A fine drizzle drifted through the gray sky, carried by the wind, soaking everything despite the umbrellas of hurried passersby.
Atop the towering city walls, soldiers stood every five or six meters, drenched and miserable. Many huddled under crude shelters at the wall's base, seeking refuge from the damp, biting wind, though the shelters did little to keep out the cold.
To stay warm, the soldiers lit small fires.
The firewood came from splintered furniture, much of it brand new, but no one cared.
It was wartime.
A sergeant in a straw raincoat patrolled back and forth, suddenly halting to shout at a group warming themselves by a fire. "Move those powder kegs away, you idiots! Want to blow us all to hell?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Understood, sir!"
The soldiers scrambled to obey.
Satisfied, the sergeant's face hardened again as he spotted seven or eight muskets propped against the wall, water streaming down and soaking them.
"Damn it, your guns are your lives! You don't even care about that?"
His furious bellow cut through the misty rain, sharp and jarring.
...
The city was Glasloval, the third largest in Lavol Province of the Monstock Republic. A commercial hub, not a military stronghold or capital, its walls enclosed a modest area.
Yet even this trading city was now gripped by fear.
Beyond the high walls, the once-bustling commercial streets lay deserted, and the crowded plaza had become a haunt for stray dogs.
The walls, built six centuries ago when Glasloval was founded, had nearly been torn down by successive mayors. Intermittent wars, however, ensured their survival.
Time had weathered the enclosed district into Glasloval's oldest quarter, last renovated two centuries ago. Narrow streets wound between tightly packed houses, home to people of modest means.
Now, most of Glasloval's 250,000 residents had crowded into this old district.
Only Garden Street, on the western side, retained some neatness and charm. It had been commandeered by the city's authorities.
On the top floor of a four-story building, Colonel Marvin gazed out a narrow skylight. The dreary sky mirrored his mood. He glanced at the man behind him, then at a note on the table.
Hours earlier, the warzone command had sent this man, along with a cart of syringes and a written order.
"Captain Shulant, tell me the truth. Is what you brought really a plague vaccine?"
The colonel's question broke protocol, but he trusted the man behind him would not betray him.
"Since you've already guessed…"
Captain Shulant sighed. He could've dodged the question or lied, but not to his former commander. "The drug's official name is X23, a common muscle growth agent. It rapidly boosts muscle development and metabolism. Field medics use it on wounded soldiers to speed up healing."
Despite his words, the captain felt uneasy.
Everyone knew X23 wasn't meant for ordinary people. It brought benefits: strength, endurance… but at a cost: it burned through life itself.
A standard dose of X23 could double or quadruple physical strength, reduce fatigue, and allow overexertion with less risk of injury. On the battlefield, it tripled survival odds.
But within a decade, the user's blood vessels would clog, muscles would weaken, and rapid aging would set in. Few survived twenty years.
After long deliberation, Colonel Marvin made his decision. He tucked away the command's note, scribbled a new one, and sprinkled sawdust to dry the ink before summoning his aide.
"This is the warzone command's order: to prevent plague, all severely wounded in the medical ward must receive the vaccine."
As the aide left, the colonel turned to Shulant. "This is my call. You can report it to command as it is."
"Sorry, sir," Shulant replied. "I'm just here to deliver the drugs and orders. I've got a tight schedule and can only stay an hour. In that time, I saw nothing, heard nothing."
With a salute, the captain exited the room.
...
The central square of the old district had been transformed into a temporary medical ward.
Though the front lines were two or three hundred kilometers from Glasloval, the ward was packed.
As a second-tier city, not strategically vital, Glasloval was considered relatively safe. In its six centuries, no war had touched it. Even when Lavol Province fell, this city remained untouched.
So, the wounded from the front were sent here.
Tents sprawled across the square, made of massive tarps propped up by wooden poles every few meters. Beneath them, rows of cots were crammed together.
Rain seeped through gaps in the tarps, dripping onto basins and kettles scattered across the wet ground.
Hundreds of sixteen- and seventeen-year-old nurses bustled about. Glasloval didn't have this many nurses; they were schoolgirls. Since the war began, schools held half-day classes, with students conscripted for various tasks the rest of the time.
Most working in the ward were girls, though boys occasionally appeared.
At one corner of the square, a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old boy struggled to unload heavy crates from a cart. The crates, marked "Handle with Care," weighed him down, but their words frustrated him more.
The boy, Ritchie, was strikingly handsome: curly brown hair, sharp nose, defined cheekbones. But his face bore scars, a bruise on his left cheek, and a split lip.
Ritchie, eighteen, lived in the old district. Once a sign of modest means, the war had made it the city's only refuge.
His parents owned a four-story house, now a small fortune. Selling the lower three floors had brought the family a tidy sum.
After years of scraping by, the money promised a better life.
Ritchie deeply regretted not stopping his parents' reckless decision. These days, he lived amidst constant conflict, fighting almost daily because others envied his family's newfound wealth.
Previously, he hadn't worked here. Most boys from school were assigned to blacksmith shops forging weapons, carriage yards repairing wagons, or the city outskirts building fortifications with engineers.
Ritchie had worked everywhere, but nowhere for long. Within a week, trouble always found him.
At first, he endured it, thinking yielding would end it. But he soon realized his tormentors were after his parents' money.
Because his father had joined the reserve militia, and no one dared trouble a soldier, they targeted him instead. His mother rarely left home, sewing gauze for the army to supplement their income. Even the boldest wouldn't dare break into their house; during wartime, burglary was a capital offense.
Realizing submission was futile, Ritchie stopped backing down. Normally easygoing, he fought fiercely when provoked. The scars on his face came from a brawl with six older boys.
He was battered, but they fared no better.
After that fight, he was reassigned to the medical ward. Most workers there were girls, with a few frail boys. There was basically nobody there who could threaten him.
Every coin has two sides. Being safe from threats was good, but it meant all the heavy work fell to him.
Like now, he had to unload and stack crates neatly, keeping them off the wet ground in the rain, carrying them to the warehouse.
The medical ward's warehouse was a small, three-meter-square wooden room reeking of iodine.
As Ritchie set down a crate and turned to grab another, several figures burst in.
Dressed like wounded soldiers, they slammed the warehouse door shut.
The leader, head wrapped in gauze, tore it off once alone, revealing a scarred face, his right eye bruised and bloodshot.
Ritchie recognized him as a classmate who, days ago, led the group that attacked him.
The others were classmates too.
Realizing their intent, Ritchie was too late. They rushed him, pinning his arms and legs, pressing him to the ground.
The leader stuffed a wad of gauze into Ritchie's mouth, sneering, "Thought hiding here would save you? We didn't plan to go this far. but now…"
Grinning wickedly, he took a crowbar from one of his accomplices.
Ritchie's pupils shrank in terror, fixated on the iron rod with a jagged tip.
A swing could shatter bones; a thrust could pierce his body. Either way, it promised agonizing death.
He tried to struggle, but their grip held him fast.
As the crowbar descended toward his head with the leader's cruel grin, Ritchie clenched his teeth, bracing for death.
A faint crack sounded… but no pain followed. Cracking one eye open, Ritchie saw the crowbar lodged in the crate behind his head.
With a creak, the crate's lid was pried open.
The leader tossed the crowbar aside, pulling a syringe and several vials from the crate.
"Know what this is?" the leader sneered. "I don't know either, but the guy who paid me to beat you said one shot of this, and no normal person lives past twenty years."
He wasn't waiting twenty years to watch Ritchie die. He pulled out not one but several vials.
The milky powder dissolved quickly in distilled water, drawn into the syringe. It wasn't a standard dose as he'd mixed multiple vials.
A sharp sting, and Ritchie watched the liquid enter his body. In that moment, despair overwhelmed him.
X23 worked fast. Within seconds, Ritchie's heart raced, pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from his chest. His body heated up, muscles twitching uncontrollably, sharp, tearing pain ripping through him.
His skin flushed red, like a boiled shrimp, beads of blood seeping from his pores. Bulging veins snaked across his body, exposed skin resembling gnarled tree roots.
The sight unnerved his captors. Even the leader, shaken, reached for the discarded crowbar.
...