not the type of power that decides your life.
It's its strength.
Its intensity.
How much you control it.
How much it grows.
Let me give you a simple example.
Let's say you're born with the power to create fire.
If you can barely produce a sad little flame — unable to light a wet match —congratulations, you're from the inferior class.
Hard, humiliating lives.
Workers, farmers, laborers… people who support the world but are never seen.They live tired.They live faded.
Now, if you can create a medium fireball, enough to burn a tree…
You're from the normal class.
Most people are here.
People who live, work, pay bills, build families.
Ordinary folks trying to survive in an extraordinary society.
But…
If your fire has the strength to reduce a house to ashes in seconds…You belong to the superior class. And that's where everything twists. Because the superiors rule everything.
They make the laws, break the laws, and shape the world around their desires.
And since powers pass from generation to generation, the same families have stayed on top for centuries.
Privilege is not earned. It's inherited.
Yes, training helps — but helps who?
Inferiors evolve like limping turtles: years to take two steps. Normals grow at a fair pace, but limited. Superiors… evolve like storms. In months, they surpass what others take lifetimes to reach.
That's why, even with electric cars, skyscrapers and the internet, the world remains chained to a medieval structure.
Because here, strength rules.
Power defines worth.
And those born at the top do everything — absolutely everything — to never fall.
These are the three major classes.
But there is another.
A class so rare that one person is born every five hundred million.
A class so weak… so insignificant… so faded…
that many argue it shouldn't even exist.
The Scarcity class.
People whose power is so weak it sometimes doesn't even awaken.
People the world looks at, but doesn't see.
People who breathe… but don't count.
Some aren't even considered citizens.
Others are treated like walking statistical errors.
And that's where I come in.
I, Yuta Uzurugi…
am a Scarcity.
And that… changes everything."