June 19, Wednesday

1154th Year of Ethereal Chronicles

394th Year of the Draewyn Empire Calendar

Anglia Kingdom [Wisbech village]

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Marcellus's eyes snapped open, blinking rapidly as they adjusted to the darkness that now surrounded him, disoriented for a few moments, trying to piece together his surroundings.

Marcellus lives in a smattering of weathered cottages huddled together, clinging to a forgotten hillside like windblown leaves, Wisbech.

Gradually, the haziness in his mind cleared, and fragments of the dream realm began to seep back into his consciousness. He couldn't recall the entire 'dream'—only bits and pieces.

Each memory returned like a fleeting fantasy, elusive yet vivid in its brief moments of clarity, while the details blurred at the edges, Marcellus grasped onto key points. These significant moments stood out like beacons amid his recollections, providing crucial insights into the surreal journey he had just endured.

Marcellus realized he was back in the physical world, his body once again under his command. The sensation was both familiar and alien as if he was relearning the feel of his skin, reclaiming his muscles.

When Marcellus regained full consciousness, he found himself drenched in urine—a grim reminder of his troubled childhood, such a humiliating situation for a teenager, yet he had no luxury of indulging in embarrassment. Memories from before the harrowing ritual surged through Marcellus's mind, a torrent of unsettling recollections.

With a jolt, he realized the dire predicament he was in!

Fear enveloped Marcellus like a suffocating shroud, gripping his senses in a vice-like hold, his skin prickled with apprehension, his palms slick with sweat, and his clothes clung uncomfortably to his body. His knees trembled as he huddled in the claustrophobic cupboard, desperate to avoid becoming the next victim in the gruesome symphony orchestrated by his tormentors.

To his right, a precarious barrel of alcohol teetered against the wall hastily rearranged to accommodate his presence.

Every nerve in his body screamed caution, warning him of the disastrous consequences of a single misplaced movement.

The mere thought of disturbing the barrel and eliciting a noise that could alert the lurking intruders sent a fresh wave of terror coursing through his veins.

He had sought refuge in this cramped space with such haste that he hadn't had a chance to make it even remotely hospitable.

On his left, a precarious arrangement of pickled jars loomed atop and beneath wooden shelves, their fragile glass containers holding a perilous cocktail of potential demise.

One wrong move, one accidental brush against those deadly jars, and death would be imminent. Luckily the urgent urge to relieve himself had vanished, granting Marcelus a momentary respite from the torment of motion.

"Patron of the Sky, deliver me," he whispered, he continued to pray again as he had since he met these men.

Despite his inherent cynicism against the Church of Combat, in that desperate moment, he yearned for divine intervention to sweep down and rescue him from the clutches of impending doom.

Marcellus's predicament grew increasingly dire as a new threat emerged—the cupboard was positioned perilously close to a roaring fire.

The inebriated miscreants had stoked the flames shortly after the arrival of the intruders, and the resultant chaos had caused alcohol to spill, igniting the blaze.

Marcellus wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his trembling wrists, his gaze fixed on the misfortunes unfolding beyond the small sliver of light that seeped through the crevice.

Through a narrow gap between the decrepit wood that barely passed for a door and the left side of the door frame, he strained his eyes, surveying the grisly aftermath of the slaughter.

The effort required to maintain his watchful vigil left his neck throbbing with pain, and his fingers numb cold.

Yet he pressed his hand against the cupboard wall, desperately anchoring himself in a feeble attempt to avoid toppling over.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Bastard's Haven, even on an ordinary day, was an abhorrent place to be.

The inn, under the stewardship of a seemingly amiable innkeeper, who occasionally rewarded Marcelus with complimentary meals to take home whenever he assisted in the kitchen or served the patrons, the generosity of the staff was a rare silver lining in this wretched establishment.

However, the majority of the patrons proved to be a cesspool of indecency. They would incessantly make lewd insinuations about Marcellus's mother and young niece, their crude remarks filling the air like a noxious fog. Their presence was a constant source of irritation, amplified by their boisterousness and lack of consideration. Many of them were toiling peasants like Marcellus, who would stagger in the late afternoon, drained and fatigued.

Now, their lifeless bodies lay across the floor, crimson pools forming around them.

Marcellus remembered when Ruby Bliss visited him, offering a free lay because he attracted extra business for her and the other prostitutes. She was, as her name implied, often the one to take extra care of those who helped the inn out with bliss.

From his position, he could still see her prone body, she had not moved in many minutes. 'Pretending to be dead, I hope.' He did not believe it though.

It was a special person who survived swimming in a lake of their own blood, and he thought he'd spotted some intestines, but he had stopped looking at her.

Retching would only give away his location.

Pacing back and forth across the room, the first of two late-night invaders; thin and enshrouded in a cloak, was continuously muttering something under his breath too low for any listener to discern, the man had murdered close to twenty people, leaving a trail of carnage in his wake. The most distinctive characteristic about him was the absence of fingers on his right hand, leaving only a stump to serve his sinister purpose.

Marcelus did not know anybody with missing fingers, people around would publicly ostracize such a person, so the man was not a local, or if he was, he was not a regular patron of Bastard's Haven. Swathed in a loose cloak with the hood obscuring his face, he remained an enigma, impenetrable to further scrutiny.

The second man, distinguishable by his pallid Anglian complexion, played a sinister role in this harrowing ordeal. Unlike his counterpart, he exuded a robust physique with meaty limbs, displaying no concern for potential recognition. Positioned to the left of the closet, perched in a chair, barely within Marcellus's field of vision.

Nonchalantly, he balanced the chair on its rear legs, muddy boots callously desecrating an oak table, crushing someone's abandoned meal.

This brutish figure, known as Ganoes by the Thin Man, manipulated a knife, using it to retrieve a yellowed tooth that had become dislodged, blood still dripping from its blade, it wasn't his tooth.

Marcellus's memories were unable to discern whether the blood was from Ganoes' wounded hand or one of the armed guards he had slain.

Thin Man had methodically confronted the rest of the unarmed civilians, handling each one individually. He would interrogate them, probing for information. After extracting whatever he sought, or perhaps finding them lacking the answers he desired, he would then employ his mysterious supernatural powers to end their lives.

‘Devils!’ Marcellus thought, horrified.

He was a stubborn kid and had heard his fair share of ghost and haunted stories from his mother and others, meant to scare virtues into him. He could easily dismiss them as folklore and had never been genuinely terrified. But now, before his very eyes, he was witnessing inconceivable events. The violence and apathy of the men were frightening, but seeing the thin man display supernatural abilities made Marcellus’s heart race. He could hear it pounding loudly and feared that the intruders might hear it too.

Amidst the chaos, only one other soul remained amongst the living—the innkeeper.

Kneeling helplessly at the hearth of the tavern, his hands bound tightly behind his back and tethered to his legs, he wept, displaying a feeble resistance that Marcellus could not entirely fault.

However, in this dire situation, Marcellus knew that such a strategy held no efficacy. When two ruthless figures had brazenly waltzed into a tavern teeming with people, remorseless in their execution, shedding tears would offer no respite no reprieve.

Thin Man halted his restless pacing, positioning himself ominously behind the innkeeper.

As if sensing the looming presence, the innkeeper's body tensed, convulsing with fear as he whimpered in distress.

"Where is he?" Thin Man's voice resonated in a low, guttural growl, bearing an authority that sent shivers down the spines of all who heard it.

In any other circumstance, the peasants would have swiftly ostracized Thin Man, and Marcellus would have relished a smug sense of superiority over him. But at this moment, all such thoughts dissolved, and the realization dawned that, should he survive this death, he would forever be stripped of such complacency.

Thin man had superpowers!

As his death scene continued to unfold at an alarming pace, Marcellus's mind raced, desperately clinging to thoughts of the Harmonious Nexus Path and its potential applications in this dire moment.

He remembered the Harmonious Nexus breathing technique now it came to him a moment ago, yet the 'dream' was still incomplete. He reflected on the words of Lancel, the notion of pulse condensation, and how it could potentially alter his chances of defying death.

However, a disheartening actuality began to take hold—the hope he once nurtured started to wane. Doubt crept in, whispering that perhaps he had merely imagined it all, including the existence of the Harmonious Nexus Path. The overwhelming weight of the situation made it increasingly difficult for Marcellus to trust himself.

The innkeeper did not answer.

He shook and cried.

Thin Man reiterated the question, smashing the nearby furniture.

The purpose of his visit was to locate somebody. Marcellus could not remember the name; it was not him, so he did not care.

He could not help but admire Thin Man. He was impressive. To possess superpowers over everyone while having a damaged right hand was awe-inspiring.

Often, something as small as a misplaced freckle could reduce one's ability for others to accept them. missing fingers? Unquestionable Especially in Anglia kingdom. And yet, Thin Man did it.

Marcellus could only dream of having that sort of power.

Thin Man's mere presence was terrifying.