Chapter 3: The Wanted

In a room filled with various corpses, an old man, who was busy handling one, turned his head to look at Asa and grumbled with deep regret, "I knew something was off when that skinny fool suddenly decided to deliver the goods and didn't even haggle. I should've known—cheap stuff is never good."

Asa tried to prop himself up, but as soon as he placed his hand on the ground, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through his chest. He let out a pained cry and collapsed back onto the floor. His broken ribs shifted painfully, leaving him too weak to speak. The old man ignored him, continuing to fiddle with the corpses while muttering complaints to himself.

Gasping for air, Asa weakly moved his head and surveyed his surroundings. It was a large room—no, more like a large building—with a simple structure: a high ceiling, wide open space, and large doors. There were a few big glass windows high on the walls, making the room bright enough to clearly see all the bodies inside.

Calling them bodies wasn't entirely accurate. Along with a dozen or so complete corpses, there were several dozen incomplete ones, as well as countless organs floating in glass jars, all arranged on shelves and tables of varying heights. This house was essentially a human display gallery. Asa lay amidst a naked male corpse and a few dismembered hands and feet, while the old man was busy dissecting a female corpse.

Footsteps echoed, followed by a knock on the wide wooden door. A voice outside called out, "Is Old Sandru here? Open the door."

The old man, Sandru, shouted back, "I'm here. Open it yourself if you want to come in."

The door swung open, and a group of ten or so heavily armed soldiers entered. A few gasped in horror upon seeing the room's setup.

One of them, seemingly the squad leader, asked Sandru, "Is there anyone else here?"

"People?" Sandru nodded, "The whole place is full of people. Take your pick."

"I'm asking if you've seen any suspicious living people you've never seen before," the squad leader clarified.

"I haven't seen this one, nor that one," Sandru replied, pointing at a few soldiers with a hand freshly pulled from the female corpse, blood and other fluids still dripping from it.

The soldiers recoiled, their faces twisted in disgust.

"This old man..." the squad leader muttered before continuing, "Here's the situation. A criminal escaped from the city jail today. He's a dangerous and cunning spy. He killed everyone in the jail, including the fat and skinny guys who regularly sold corpses to you. The fugitive is still hiding somewhere in the city, and we're under orders to search."

"I haven't seen any spies, and there's no one hiding here. Feel free to search if you want," Sandru said, returning to his work on the corpse.

"Everyone, search the place thoroughly. Remember, the fugitive is a man around twenty years old, slightly tall, with black hair and black eyes. His left hand is injured. Keep in mind, once you find him, don't engage—kill him on the spot. This is an order from Duke Murak, and the fugitive might know some dark magic, so stay alert," the squad leader ordered.

The soldiers reluctantly spread out to search, some still struggling to hold back their nausea.

An order from Duke Murak? Asa couldn't speak but heard everything clearly. Though he had no idea how he had managed to kill everyone in the prison and escape in his current injured state, he understood the part about "kill on sight, no talking."

The best course of action, Asa thought, would be to continue pretending to be dead and wait for the danger to pass. Unfortunately, the room was well-lit, making it easy to see him clearly, including the bandages on his hand.

"Hey, come look at this," Sandru called out, pulling something from the female corpse's abdomen. He held it up proudly, as if he had made a great discovery. "I bet this woman never gave birth, but she definitely had an abortion. Who would've thought people in the royal city would do such things?"

"Ugh—" "Bleh—" Two soldiers near the squad leader couldn't hold back any longer and began to vomit. The sound spread like a chain reaction, with other soldiers following suit.

"Who the hell brought the rookies?" the squad leader cursed, jumping back as his boots got splattered with vomit. Seeing more soldiers start to puke, he glanced once more at the object in Sandru's hand—still attached to a few tendons from the corpse's body—and felt sick himself. "Retreat! Get out of here, now!" he ordered. The soldiers bolted from the room as if fleeing for their lives.

"Hey, clean up your mess before you leave!" Sandru chased after them, cursing, before slamming the door shut. He then walked back to Asa, muttering, and stared at him curiously. "I don't know how that skinny fool mistook you for a corpse and dragged you here, only for you to go back and kill him."

Asa finally got a clear look at the old man. He was a tall, gaunt figure dressed in a filthy monk's robe, so stained it was impossible to discern its original color. His gray-white beard and hair were tangled together with the robe's threads, making it hard to see his face clearly. The only thing clearly visible were his sharp eyes—clear and bright, showing no signs of the dullness that came with age.

"I don't know what happened either. Since you know they're looking for me, why didn't you turn me in?" Asa asked weakly, every word causing his broken ribs to throb in pain.

Sandru stared at him, eyes wide, and answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "Why would I turn you in?" He shook his hand in the air, "You're worth five copper coins to me. Five!"

"If I get the chance to escape, I'll pay you back," Asa replied, still trying to make sense of the situation. Not only was he gravely injured, but he had somehow become a wanted man, and the order to "kill on sight, no talking" left him no chance to explain himself.

"No need. It looks like you won't have a chance to escape. They'll search everywhere, even the women's restrooms in the city. What did you do anyway?" Sandru asked.

"I just saved the Duke's daughter from the swamp."

"And then? Did you sleep with her? Have a child with her? Sell her to a brothel? Or maybe hand her over to slave traders?" Sandru's imagination ran wild.

"I escorted her safely to Bracada."

"The Duke's way of showing gratitude is...unique," Sandru mused, shaking his head. "But whatever the reason, I'm not interested. You owe me, so you'll work here to pay off the debt. You won't be able to run anyway. They won't stop searching until they catch you."

Asa stared blankly for a moment before reluctantly replying, "I guess that's the only option. But first, you'll have to find a doctor or priest for me." His voice had already started to weaken from the pain.

Sandru looked him over, placed his hands on Asa's chest, and suddenly yanked and twisted his ribs. Asa let out a piercing scream, feeling like knives were twisting inside him, and nearly fainted again. When he finally caught his breath, he realized that his broken ribs had perfectly realigned, and the pain had almost completely vanished. What had taken Bracada's priests hours to heal, Sandru had fixed in an instant, like some kind of magic trick. Asa, though not well-versed in magic, could tell this was an extremely high-level healing spell.

"Three months," Sandru said.

"What?" Asa asked, confused.

"Three months of work for healing that," Sandru clarified.

Asa quickly raised his mangled left wrist, crushed by the werewolf, and asked, "What about this?"

Sandru unwrapped the bandages, took a close look, and sighed as if he had just found money lying on the street. "At least three years."

In the Duke's study, Duke Murak seldom furrowed his brow, but now he listened with displeasure to the Royal Guard's report of no progress.

Standing rigidly at his side was Sir Claudius. Despite the Duke's obvious anger, Claudius remained composed and dignified, embodying the ideal of knighthood perfectly. Yet, from time to time, a flash of barely contained anger flickered in his gaze as he stared at the floor.

The Duke did not blame him. Duke Murak never blamed anyone, nor did he lose his temper. But Claudius could not forgive himself for making such a grave mistake—one that might jeopardize the entire plan and even endanger both the Duke's and his own safety.

Suddenly, the Duke asked, "Why did you kill everyone in the prison?"

Claudius answered, "I was worried the soldier might reveal something."

"When someone is mysteriously imprisoned, how could they possibly feel like chatting with others?" Duke Murak slowed his speech, his tone growing more serious. "More importantly, you acted before fully understanding the situation. How did the soldier lure the warden in? How did he knock them out? How did he escape? If you had thoroughly considered every detail, you would have found something significant." The Duke concluded, "You're too young, too impulsive. You must have patience. Approach problems from as many angles as possible, and you'll discover more solutions."

"Yes. I will do everything I can to capture this soldier," Claudius replied, determined.

"Think about the problem from multiple perspectives," the Duke repeated, his tone insistent. "Don't make it too obvious, or people might become curious. Leave this matter to the Royal Guard." After a pause, the Duke continued, "There's little chance of things going wrong. That soldier probably doesn't even know why he's being pursued, nor will he dare report it elsewhere. We just need to focus on what we must do. Now, go back and make sure no one suspects your connection to this fugitive."

"Understood."

As Claudius left, the Duke's brow remained furrowed. Claudius was ambitious, capable, hardworking, and ruthless—the ideal deputy, an excellent subordinate, and a valuable pawn. But he likely wasn't someone who could achieve truly great things.

Desire clouds judgment. Focusing too much on certain things prevents one from grasping the full picture or perceiving subtle changes. If one is fixated on a single leaf, they will miss the entire forest.

Ambition, when taken too far, leaves no room for flexibility. Overdoing things is as bad as doing too little.

Claudius came from a powerful family. The Ernie family had been aristocrats for generations, holding high-ranking positions in court and amassing wealth in business. He was the eldest son of the family head, a perfect candidate for a political marriage. But he would never be a good husband.

Living with someone who views everything through the lens of personal gain is exhausting. People like that see only themselves.

In the solitude of his study, Duke Murak sighed. For the first time in a while, he felt a bit weary.