Roy's mind raced. 'Fight? Run?'
He backed up a step, his hand dipping toward the coin pouch, but his survival instincts flared hot in his chest.
This money was all he had to keep him alive until he figured his life out. He wasn't about to have it stolen from him.
'These fuckers think they can roll me? I'll have them on their knees!'
The thought was absurd, fueling a stupid surge of bravado in him. "You want my gold? Earn it!" he spat, his voice sounding steadier than he felt inwardly.
The leader's laugh was a bark. "Feisty one. Strip him, lads!"
They descended like a pack of wolves. Roy swung wildly, his fist connecting with a jaw and drawing blood and a pained groan from one of them, but it was futile.
The burly one grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back with iron strength, while another kneed him in the gut, doubling him over.
Gasping, Roy felt rough hands yanking at his doublet, tearing the fine fabric with rips that echoed in the alley.
The buttons popped free, scattering onto the pavement. His shirt followed, shredded off his chest to expose the smooth, toned planes of his torso and pale skin.
"Look at this soft bastard," one thug jeered, slapping Roy's back hard enough to sting and draw a sharp hiss from him. "Bet he's never lifted more than a wine goblet." They shoved him against the grimy wall.
Roy thrashed, cursing, but a boot to his thigh dropped him to his knees. The leader rifled through the discarded clothes, pocketing the coin pouch with a satisfied grunt.
"Not bad. Enough for a week's whores and some booze." He kicked the empty boots toward Roy. "Crawl back to your manor, whelp. Or better yet, sell that pretty ass in the docks."
The group howled with laughter, walking back into the darkness as quickly as they'd come. The laughter faded into the night.
"…Wow." Roy stood there, frozen, staring down at himself. A loincloth. That was all they had left him. Quite generous of them.
It was like 'deja vu' all over again. It seemed this world's natives liked to strip people.
"…You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, clenching his teeth. "Unbelievable." He waited a few seconds, just in case this was a dream.
It wasn't. "They took everything," he said. "My money, my clothes, and my boots." He couldn't even believe the words as he said them.
He looked at the empty alley with a shocked gaze. "…At least they left me my dignity."
He paused. "No, wait. They took that too." The loincloth he had on left very little to the imagination. One of his family jewels was peeking from the side as if to say hello.
Roy knelt down, shivering. The night's cold air seeped into his skin. His body ached, bruises blooming on his ribs, a split lip tasting of copper. But worse was the exposure, the vulnerability.
The alley was quiet again, like nothing had happened. His money was gone. His clothes were gone. Even the boots his mother had given him for his birthday were gone.
He swallowed and looked around.
"Great. Just great."
Staying there wasn't an option. If someone else came along, things could get worse.
"Note to self," he muttered, getting up. "Do not walk around cities at night dressed like a rich idiot."
Roy pulled his arms over his chest and hurried away, sticking close to the walls. Every little sound made his heart jump.
A whore in a doorway called to him as soon as she saw his handsome features, "Need a warm bed, love? I'll even take you for free... or close to it."
Her breasts heaved in her corset, her nipples poking through the sheer fabric, and Roy's dick stirred despite everything that had happened to him since coming to this fucked up world.
He almost took her up on her offer. Maybe she really had a bed. But as horny as he was, he really didn't want to fuck some random whore. Maybe there were STI's in this world. So he walked away reluctantly.
'Fucking humiliating,' he thought, his rage boiling.
The night air was only getting colder as the late hour dragged on. Roy clutched his arms around his bare chest, the loincloth doing little to shield his ass or the sway of his balls as he stumbled here and there.
By some miracle, or perhaps because fate had already had its fill of mocking him, he managed to avoid further trouble for the night. He scavenged what he could: He found a discarded cloak hanging from a broken fence, though it was a bit stiff with old rain.
He sniffed at it in disgust, "…Smells awful. Perfect." He wrapped it tightly around his shivering body and kept moving, "…Still better than nothing."
Sleep was impossible.
He spent the night crouched behind a stack of crates near the outskirts of the city, hunger gnawing at his stomach while his mind replayed being thrown out by his father, and the ambush over and over.
"Solid start." He knew better. He should have known better. Strength mattered here—far more than anything else, or you would just be another poor soul to torment.
Morning came slowly, pale sunlight creeping over the rooftops. With it came people—and 'danger'.
Roy waited until the streets grew crowded, then merged into the flow, keeping his head down like a beggar. The cloak hid his shame, but it did nothing to ease the weight in his chest.
A week passed like that.
During this gruesome week, he took odd jobs, received filthy cold glances, and the gnawing frustration in his heart grew.
"When I find the bastard who brought me to this world, even the heavens won't be able to save him."
Wasn't this a bit too much?
If this was a starter quest or something, then whoever created this system was doing it wrong.
At least the jobs he got managed to keep him from dying of hunger.
He did whatever came his way, carrying crates at the docks for scraps of food, and cleaning stables for a few copper coins.
He slept wherever he wouldn't be chased off with a stick. Each night, he lay awake in the cold, staring at the sky with his teeth clenched in frustration, but more from the cold.
This was not how his story was supposed to begin.
He looked at his hands. They looked blistered, thin, and weak now. Crazy what a week of scraps could do to a body that used to be so well nourished.
But if the city had taught him anything, it was this: weakness was a luxury he could no longer afford.
And as Roy clenched his fists beneath the tattered cloak, a quiet resolve began to form. He would climb back up from the trenches. No matter how much blood, sweat, or humiliation it took.
He even found the humor in his situation, but that could have also been him slowly losing his mind. Who knows.
"You know what," he said, "this could be worse." He thought about it, "…Actually, no, this is pretty bad."
He stood up, stretching his thinning body, and smiled faintly.
"But if this is the world trying to break me," he said, "it's doing a terrible job."
Roy looked up at the city.