The pain is excruciating, a relentless onslaught that feels like a thousand tiny needles stabbing into my face. Every moment is an agonizing reminder of the searing heat that left my skin blistered and raw. It's not just a burning sensation; it's as if the very essence of pain has taken residence on my face.

I just sit there for an unknown time, stoically enduring the overwhelming pain. But I cannot simply stay immobilized; I must find a way to relieve my suffering.

The savage lands, recognizing my extraordinary needs, fail to provide the bandages befitting my regal wounds. So, I, in my infinite wisdom, decide to fashion makeshift bandages from the finest clothes the impoverished locals can offer. My magnanimity knows no bounds.

Realizing the necessity of disinfectant, I, the brilliant mind in this forsaken expanse, conclude that ale from the common inn is the closest this world can get to an elixir worthy of touching my wounds. After all, only the most extraordinary substances should have the honor of caressing my flawless skin.

Buying the cleanest shirts for bandages is not a chore for someone as majestic as I am. I stride toward the inn, my mere presence elevating the establishment. The pain, though intense, should consider itself fortunate to be felt by one as exceptional as me.

Finally reaching the inn, I purchase the ale and ascend to my room. Using my sword to cut one of the shirts into strips of cloth, I lightly soak them in the ale and wrap them around my head.

As the ale-soaked cloth touches my wounds, it's an instant clash of sensations. The cool liquid grazes my damaged skin, creating a tingling, stinging dance. There's a faint scent of ale in the ale. It's not comfortable, but in this makeshift remedy, there's a whispered hope for relief.

I stayed like this for a couple of days. My routine consisted of waking up in the morning, eating, going back to bed, waking up in the evening, eating again, and then changing my bandages.

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Sometime later, I needed to start making money again. My funds are running out.

As I think of a way to make money, I realize I could just start pick-pocketing. The only reason that wizard came after me was because I started killing people. I'm sure there are a bunch of pickpockets in these slums.

Walking out of the market with a new and shiny dagger and a mere 15 bronze, I try to find a crowded place to take what truly belongs to me.

Walking into the bustling place, I scan the area, searching for a person whose pouch is showing or who seems vulnerable. Finally, my eyes land on an idiot who has his pouch hanging off of his belt. He is engaged in a conversation with a woman about something I don't care about. Walking casually by the man, I subtly bump into him, using the opportunity to act as quickly as I can.

As I bump into him, I grab his pouch, feeling its weight in my hand. Swiftly, I cut the string that connects his belt to the pouch. With my mission accomplished, I disappear into the crowd, leaving nothing but a confused man behind. And with that, I am now 16 bronzes richer.

Well, I suppose I found a new way to gain money again. Thinking about money, my cold dead heart’s temperature rose by 1 degree, but not for long of course.

With this newfound skill, I continue my routine of stealing, eating, sleeping, and healing. Looking at my reflection, I am confronted by the horrifying sight of my once beautiful, god-like face now marred by burns. However, I am undeterred. In a world filled with fantasy tropes, I am certain there must be healing magic available. Perhaps, in my pursuit of learning magic, I can unravel the secrets of healing and restore my face to its former glory. Because, let's be honest, the world desperately needs my flawless visage.

But on one fateful day, as I prepare to approach my next target, a burly hand lands on my shoulder, causing me to turn around. Before me stands another typical big and blurry commoner, likely a member of some gang. With a menacing tone, he warns, “Listen up, pal. Ye find yerself in Gray Cobra territory, ya get it? We nabbed ya sniffin' 'round, pocketin' folks' gold, and not a single coin's found it's way back to us yet.”. This blithering buffoon thinks that I would deign to share my gains with them… although it would be nice to join a gang.

I ask the simple man if I could join this Gray Cobra gang. The man squints at me, studying me with skepticism "Thinking about joining the crew, eh? Well, before that, you gotta pass a little test. Also, you're gonna need to make a nice little donation.".

With a sigh, I reach into my pocket, taking out 14 bronze coins, and placing them onto his hand. But the hand remains open, silently demanding more. Suppressing another sigh, I reluctantly withdraw 6 additional bronze coins and place them onto his outstretched palm. Finally, a smile stretches across the man's face, signaling my acceptance. Naturally, my sheer presence is worth every coin.

He leads me to a sketchy building and hands me a ticket, explaining that it is for the examination. I am to return to this building in three days' time. Naturally, my acceptance into this gang is inevitable. After all, they must recognize the honor bestowed upon them by having someone of my caliber among their ranks.