A foul smell attacked Myrkas' nostrils. It was akin to a perfume made of sock-infused vinegar and potent ginger. The offalctive assault awoke him instantly. The scent caught in his throat, choking him a little. Myrkas coughed and squeaked as he tried to sit up. It was then that the pain slammed into the boy. He hurt everywhere. Every single cell of his body was screaming in pain. His skin, his bones, his muscles, his organs were suffering. Myrkas had become a living bruise: a sack of blood on the edge of rupture.

Myrkas could not move. He felt a kinship with tenderized steak like never before. He had been turned to mush, transformed into ground beef. The pain was overwhelming. He dared not concern himself with the possibility of permanent damage. Myrkas could only hope that Qi-infused medicine was as effective as he had read in his past life. Pop a pill and go back to fight. Magical healing on demand. Seeing no such remedy in his immediate vicinity, he fell back on meditation. It always helped in cultivation stories. However, before Myrkas chanted his first full mantra, a bored voice broke his concentration:

"This will hurt kid. Don't bother screaming."

Ice flooded down on Myrkas. Thousands upon thousands of fine, frozen needles assaulted his senses. In their wake, they left a torturous numbness. The feeling was nowhere near pleasant. A sidestep from his previous throbbing pain. His muscles seized at the change until he forced them to relax, wary of the next ordeal awaiting him.

As soon as Myrkas felt his body beginning to thaw, the youth was roughly turned over. Now lying on his belly, Myrkas suffered a second wave of ice. It was as bad as the first. His skin tingled, stuck in between the pulsing, burning pain from his wounds and the freezing numbness brought on by whatever the man with the bored voice was doing to him. The boy had transitioned from shredded meat to churned, chunky ice cream.

Myrkas' mind was similarly stretched. Too much had happened in too little time to process. His limbs didn't feel like his own. Powerless, he let himself be turned again. Despair was closing in on him, hovering near the door. Everything Myrkas had done these past months to improve, to grow stronger and take his destiny in hands were for naught. He still ended up like a pig to the slaughter. Worst, his own plan had led him straight there, right into the tiger's den. Myrkas had run head-first into danger, mingling with players way above his league.

He berated himself. His uncle was an alchemist for Allrikh's sake. Instead of heading into the night, alone, in a world he vaguely understood, Myrkas should have just talked with his uncle. Asked about cultivation and meditation. Surely, Koriss had some knowledge of the arts. Qi manipulation was a primordial component of alchemical studies. Magic medicine-making needed magic after all; it only made sense.

But no, of course not. Myrkas had preferred to "follow his own path." To re-invent the wheel of cultivation like a chosen "Hero" destined to save to world from oppression and evil beings. It would have been much too simple to ask his uncle for advice instead.

But social anxiety had gotten in the way. Myrkas could not even say why he was afraid to talk with his uncle. The man had done nothing to warrant this weariness. Koriss Hakhmir was not very warm or welcoming, true. However, his distant attitude should not have elicited this visceral fear in Myrkas' belly when he thought about going to bother his uncle in his laboratory.

Myrkas was lying to himself, he knew. In his weakened state, he could finally acknowledge the reason for his hesitation. The underlying cause of his uneasiness when interacting with his only living blood relative. Myrkas was afraid to be rejected. To be discarded as worthless and untalented, relegated to hide in the shadows less he brought shame to the Hakhmir name.

His father in this life, Kalor, had not been kind. The few memories he still had of him were quite clear. His older brother had been the favoured one, the heir apparent, the family's hope for the future of house Hakhmir.

The glimpses from his past life were similar. He'd been left all alone after his parents' accidental death. No one wanted to take in a sick teenager, not even his own grandparents. Loneliness had scarred his soul. Only Nirsa's presence and care had dulled the ache. She had become his anchor, especially since Myrka's soul had cracked and his memories had been scrambled. She was his lighthouse in the tempest.

Myrkas took a deep breath in, ignoring the sharp burst of pain from his mending ribs. He would have to face his uncle now, no way around it. There was no hope to hide his sorry state until he recovered. Healing, as magical as it was here, still took time. His body would show the marks of this night for the coming days, if not nonats. Myrkas needed to face his potential rejection when home, with the proof of his stupidity and incompetence displayed on his battered face. While Myrkas reflected, the blue-robed man finished his ministrations. He gave the youth a last, bitter pill and urged the boy to his feet.

"There kid, you should live. Aran went easy on you. Now get out, I got more customers on their way in."

Brought out of his dazed state, Myrkas took note of his surroundings. He recognized the thin, frazzled-looking man standing at his bedside as the drunk doctor Suma Ranil had pointed at earlier. The man was ignoring his patient, too busy storing flasks, pills, and bandages in his shoulder bag. Unknown substances stained his faded robes.

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Blood, Myrkas deduced. Let's hope he didn't poison me... Myrkas thought, his heart full of trust in his impromptu saviour—not.

"Out now kid!" the doctor barked. "I don't have all night."

"I have seen syringes with better bedside manners," Myrkas muttered under his breath.

Bracing himself, Myrkas sat on the cot. The action required all of his grit and determination. His ribs protested through the icy numbness that had descended upon his body. The room spun around. A large hand stopped him from falling back.

"I'll take him off your hands doc."

Fear shot through Myrka's spine. He recognized the voice. Its owner had brought him to this forsaken place after all. Chills raked the boy in response, unleashing a wave of pain. Too weak to resist, Myrkas was lifted and carried outside, back into the late spring night.

Draped over Ranil's shoulder, Myrkas watched the pavement pass by. He was exhausted, too tired to dread his fate. Whether Ranil brought him back home or actually left him to rot in a ditch. Myrkas could not bring himself to care. The boy could only blame his sorry self. By now, Myrkas more than suspected he was not the main character of this story. His first defeat had shown him so. Protagonists defeated such odds, won against all expectations. They didn't get mercilessly pummeled by the very first challenge they faced. It had been pure hubris for Myrkas to hope plot armour would save him. Pure and naive hubris.

At least Snow was fine. Whatever happened to Myrkas, this new guy had officially taken a liking to her. The white rabbit was nestled in the muscled man's arm, calm and quiet, looking unduly peaceful despite Myrkas' compromised state. At that moment, Myrkas considered if he had overestimated her capacity to get help in an emergency. Snow was a rabbit, even if she was the cleverest of them all. He shouldn't have expected so much from the cute and fluffy rodent. Hindsight was a cold, cruel, and brutally honest mistress.

They continued in silence, walking deeper into the city. Arrived at destination, the boy was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Ranil took advantage of his freed hand to resume his gentle petting of the white bunny.

To Myrkas' surprise, he immediately recognized their surroundings. He was not fated to die in a ditch tonight after all. Instead, they had reached his uncle's estate.

The imposing man knocked on the gate, without any concern for the late hour. A moment passed before Serni Kroush, the groundkeeper, appeared. The lithe man looked frazzled, as if still half-asleep.

"Young Master! What the... At this hour?" Serni said, obviously confused.

"Get Master Hakhmir. We need to talk," replied Ranil, with a devilish grin on his face. His crooked smile was downright predatorial in the glim moonlight.

"Of course! Master Ranil, Young Master please follow me. I'll wake up Master Hakhmir and come back with refreshments. I'm afraid, Master Ranil, they may not be up to the usual standards as I dare not wake up my Martasa."

The two—plus a rabbit, not to forget—followed him to a seldom-used sitting room. Myrkas had to drag himself there, his feet noisily shuffling on the wooden floor. His body was crashing, running on fumes and willpower alone. The nearby plush carpet beckoned him. All the boy wanted was to lie down and sleep like the dead. A blissful and restorative rest, so far denied to his exhausted self. He forced himself to stare straight at the oil lamps lighting the way to stay awake.

Ranil and Myrkas settled into padded chairs. The finely carved wood and silk furniture were as gloriously comfortable as they appeared. Unfortunately, they were just small enough to prevent Myrkas from curling up and falling asleep. The headrest's design similarly prevented any attempt at resting one's eyes, and Myrkas did not dare put his feet up on the low table in the middle of the setting to alleviate his fatigue. He feared to worsen the coming reckoning.

Refreshments appeared as promised: fragrant tea in a silver pot, delicate pastries filled with nuts, honey, and bean paste presented on fine porcelain, and freshwater flavoured with lemon and mint were provided. One meaningful look from Ranil, and Serni opened a high cupboard in the corner. From there, Serni Kroush took out a glass decanter filled with swirls of red and amber. The liquids danced around one another, never mixing fully. The butler poured a measure into a single tulip-shaped glass before presenting both the bottle and the glass to Suna Ranil.

"Ah! Serni, you spoil me. Scarlet-Star Ardent Pear Spirit, always a treat."

Suna Ranil took a sip. His oh-so self-satisfied smirk grew wider if it was possible. The man liberally partook of the offered fare while waiting for the Master of the house. With the way everything had been set, one could be fooled into believing this meeting was a planned affair instead of an impromptu late night—or early morning—intrusion.

They did not need to wait long. Myrkas' uncle soon entered the room. His large form, taller though less muscled than Ranil's, filled the doorway. The frown his brows made was the only hint of Koriss' current emotional state.

Shadows flickered in the corners. The lighted oil lamps bathed the room in a dim but warm glow, as if too much light upon this night might break a sacred rule: the underlying tenets of chastisement

Silence stretched, as was customary in the presence of Koriss Hakhmir. Myrkas swallowed and sat straighter, his tired state momentarily pushed back. With deliberate steps, his uncle took a seat, right in front of Ranil. The visibly older man had barely granted a glance at his nephew.

"Koriss!" Ranil exclaimed. "How good to see you. It's been too long, much too long."

"Why is my nephew black and blue Suna? What did you do to him," Koriss replied in an even tone.

"So suspicious from the get-go! Come on now, old friend, the boy will think me the villain, when all I did was to selflessly come to his rescue."

"His rescue Suna, really? Out of the infinite goodness of your dried-out heart? Next, you'll tell me Myrkas happened to fall down a set of stairs just in front of your eyes in the middle of the night? And going by the smell and his shivers, you, Suna Ranil, happened to carry enough Ice-Relief potions to almost drown the boy? Potions I haven't sold to you or the city guard in over a year. But which just so happens to be the favoured treatment of one Jade Healing Stream, that drunk-ass wannabe doctor. What a drole and fortunate coincidence."

Contrary to what his even voice might suggest, Koriss Hakhmir was seething. One could tell easily by his narrowed eyes, tight fists, and red-tinged neck. Myrkas had never seen the man angry before, but angry he was. A controlled, focused type of anger. The likes of which one reserved for their greatest Nemesis.