The System Sent Me to Breed an All-Female Amazon Tribe

Someone grabbed my sleeve as I moved through an alley.

The touch was light, hesitant, as if the owner was afraid of my reaction.

The voice was young, a tad high-pitched, and there was a tremble in it that spoke of fear and desperation.

I could feel the grime on the fingers that touched my sleeve, could smell the poverty that clung to them.

I already knew what type of person it might be, and I felt anger bubbling in my spirit.

The frustration of the day, the violation of the noble’s touch, the constant harassment of the beggars—it all came together in a surge of rage that made my hands clench into fists. I was tired, I was angry, and I had no more patience to give.

I turned, to face the owner of the voice, to find a young boy of maybe 14 or so.

He had long dark hair and dark eyes, looked sick and weak, as if unable to hold his body on his legs. The boy’s frame was skeletal, his bones pressing against his skin in sharp angles that spoke of months of malnutrition.

His dark hair was matted and tangled, hanging in greasy strands around his hollow face. His dark eyes were sunken, ringed with purple shadows that made him look more like a corpse than a living child.

His lips were cracked and dry, his skin pale and sallow, and he swayed slightly as he stood, as if the simple act of remaining upright was draining the last of his strength.

His clothes... He was wearing some tunic, a single piece of rag, with a thin sash tied at his waist.

Just a scrap of dirty fabric wrapped around him.

I could see the sharp angles of his collarbone and the hollows of his cheeks. He was a walking skeleton, a ghost of a child who just reached the age of accountability.

I immediately felt the familiar feeling that made me always loathe beggars: I felt my heart prick at the sight.

The feeling was like a needle, sharp and painful, piercing through my chest. It was the feeling of sympathy, of pity, of the desire to help that I had fought so hard to suppress.

It was the feeling that made me weak, that made me vulnerable, that made me want to give in to their demands and empty my purse into their waiting hands.

The definition of naivety.

"I... I have nothing to give you!" I yelled and pulled my arm away from him, my voice rising in a shrill pitch that echoed off the alley walls. "I w-worked for my money! I was poor as well, but I worke—"

"Some... change..." He interrupted me again, not even ready to listen to me.

His voice was flat and emotionless, as if he had said the words so many times that they had lost all meaning.

He didn’t care about my story, about my struggles, about the long hours I had spent working my way up from poverty. He just wanted my money.

They were all the same. They never want to listen. They never cared about anything except what they could take from you.

Parasites, leeches, draining the life and energy from everyone they encountered.

"I don’t have anything to give you," I told him and turned my back, leaving.

My voice was cold, final, and I did not look back. I could not look back. If I looked back, I might see the desperation in his eyes, and that would be the end of my resolve.

I hate them, I hate them, I hate them!!

The thought echoed in my mind like a psalm of wrath, a shield against the feelings that threatened to overwhelm me.

I hated them for making me feel so guilty... For making me feel... like evil...

[But... why do they get to me so much?] [Alice]

"...Madam, please..."

The soft, boyish voice still resounded from behind me, and I thought he was still trying to reach out to me until I heard a reply:

"Yes? Can I help you?"

A beautiful... gender-neutral voice responded, and I turned immediately to see who it was.

The voice was melodic and musical, and it possessed a warmth that seemed to heat up through the cold of the alley.

It was the kind of voice that made you want to listen, to trust and believe that everything would be alright.

I was some meters away from them now, but not so far away I couldn’t see or hear them.

The distance gave me a vantage point, a chance to observe without being observed. I could see the alley clearly, could see the two figures standing in the dim light, could see the way the boy was now clinging to the stranger’s tunic.

The wretched boy was grabbing the... young man(?) at his hip with his two hands, as his eyes were still hollowed out and dead.

His grip was tight and visibly desperate, as if he were afraid that the stranger would disappear if he let go.

His body was trembling, either from cold or hunger, or just fear, and his breath came in short, ragged gasps.

But the person being held... he could be male, considering the tunic and style he wore his garments.

Although, it wasn’t absurd to think it was a beautiful woman as well.

The tunic was fine, made of a rich fabric that caught the light and shimmered softly. It was cut in a style that I did not recognize, with long sleeves and a high collar that framed a face of almost otherworldly beauty.

Their features were delicate, refined, with high cheekbones and full lips and a nose that was perfectly proportioned.

Their skin was smooth and fair, unblemished, and their hair was a shade of light brown that seemed to glow with its own inner radiance.

They looked like someone of high status, and definitely not someone native... Not to these parts of Nerceul, at least.

Their bearing, and the way they held themselves—it all spoke of some level of wealth and privilege. They definitely did not belong in this squalid alley, surrounded by poverty and despair.

Their eyes scanned the beggar with a soft indifference, as they allowed the boy to speak again. The eyes were striking, a brilliant shade of blue that appeared unnatural in its intensity.

They held no judgment, or pity, or disgust. Just a calm and quiet attention that was somehow more disconcerting than any of those things.

"Change... Some change..." The beggar boy answered. His voice was the same flat monotone, the same empty plea.

And the beautiful person only stared at him with an expressionless face, as if seeing something I myself couldn’t see.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and expectant.

The stranger simply waited, watching the boy with those piercing blue eyes.

The Poor... fellow—let’s just call them a man—Poor man was being harassed by a peasant.

I was sure he would be a noble or something close to that.

The thought made me feel a flicker of sympathy for the stranger. He was clearly out of his element, clearly unaware of the dangers that lurked in these streets.

Beggars might show aggression, and could even turn violent, when driven by the pangs of extreme hunger.

I wondered if I should go save him from the boy... but I didn’t need to.

"No... What do you really want?" He asked the boy again, looking intently at him, as if he could read his mind.

His voice was soft and gentle, and there was a patience in it that looked infinite. He was not angry or irritated by the boy’s persistence.

He appeared simply curious.

"My lady... I... I... I am so hungry..." The boy squinted just a bit before he replied.

There was a spark of something in his dead eyes, a flash of awareness that had been absent before.

He seemed almost confused by the question, as if no one had ever asked him what he really wanted.

"There we go," The beautiful man smiled and took hold of the boy’s hand, "Let us go, then. I’ll have you stuffed up this evening! What is your name...?"

"...I forgot." The boy’s voice was still low and small, and there was a note of shame in it that made my heart clench despite myself.

The sight was devastating.

[How could he help the beggar? He is encouraging him to keep being in the gutters!]

My mind rebelled against what I was seeing, tried to find a rational explanation for the stranger’s actions.

This was not how things were supposed to work. You did not help beggars.

You ignored them, pushed past them, forgot about them the moment they were out of sight.

That was the way of the world.

I say this now, but I secretly followed them behind their backs.

I don’t know why, but I wanted to see the end of the evening.

There was something about the stranger that drew me, and made me want to understand what kind of person would do such a thing.

They walked towards several street vendors, eating pie, pastries, roasted meals, and even had hot soup.

The boy ate with a desperation that was painful to watch, shoveling food into his mouth as if he were afraid it would be taken away at any moment.

The stranger watched him with that same soft indifference, occasionally offering a word of encouragement or a gentle touch on the shoulder.