No matter what, someone should come tell him—
What on earth did he steal from which Prince?!
He returned to the inn where the mercenaries were staying, distracted and unsettled.
During dinner, a group of mercenary friends looked at his soulless appearance, glancing at each other, unsure of what had happened.
However, everyone has their down moments.
On this journey, they had shared meals and accommodation, and more or less treated him as one of their own, not just a client paying for services.
So one of the guys patted him on the shoulder and started a conversation.
"By the way, Poet, we've been calling you Poet all along, but what's your name really?"
"Yeah, tell us!" A freckled-faced young man urged him eagerly, impatient to hear his story.
Marco trembled all over, the image of a bloody portrait flashed again in his mind, and this time, the person on the guillotine turned into himself.
