Scars of the divine

In the early hours of the morning, while the city celebrated—laughing, feasting, and spending lavishly—a woman lay hidden at the corner of a narrow street. “Ahhh—!” she cried out, but instantly bit down hard on her tongue, forcing the scream back as pain flooded her mouth. She pushed again and again, her body trembling, until at last the sharp cry of a newborn pierced the night. A baby boy. Hearing his voice, she knew it was over. She had succeeded. With shaking hands, she pulled a small penknife from her pocket and began to cut the placenta. Her hands slipped and her breath staggered, but after struggling for several moments, she finally severed it, completely disconnecting herself from the child. She stared down at him with disgust. “Ewww… you ugly child,” she muttered. “Hmph. Finally, I’m rid of you, disgusting thing.” Without another glance, she tossed the newborn into a nearby trash can. Then she turned and walked away, vanishing into the night, never to be seen again. What she did not know was that someone had witnessed everything. A drunkard, unsteady on his feet and heavy with alcohol, had been watching from afar. The moment the woman disappeared, he staggered forward like a desperate beggar, rushing toward the trash can. He hesitated for only a second before leaning closer. Then he heard it—a faint cry. His eyes widened. Sobering instantly, he reached in and pulled out the child, his small body covered in blood. Carrying him carefully, the man moved toward a dim corner of the street where a weak sunray struggled to touch the ground. When he finally saw the baby clearly, he gasped. The boy’s face was split into two terrifying extremes. One side was breathtakingly beautiful, white as snow, smooth and soft, with piercing blue eyes that gave him an almost divine appearance. But the other side was horrifying. Twisted and scarred, it looked as though acid had been poured upon it, warped beyond recognition. This was not the result of injury. Anyone who looked at the child would feel both awe and disgust at the same time. The drunkard stood frozen, his heart heavy. He didn’t know what to do. He thought of leaving the child, but his feet refused to move. Taking the baby home crossed his mind, but then reality struck him. He had no home filled with warmth. His wife and children had long abandoned him. They had tricked him into signing away everything he owned and disappeared, leaving him with nothing but empty rooms and regret. Yet, as he looked down at the boy, pity stirred within him, along with a strange sense of attachment. With a quiet sigh, he made his choice. He carried the child home, determined to clean him and give him warmth, even if only for a short while. Though his senses were cloudy, his conscience was still clear. When he arrived, he gathered a small bundle of wood and whispered several incantations. The fire ignited instantly. This was because the world was divided into two kinds of people: those who could use magic, and those who possessed combat abilities. Those with combat abilities wielded terrifying physical strength, power so great that a single punch could shatter mountains. Magic users and warriors alike were considered high‑class, standing above all others. Meanwhile, those who could not use magic without chanting incantations, and those lacking combat strength entirely, were labeled as low‑level people. They had no voice. They were treated as servants, forced to work endlessly just to survive. Because of this cruel division and endless discrimination, the balance that once protected humanity was shattered. Innocent and guilty alike suffered, and the world slowly descended into chaos, turning Earth into a living hell.