Like every other day, Rathmur ventured into the Redpine Forest to gather medicinal herbs. Though the plants were of low quality and fetched little value, they still earned him enough coin to buy medicine for his ailing mother.
Rathmur was fifteen years old, thin and frail from years of poverty. His jet-black hair hung loosely over sharp features that might have been handsome, had they not been dulled by malnutrition. Standing at five feet eight, his figure appeared tall yet weak, as though the wind itself could bend him.
People often said the gods showed mercy to the poor, but to Rathmur it felt as if the heavens had turned a blind eye. His father had died years ago, and his mother had since been bedridden with an incurable sickness for three long years. She was all he had left in this world—his only family. To keep her alive, he sold what little herbs he could gather, clinging to the hope that each coin might buy her a few more days.
Heavy labor was beyond him; his body was too frail, his strength too little. All he had was persistence, and the will to endure.
As usual, he spotted a few Greenveil stalks, and a faint smile crossed his face as he bent forward to pluck them. Suddenly, a hard kick slammed into his back, sending him sprawling onto the dirt with a groan.
"Uhhhhh…"
Sharp pain coursed through his body as mocking laughter rang out. Standing over him were three village boys—Patric, the fat son of the chief, and the blacksmith's twin sons, Oliver and Cliver. Their sneering faces blurred together in his teary eyes as they jeered at his misery.
"You fucking bastard—here again to pick these useless weeds in our area? Don't you value your life?" Fat Patric spat in a mocking tone, his words dripping with cruel humor.
These three were the village bullies. They never cared for Rathmur's misery, only finding joy in mocking and tormenting him—thoughtless fools who lived to sneer at others.
It wasn't as if Rathmur couldn't fight back. His temper was notorious, and more than once his rage had left others trembling—his mother had even named him for it, though in her it had been an act of affection, not mockery.
But here, his hands were tied. Patric was the village chief's son, and if Rathmur struck him down, the chief would have him and his mother cast out of the forest. That fear chained his fists.
Rathmur slowly pushed himself up, his back aching from the kick. Gritting his teeth, he steadied his voice and replied,
"I'm not doing anything illegal. This is a public place. Anyone can come here—and I need these stalks to buy potions."
Patrick sneered, his mocking tone cutting through the air.
"Again with that sickly bitch mother of yours? Let her die already."
The words struck Rathmur like a blade. His chest burned with rage. Normally, he could endure their taunts—he had learned to remain calm, even when they cursed him. But the moment his mother was insulted, his blood boiled. Frail as he looked, Rathmur had long practiced sword swings in secret, copying the village guards. Against these fools, he had no fear.
Without hesitation, he snatched a thick branch from the ground and swung it down hard onto Patrick's head.
"Uhhhn—ahhhh! My head—!" Patrick cried out, collapsing as blood welled on his scalp. "K-Kill him! Aghhh!"
The sudden ferocity stunned the twins. For a heartbeat, they froze, wide-eyed in disbelief. Then Patrick's scream jolted them into motion. Both lunged at Rathmur, but he slipped aside with sharp movements, his stick lashing out twice. Each blow struck their stomachs with a dull thud, and the brothers dropped to the ground, gasping.
"Ahhh… h-help…! Ughhh…"
Hearing their wails, Rathmur noticed guards rushing toward the scene, they weren't very far from the village border. His sudden rage shattered, replaced instantly by a surge of fear. He could already picture the consequences of his actions. Without thinking twice, he spun around and bolted straight into the Black Fog Woods—heedless of direction, driven only by desperation.