Step... step... step.
The rhythmic, heavy chime of boot-falls and the clashing of metal keys echoed brutally through the confines. The man was of towering height, wrapped so tightly in thick wool garment that he appeared to be living inside a freezer. And truth be told, the place was a freezer.
The massive man approached an underground passage and began his descent down the stairs. With every step he took, his breath crystallized into icy vapor. His lips trembled, and he gnawed his teeth together, muttering in clear irritation, "Damn it... I cannot believe all these fortifications are for one solitary, scrawny man!" He rattled on, grumbling about the sheer scale of the protection used to cage a single prisoner, assuming him to be just another captive. He did not know that he was in the single most dangerous location within this entire fortress-prison.
He reached the bottom of the passage and lifted his gaze to behold a formidable sight: a massive, armored door forged from pure, strengthened metal. Facing it stood two guardsmen, holding weapons crafted like spears that ended in collars—the kind used to snare beasts and hounds.
"Halt!" one of them bellowed. "Identify yourself and state your purpose!" The two guards raised their weapons with focused aggression, demanding identification.
The bulky man sighed, slipping his hand into his pocket to produce a paper which he extended to the guard. The guard examined it with meticulous care, then signaled to his comrade to open the gateway, shouting: "Open the door!"
The three men stepped back as the sound of heavy metal striking metal rang out; it was a mechanical, automated door driven by gears. As it groaned open, the two guards stepped aside, warning: "Proceed within, but remember... keep your distance from him!"
The man smiled, replying, "Thank you for your warning." But the moment he moved away from them, the smile vanished. Keep my distance? he thought to himself. Really? From what I know, he is weaker than a crippled dog. He turned to glance at the thickness of the iron door, which was roughly the length of his own arm. He dismissed the thought and continued until he reached the final chamber.
There, his body truly began to freeze. Frost began to form over his woolen jacket. He stood before a relatively ancient door and knocked.
The door opened, and the bulky man was momentarily stunned by the spectacle within. He saw a man of massive frame with powerful arms, his features hardened into a warrior's grim mask. What truly shocked him, however, was the whip clutching in the warrior's hand—it bore the unmistakable, dried stains of old blood.
The messenger swallowed hard. The guard asked in a raspy, gruff voice, "Who are you?"
"I... I am one of the Leader's aides," he replied, his voice trembling slightly. "I have come to collect the report."
The guard looked at him coldly and said, "Proceed."
He entered the room and was taken aback by its form. It was a pitch-black chamber, possessing no source of light save for the crimson stones set within the torches. Anyone who entered felt the constriction of the air and a powerful stench of decay. He looked forward, and there it was, literally: a cage within a cage. And inside, a corpse suspended... or something closest to a corpse. A pale entity with long hair cascading over its shoulders, its body a map of scars, welts, and lash marks.
The bulky man's eyes widened in astonishment. He wondered silently, What did this person do to deserve such torture?
The guard interrupted his thoughts. "Inform the Leader of my apologies. We have yet to extract any information from him regarding the location of the map."
"Ah... yes," the man replied with visible agitation. "That is unfortunate, in truth." He wanted to exit this tomb as quickly as humanly possible. The moment his business was concluded, he fled. The guard slammed the door shut behind him, then turned to the suspended man.
"You are lucky," the guard grunted. "I have a few errands to run, so I cannot play with you. It seems you will sleep well tonight."
The guard exited, and an oppressive silence reigned. The room, its void, and its bitter cold were the only friends remaining to the suspended man. His body was akin to a zombie's; his features strange, yet possessing a handsome quality for someone half-dead.
He thought to himself, Ah... Will you not come to take me too? I truly want you to take me... I want to rest.
Suddenly, a horrific headache struck him. Veins began to bulge aggressively on his forehead. He screamed with all his might, "WHY ME!"
After a time, his nerves calmed. He was in an unenviable state, his head flooded with blurred, strange memories he could not truly recall. He looked forward and noticed a cauldron emitting plumes of vapor. He remembered that the guard never entered until the place was entirely filled with vapor first, and at that point, my body refuses to move.
He smiled cryptically, like someone who had been prepared for death for a very long time. He shifted his gaze to the saddle resting on the table and closed his eyes.
"Ah... another damned memory," he muttered. The man submerged into his thoughts, believing them to be fragments of dreams, and began to hear strange yet familiar voices...
"Wake up... Oy... Brat! Wake up, you little bastard!"
"Ah... What!"
John was standing in the center of the stable yard, cleaning the filth of the Ice Phantoms. A man was shouting at him: "Why are you standing there like a statue? Get to work! Move your body, or else!"
John looked at him and said loudly, "I am sorry, sir. I will not repeat it." He then looked down, muttering to himself, Damn it, what is wrong with me today? To be distracted like this? He gripped the cleaning broom. The first thing he noticed were the splits on his hands, the broom's splinters sinking deep into them. He clenched his fist tightly, ignoring the pain, and began to drag the waste. The dust from the filth was choking him powerfully, but he was accustomed to this atmosphere. He finished gathering it into the bucket.
A man who was counting the number of bears approached. When he drew near to John, he opened his eyes in shock and placed his hand over his nose, exclaiming in disgust, "Ah, damn it! What is this?" He looked at John as if the boy were no different from that filth and turned away in annoyance.
John shot him a cold look. The icy atmosphere of this village affected not only bodily health, but the heart as well. John dumped the pile of waste without experiencing any disgust. After a few hours, he finished, his body entirely covered in the filth. He headed toward the stable owner, who was sitting with his companions, laughing and eating fruits.
One of them held his nose. "Yuck... What is this smell?"
The stable owner turned in anger and shouted at John, "What do you want!"
John replied, his features solid as ice and his heart harder, "I have finished the cleaning."
The man raised his eyebrows. "Ah, fine. I will give you your wages." He pulled a vial from his pocket containing a transparent blue liquid. "What are you waiting for? Get out of my face!"
John departed without a word. The stable owner complained to his companions, and they told him, "Why do you employ a boy like him? You could fire him and bring in a grown man who would finish the work faster!"
The man took a piece of fruit and said, laughing before he chewed it, "Heh... Because he is the only one who can tolerate the smell of the waste!" And his companions laughed with him, mocking John.
It was near sunset, and John was stepping quickly back toward his home. He heard sounds of joy and merriment. He looked to his right to see a group of children his age running and playing, the traces of life evident on their faces—matters John did not understand and had never lived due to the immense responsibility resting upon his shoulders.
When they looked at him, they began to express disgust at his appearance and smell. They started chanting, "Filth boy! Filth boy!"
John looked at them with indifference; his heart was petrified. Their words did not hurt him. What hurt him was that the stable smell clinging to his clothes was the price he paid to buy his mother a single minute of calm breath and restful ease.
He entered his home slowly, calling out, "Mother, are you alright?"
He found his mother sprawled upon her mattress, her gaunt body soaked in sweat, her skin pale. John's features shifted from cold resolve to deep sorrow. He clenched his fist so tightly that his veins protruded, but he concealed it so his mother would not suffer further.
He approached her with a smile, patted her head, and asked her to open her mouth to pour the "Tears Elixir" into it—this instant remedy for the harshest injuries in this frozen hell, though it also did not achieve the impossible. Her skin began to improve, the sweat vanished, and her breathing steadied. John smiled.
He did not waste time. He entered a nearby room, stripped off his filthy clothes, and bathed in the freezing water he was used to, despite the bite of the frost that made his body tremble. He emerged clean, headed toward the cupboard to pull out a piece of meat and a large pot, and began to cook a meat porridge with an inviting aroma.
His mother woke, saying, "Ah... John, is that
you?"
"You woke just in time," he replied. "Dinner is ready."
She smiled. After they had finished, she said, "But dear, you didn't eat!"
He smiled. "I ate before you."
He took his mother to her bed to rest and extinguished the fire of the crimson stones. He looked at the cupboard and found a shortage in the meat. Ah... If I continue like this, no food will remain. He stripped his clothes and began to sleep, the moonlight reflecting upon his gaunt body. He was preventing himself from eating save for once a day to save food for the house, thinking, I must work two jobs, or we will not survive.
In the early morning, before sunrise, John set off for the stable. But the stable owner confronted him with a cold look, stating, "You are fired!"
John was stunned. "Why, sir? What did I do?"
The man scratched his head. "For no reason. I do not want you here. Leave!"
John grabbed the man's arm powerfully. "Wait! You cannot do this!"
The man grew angry and struck him a powerful blow to his stomach, causing him to vomit his food and nearly lose consciousness. He shouted at him, "I told you to leave, you little rat!"
John's features reverted to coldness again. He rose and wiped away his vomit, questioning, Now what? How will I bring the treatment for my mother? And more importantly... how will I manage the food?
He wanted to return home disheartened, but he heard the creak of ancient wood. He saw a mission board.
He advanced toward it, hoping that luck might favor him. He smiled mockingly; for most jobs, like the crimson stone mine, were for adults only, or working for a shop owner for a "fish" salary, or a blacksmith's assistant who gave elixir without food. John's problem was clear. The meat in his house was the result of his previous thefts in the market before his face was discovered and he was banned.
He sighed, surrendered to reality, and made to leave. But he saw a massive black shadow weaving; a man in his fifties holding a liquor bottle and singing loudly. John thought to himself, Ah... another drunkard.
But he heard a knocking sound on the wall behind him. He saw the man place his paper on the wall and move on, singing. Driven by curiosity, John looked at the paper. His eyes widened, and he shouted, "Sir!"
The old man turned annoyedly. "Who is speaking?" He noticed the small boy and asked, "What do you want?"
John gripped the paper powerfully, saying, "I want to work with you!"
On the paper was written: (Fishing... Wages: A bottle of Elixir and a large fish)