Treasure Bound – Chapter 1: Shackles of the Weak


    A world where dungeons, monsters, devils, humans, and treasures existed across different realms. To protect humanity from the horrors lurking beyond, Treasure Hunters were born. They were warriors, explorers, and legends—paid handsomely and worshiped by the public. And at the peak of them all stood the Treasure Monarch, the most powerful and revered of their kind.


    Yet, for some, power was nothing more than an untouchable dream.


    Ronan woke up with a dry throat, groaning as sunlight spilled through the cracks in the wooden roof. His crimson-red eyes blinked blearily before he grabbed the cup of water from his bedside and chugged it down.


    "You''re finally up, huh?" a raspy voice called from the other side of the room.


    Ronan turned to see his grandfather, Altair, placing a steaming cup of tea on the old wooden table. The old man’s face was worn, his skin weathered from years of struggle.


    "Thanks, Grandpa," Ronan muttered, running a hand through his thick black hair.


    "So, how’s school?"


    Ronan sighed. "It’s… fine."


    Altair smiled knowingly. "You’re sixteen now. Soon, you should think about joining the Yen Association."


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    Ronan didn’t respond. Instead, he grabbed his old mobile phone and scrolled through reels, watching as video after video flooded his screen—edits of Treasure Hunters, flaunting their strength, slicing through monsters, bathing in gold and admiration.


    Women worshiped them. Men envied them.


    Tch.


    It was Sunday. His only free day. A day to train.


    The nearby ground was nothing but dirt and cracked stone, but it was all he had. He took a deep breath, planting his feet firmly. Omniflow. The energy that separated the weak from the strong. The force that turned men into gods.


    But no matter how much he trained, no matter how many times he focused his breath—nothing.


    Huuuh… still no energy.


    He clenched his fists. Again.


    He gritted his teeth, focusing harder. Sweat dripped down his forehead, muscles tensed, but still—nothing.


    Then, laughter.


    Ronan turned his head slightly, his stomach already twisting. A group of nobles, dressed in lavish clothes, leaned against a stone wall nearby, smirking.


    "Ah, look at that piece of shit," one of them sneered.


    "Hey, kiddo! Come here."


    Ronan hesitated, but his legs moved before his brain could stop them.


    A fist slammed into his face.


    Pain exploded through his skull as he staggered back. Another punch—his teeth cracked. A knee to the stomach—his breath vanished.


    The nobles laughed.


    "You think training will make you anything more than a slave?" one of them scoffed, slapping him across the face.


    Ronan curled up on the ground, his body aching. Fear paralyzed him. He wasn’t strong. He had never been strong.


    Just take it. Like always.


    The nobles eventually got bored, leaving him bruised and battered.


    Somewhere far away, in the towering halls of the Government Tower, officials gathered around a long table, their voices firm.


    "Welcome, everyone. Our defenses are weakening. If this continues, the Demon Realm will break through."


    "We must strengthen our defenses."


    "And increase the taxes."


    The decision was made. And while those in power schemed and strategized, those below suffered.


    Back in the slums of Lato, the tax collector stood in the doorway of Ronan’s crumbling home, sneering.


    "Altair, the due date has passed," he snapped.


    Altair bowed his head. "Please… just two more days. I’ll have it by then."


    "Tch. You say that every time."


    With a scoff, the collector left, already eager to squeeze what little the poor had left.


    That night, as Ronan lay on his thin mattress, his body aching from the beatings, his mind spiraled.


    He was weak. Worthless. A nobody.


    But one day… he would change that.