The world was not always broken, but its origins drowned in ash and rumor. The rule was absolute: kill a person, and you took their identity—their name, wealth, debts, enemies. Not their body, but their place. It was a law carved into reality by the Relic’s Cry, a cataclysm when a forgotten device—the First Relic—shattered the old order, binding souls to blood. Each could inherit only once, the first life taken sealing their fate.
Crime warped to this truth. Assassins vanished into their victims’ lives. A beggar could claim a throne with one knife. Mafia factions ruled neon-lit estates. The Seven Families, draped in velvet and gold; The Black Lanterns, ritualistic killers carving vows into flesh; The Crow Syndicate, tech-augmented brokers of secrets, eyes glowing with implants—these gripped the city. Beyond sprawled the wastelands, home to nomads and cults praying for a day when names would dissolve.
Aren was born to that outer world, a gutter child. His childhood was hunger and cold stone, scavenging in a nameless settlement’s ruins. The orphanage attic was his refuge, watching the city’s distant lights, dreaming of their warmth. Stolen fruit was his talisman.
One night, at seventeen, Aren found a wrecked car near a shattered tower. A man lay dying, blood pooling, face slashed by glass. Lucas Drevaris, a titan of The Seven Families, rich and feared. Aren meant to run, but Lucas’s hand clamped his wrist. “Boy… kill me. Take it. You’ll never have another chance.”
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Aren’s heart warred—terror against hunger. The city lights glinted in Lucas’s eyes. His rusted knife trembled. Memories flashed: starvation’s ache, the attic’s chill. Lucas rasped, “It’s not just power—it’s a cage. The Relic’s Cry made us this way.”
“Do it,” Lucas whispered.
The knife moved, deep across the throat. Blood reflected the city’s glow. The air screamed, a pulse tearing through Aren’s skull, his name unraveling. He stood, no longer Aren, but Lucas Drevaris.
The untouchables—Lucas’s black-cloaked guard—arrived. They didn’t question. The rule was the rule: kill, inherit. They swept him to Vireth Hollow, Lucas’s estate of marble and shadow, where the factions waited: The Seven Families, eyes cold as gold; The Black Lanterns, chanting softly; The Crow Syndicate, implants humming.
And in their whispers, a name: The Pale Man. A myth, defying the Relic’s Cry, taking identities without limit. Impossible. Yet their fear was real.
Author’s Note
Hey Royal Road readers!
Welcome to The Pale Man and Aren: A Dystopian Tale, a gritty dystopian noir where killing steals a man’s name, wealth, and enemies. Meet Aren, a starving orphan thrust into a neon-lit underworld of mafia factions and mythic relics. Expect a multi-POV ride blending crime thriller vibes with dystopian stakes, starring the mysterious Pale Man.
I’m thrilled to share my first Royal Road story! Your thoughts:
- Killing-based identity transfer rule—too wild, or just right?
- Relic’s Cry legend—intriguing spark?
- Aren’s choice to kill Lucas—heroic, desperate, or else?
New chapters soon — buckle up for a bloody ride! Thanks for reading!
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