My Demon System.

"The alley stank of stale urine and despair, a fitting perfume for Alastor's broken body. He lay sprawled on the cold, damp ground, the rough concrete a stark contrast to the throbbing agony in his body. Bruises bloomed like dark flowers across his skin, a testament to the night's violence. A low, humorless chuckle escaped him. He wasn't laughing at the cruelty; he was laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. Here he was, a day closer to his eighteenth birthday, a milestone he might never reach. Maybe the hunger would claim him first. Maybe the sickness. He was already on the brink.

But even as death's shadow stretched long over him, a single flicker remained, persistent as the gnawing hunger itself: *The Awakening*. It wasn't a whispered promise; it was common knowledge, a shared hope among the city's downtrodden. It was a dream, a phenomenon that selected individuals at random, usually around their eighteenth birthday. No one knew exactly how it worked. Nobody chose it; it chose *you*.

The dream itself remained a mystery. Those who experienced it never recalled the specifics, only the effects. Some emerged healed of incurable illnesses, their bodies rejuvenated, their ailments vanished without a trace. Others, once frail and weak, found themselves imbued with unexpected strength and resilience. Some even spoke of gaining abilities they never possessed before, abilities that defied the laws of nature itself. It was a lottery of life and death, a gamble with fate itself, where the prize was a second chance, a miraculous rebirth. But each of them had one thing in common: the "system."

Alastor, however, hadn't seen this so-called "Awakening" before. He lived in one of the city's worst blocks, a place that would likely top any list of the world's most deprived neighborhoods. Alastor had never known his parents or any loved ones. He was alone in this world, discarded, but he didn't want to remain forgotten. He craved a life beyond the shadows, a life of being remembered, celebrated, even experiencing simple joys like the taste of meat for the first time or, dare he dream, losing his virginity. All of that felt impossibly distant, a distant echo from the life he was destined to never know. This dream, *The Awakening*, was his only chance.

Even with its unique opportunities for transformation, *The Awakening* wasn't without its drawbacks. A chilling thought gnawed at him: "What's the worst that could happen? I don't ever wake up. It's not like I have anyone to wake up to." It was a brutally honest assessment, a stark truth about his life. He knew the worst that could happen was never waking up from the dream, being trapped inside it, forever forgotten, just as he felt forgotten in this world. But even so, a larger part of him yearned to survive the dream, to awaken his system, to join the fight for something more than just being another sick kid in this cruel city.

He was just a boy, trapped in an alleyway, on the brink of oblivion. Yet, in that moment, hope, fragile and flickering, clung to him as he looked for a way to survive the nightmare to come.

The thought of the "system" itself sent a shiver down his spine. He'd heard whispers, fragments of stories, about the power it granted, the abilities it unlocked. Some spoke of enhanced strength, superhuman speed, even control over elements. Others spoke of more esoteric powers, abilities that bent reality to their will. But the system wasn't just a source of power; it was a double-edged sword. The stories hinted at a brutal struggle for dominance, a cutthroat world where only the strongest survived. A world where the weak were quickly discarded, just as he had been discarded by life itself.

He imagined himself, weak and broken as he was, thrust into that world. The image was both terrifying and intoxicating. It was a chance, however slim, to escape his miserable existence, to transcend his limitations, to finally be more than just a dying boy in a forgotten alley. He imagined facing his attackers, not as a victim but as someone capable of striking back. He imagined feeling strong, powerful, capable.

But even more than physical strength, he craved the feeling of belonging. To be part of something bigger than himself, something that would offer purpose and direction. All his life he was alone, unseen, unheard. This system, this dream, was a chance for his existence to finally have meaning. To no longer be a discarded thing, but someone of value. Someone who mattered.

A tremor, barely perceptible, ran through his body. It wasn't the cold; it was something else, something deeper, something...awakening. The pain in his ribs, the gnawing hunger, the relentless cough – they were still there, but they felt different now, strangely muted. It was as if another part of him was becoming aware, separate from the physical agony. A nascent energy pulsed within him, a faint hum resonating in his bones, almost too delicate to notice. It was a whisper of power, a promise of transformation. A sign, perhaps, that the dream, *The Awakening*, was near. But he never noticed any of that. He closed his eyes, the grim reality of the alley fading as the hope, however slim it might be, became suddenly more vibrant, more alive. His eighteenth birthday was approaching, and it might just be the start of something incredible, or his final, fatal curtain call. He would face it either way, braced against the unknown future, waiting for the dream to take hold. If it even *chose* him. After all, why would the dream choose a broken boy like him? Someone without a future, without family? Would the dream even waste its precious time with him? But all he knew was that he was reaching the threshold of his age. If he passed eighteen and still no sign of the dream, then he was just unlucky, like the rest. But Alastor knew more than anyone that he would have to grab his future by himself. He had nothing left to lose. The dream, or his own efforts... they were his only options now.