CHAPTER 30: THE COST OF SYMPATHY

I moved through the tall grass, my hands parting the blades before me with deliberate precision. The world seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions, but my focus remained on the distant city, a looming silhouette against the horizon. It was a constant reminder of my failed attempt to enter its walls. I'd come so close, only to be turned away, rejected, and driven out. To be seen by the villagers and farmers now, with no valid reason for my presence, would only arouse suspicion. They were no different from the city’s residents, paranoid, distrustful, willing to turn anyone away without a second thought. They wouldn’t help unless there was something in it for them. People never do. Sympathy was the easiest currency in this world, and it could only be bartered for when one had a story worth telling.

My gaze fell upon a rock nestled in the shadows of the field, not too large, but heavy enough for what I had in mind. The sun hung low, casting long shadows, but the quiet of the moment was deceiving. I could already hear the distant murmur of the settlement, people talking, working. The rock was cold to the touch as I picked it up, feeling its weight settle into my palm. With calculated force, I slammed it against my forearm, the bone protesting under the impact, and for a moment, all I could focus on was the sharp flare of pain shooting through me. The blood rushed to my head, and the burning ache spread through my limb, a reminder that pain, unlike anything else, was undeniable. A dull throb settled in, deep and convincing. Good. It was all part of the plan.

I let out a shaky breath, pressing my teeth together to avoid making a sound. The pain had to seem real. In a world like this, nothing could be more authentic than the bite of suffering. I exaggerated the limp in my step, allowing my foot to drag just enough to make the injury believable. My torn tunic, dirt-streaked and torn at the hem, fluttered in the wind, and I wiped a smudge of blood across my cheek, smearing it into a more convincing mask of exhaustion. I wasn’t just a man walking into the village, I was a victim, a desperate survivor clinging to the edge of his last breath.

I trudged forward, every step weighted with the illusion of hopelessness, each one a calculated move in my game. The nearest settlement appeared like a refuge, nothing more than a cluster of huts and wooden fences enclosing fields of grain. But as I neared it, the details became clearer. The sharp scent of earth and hay clung to the air, mingling with the distant echo of human activity. A group of farmers stood near a well, their idle chatter coming to an abrupt halt as they turned their heads toward me.

"Help... please," I rasped, letting my voice crack at just the right moment. The words barely made it past my lips, but it was enough. The man at the front of the group, a broad-shouldered fellow with weathered hands, his face as rough as his palms, stepped forward, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He was no fool, this one. He’d seen hardship before, and he could smell a lie from miles away.

"What happened to you?" he asked, his voice firm, his gaze sweeping over me with practiced scrutiny. His eyes flicked to my bloodied arm, my torn clothes, my weary stance. It wasn’t the first time he’d encountered a stranded traveler, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But something about my condition, something about the desperation in my eyes, made him pause.

I swallowed hard, forcing a tremor into my voice as I let hesitation creep into my features. I’d done this before, a thousand times, played the victim. "Bandits. They… they attacked me on the way to the city. Took everything." I glanced down, shaking my head as if the memory pained me. "I barely got away." I let the bitterness seep into my tone, the words tinged with an authenticity that almost felt real. But I knew the truth, and so did they. They had nothing to gain by helping me, but guilt, the oldest motivator of all, was a powerful tool.

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The man exchanged a glance with the others, his brow furrowing, but doubt lingered in his eyes. They had no reason to take me in, no reason to care about the plight of a stranger. But in the end, they were human, and that made them predictable.

"Come inside," a woman’s voice spoke up. Soft, cautious. "We'll see to that wound."

Her offer was a gamble. She didn’t know me, didn’t know that my wounds were no more than a ploy. But she was kind, too kind for this world. They all were. They saw a broken traveler and forgot the nature of the world outside their gates. A cruel world. One that swallowed the weak and spared the cunning.

I allowed them to guide me into a small hut. The inside smelled of straw, cooked grain, and something earthy, like fresh earth after the rain. A modest fire crackled in the corner, casting flickering shadows on the walls. As the woman cleaned my arm, I studied the surroundings, every detail slipping into my mind. The rack of tools by the door, hoes, sickles, a single rusted sword that looked like it hadn’t seen battle in years. The weak point in the wooden wall near the back corner, a gap that could be exploited if the time came. And beneath the table, a lockbox. Not large, but enough to hold whatever meager treasures they had. I could almost hear it whispering, secrets, valuables, vulnerabilities.

"Thank you," I murmured, offering a weary smile. It felt foreign, a gesture I had grown too used to masking, but it was convincing enough. They needed to believe I was harmless. That I was just another casualty of a cruel world. They didn’t need to know what lay beneath the surface. "I appreciate it."

"You’ll need to rest before heading to the city again," the woman said kindly, wrapping my arm with clean cloth, her hands gentle. "It's dangerous out there."

Dangerous indeed. But not in the way she thought.

"I'll stay only a night," I said, my tone laced with reluctant gratitude. "I don't want to be a burden."

The man grunted, a noncommittal sound as he shifted his weight, his gaze lingering on me with the kind of skepticism that only experience could bring. "You won't be. But stay out of trouble. We've had enough of that lately."

I nodded, offering another rehearsed smile. It was perfect. They thought they were helping a man down on his luck, but I saw something more. I saw opportunity. I could take more than just their food and shelter. I could take their trust. Their secrets. Their lives, if it came to it.

As night fell and the household settled into a comfortable, predictable rhythm, I sat by the dimming fire, eyes flickering toward the lockbox beneath the table. My fingers itched. Patience, though, was key. I knew better than to rush. They had no idea what I was capable of. What I was willing to do.

In the end, every encounter was just a stepping stone. A lesson. A means to an end. And in a world like this, the only difference between a bandit and a survivor was perspective.

I leaned back, letting the warmth of the fire lull them into complacency, their chatter fading into the background. I was already plotting my next move. After all, survival demanded adaptability. And I would carve my own path through this world, one way or another.

This world owed me nothing. So I would take everything from it.