Cliff’s voice bounced off the cold walls of the underground station.
But the giant didn’t even creak. Cliff, having failed to grant life to his creation, let out a confused, “Huh?” and the street children erupted with laughter.
“Another failure, Cliff?! This is the fifty-fourth time, y’know!”
Cliff scratched his head. Staring at the unmoving giant, he pursed his lips. “That’s strange. I was sure it’d work this time too… I wonder what I did wrong.”
“Don’t’cha think the problem’s with that piecemeal giant of yours?”
With iron arms, a copper head, a lead torso, and brass legs, it was hard to deny the giant’s Prime Body lacked a cohesive design. But this was the frame Cliff spent years fashioning—he didn’t want to admit that was the reason it didn’t work.
“Nah, I’m positive it’s not a problem with the Prime Body. It’s gotta be a mistake somewhere in one of the Engrave Incantations.” Cliff picked up the book he’d left beside the giant and flipped through it.
How to Manufacture Golems was a textbook with detailed information on the construction of Golems. Cliff checked his Engrave Incantations inscribed in the metal frame against what was written in his treasured textbook.
An Engrave Incantation’s accuracy was proportional to the Golem Artificer’s proficiency. Letters different from what Cliff intended to write often slipped into his Engrave Incantation because of his inexperience. Lo and behold, comparing his work directly to the textbook revealed a myriad of mistakes in what he had inscribed on the metal frame.
“Agh! How’d that happen?! Even screwing up a single letter will prevent the Golem from moving…!”
The other street children patted the heartbroken Cliff on the shoulder.
“Looks like ya gotta start from scratch again. Well, don’t let it get to ya.”
“There ain’t too many folks on this island who can make a Golem at yer age.”
“Ya’ve just gotta take it step by step. I’m rootin’ for ya.”
After giving him words of encouragement, they dispersed and returned to their individual sections of the station and continued going about their everyday routines studying at makeshift desks, training their boxing skills, and crafting wares to be sold at street stalls.
The station-dwelling street children weren’t deadweights of society who merely twiddled their thumbs and let their lives pass by in idleness. The understanding that such a slothful life would eventually lead to dying of starvation on the streets had been burned into their flesh, bones, and starving stomachs. So they all trained in whatever ways they could to find some skill that’d help them survive another day.
The station was where these orphans huddled together in order to face down the cruel society that had abandoned them to this life—in other words, it was their base, right on the frontlines of survival. This was exactly why while the children teased Cliff, nobody interfered with his attempts at creating Golems.
✦ ✦ ✦
While he reveled in gratitude for their support, one of his fellow waifs reminded him, “Hey, Cliff, ain’t it ‘bout time for ya to get to work?”
“Oh yeah! Sorry, guys, I’m heading out!” Cliff snatched up the rye roll he had left beside the giant and raced out of the underground station.
Spring sunlight stung his dark-accustomed eyes when he exited above ground. Taking a bite out of the blackened bread, he scanned his surroundings.
A scrawny young man ran past him with a leather bag stuffed under his arm. “Wait, you petty thief!” a man hollered, chasing after him. Beggars, hoodlums with too much time on their hands, and alcoholics who were always dead-drunk by noon littered the roadside—the usual setting for the slums.
Sheesh. Not that it’s ever any different, but what a sorry buncha bums. Cliff was fed up with the way things were. Glancing at the sea behind him, he spotted the other island about five hundred meters away.
Head Island stretched out on the other side of the sea. Seeing the beautiful townscape across the water disheartened him with how drastically different it was from Chest Island which he lived on.
Cliff let out a sigh then caught sight of a child sitting beside the road. The unfamiliar boy appeared around seven years old.
The boy was likely a new face joining the ranks of street children wandering the area. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in days, and he kept his hollow face cast down.
Cliff’s stomach growled as he stared at the boy. Still in his hand was the blackened roll he hadn’t even had more than a bite of.
Dang it! This is why I hate the slums! Cliff mentally fumed as he walked over to the boy.
Holding the bread out to the child, he said, “Here, eat this.”
“Me…?” The boy lifted his head with a surprised look.
Cliff shoved the blackened rye roll into his hand. “Hurry it up, would ya? It’s hard enough as it is for me! Also, if you don’t got anywhere to sleep, you can head to that station over there.”
A clear clang sounded in the distance when the boy hesitantly reached out to accept the bread. Head Island’s church bell was tolling noon.
“Ah, crap! I’m gonna be late! See ya! Make sure you go to the station!” Cliff said hastily, leaving the boy to take off running toward his workplace. All the while enduring hunger pangs from his empty stomach in exchange for this small gesture of kindness.