The door to the prison opened as Christoff led two people into the room. One was a middle-aged woman whose clothing exposed her as someone from the upper classes, while the other was Anthony’s stepfather.
The woman immediately rushed up to the bars when she saw the scene inside, covering her mouth with one well-manicured hand.
“Christoff! What have you ruffians done to my poor Malcolm?”
Christoff furrowed his brow, glancing back and forth between Malcolm and Anthony. Eventually, he shook his head and stepped forward to unlock the cell, his nostrils flaring as the awful smell wafted toward him.
“He looks fine to me—just a bit cold is all. I’m more concerned about the smell. Did someone wipe their backside with that shirt?”
Malcolm jumped to his feet the moment he saw his mother, rushing toward her with his arms outstretched as he began complaining about his unjust treatment. As he hurried toward her a wet, filth-covered shirt sailed through the air from the cell, splattering onto the ground near the woman’s feet.
“Don’t forget your shirt.”
The woman covered her nose as she picked up the garment with the tips of her fingers, shaking her head as she tried to put it back down. When Christoff saw her attempting to leave it behind, he quickly spoke up.
“You’re taking that with you, or Malcolm can stay here with his shirt.”
The woman’s face turned beet red as she stomped her foot against the ground, glaring at Christoff while Malcolm tugged on her clothing.
“Mom! Just take it—I want to go home!”
The woman looked down at Malcolm with a face like she was looking at a helpless infant, then gave another angry glare to Christoff.
“Hmph!”
With that final display of displeasure, the woman rushed out of the room, her arm stretched out to its limit, holding the disgusting clothing as far from her person as possible.
As the door closed behind her and Malcolm, a look of relief spread across Anthony’s face, grateful to finally be free from the source of the awful smell. However, he quickly masked his expression, adopting a stern demeanor as he turned his gaze to the angry face of his stepfather, who stood just outside the cell.
The man stepped forward with a sneer, the corner of his mouth twisting into a mocking grin. He tilted his head upward, looking down his nose at Anthony, and jabbed a finger toward the young man’s face.
“Didn’t take you long to screw up, just like I knew you would. You thought you were some great hero? Looks like you’re just a common crook, huh?”
The self-satisfied grin on his face began to fade into a scowl as he failed to elicit the reaction he wanted. Anthony sat quietly, letting the words pass over him without effect. Growing more frustrated, the man grabbed the bars and pressed his face as close to them as he could.
“Confess your crimes! That way, you’ll get off light with five years of hard labor. I already talked to the councilor—they’re willing to go easy on you since it’s your first offense. Even though you tore off an innocent man’s finger like some sort of savage beast!”
Anthony gritted his teeth, his eyes drifting down to the hard stone floor of the cell. He still had no memory of the events that had occurred earlier while he was under the influence of the potion.
Did I really hurt an innocent man?
As he thought about the faces of the men who had accused him, a voice deep inside urged him not to give in, whispering that the truth of the matter had yet to be revealed. Slowly, he clenched his fingers into fists as he contemplated his next move.
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I cannot admit to any wrongdoing… Five years of labor may as well be a death sentence for me. I wouldn’t survive even one more year of hellish inaction.
Anthony took a deep breath and released his clenched muscles, raising his head to meet his stepfather’s stare.
“This has nothing to do with you. Go home. Unless you’re going to use the money my mother left for me to pay my bail.”
The man slowly released the bars of the cell and stepped back, the anger on his face giving way to poorly concealed disgust as he looked down at Anthony.
“Why on earth would I do that? So you can run away like the criminal you are? You know… If they do hang you, I guess that money goes to me, doesn't it?”
Straightening his clothing with a smile, he turned away and stepped through the doorway, leaving Anthony alone with Christoff.
The young guard stepped forward casually, glancing at Anthony. His eyes lingered briefly on the cultivation journal lying between Anthony’s legs before he spoke.
“How are you planning on getting yourself out of this mess, Anthony? There are three men all telling the same story—that you attacked like a crazed animal for no good reason. I know they’re hiding something. When I asked them what they were doing at the old abandoned farmhouse in the first place, they all went silent.”
Christoff crouched down, leveling his gaze with Anthony’s as he rubbed his clean-shaven chin.
“Can you truly remember nothing? If Bo and his crew of scoundrels were up to no good, as I suspect, it would go a long way toward explaining the conflict between you.”
Anthony let out a long sigh and shook his head.
“I’ve been trying. I can’t recall a thing. From a few moments after I swallowed the potion until the moment I saw you walking up the mountain, it’s all just a blur of colors and emotions. I don’t think there’s much hope I’ll remember anytime soon.”
Christoff nodded as he rose to his feet, clicking his tongue regretfully as he headed toward the door. Just as he was about to leave, he paused, glancing back at the journal on Anthony’s lap one last time.
“Everyone knows unorthodox cultivation methods can be exceedingly dangerous. Did a well-regarded veteran like Edgar really expect a kid like you to undertake such a thing on your own? I wonder...”
As Christoff finished speaking he shrugged his shoulders before leaving the room, Anthony was left alone once more, his stomach twisting with anxious tension. The dread of his possible conviction and the uncertainty about the future were torturous, especially while he was trapped in a cage with nothing but his thoughts for company.
Anthony began to do what he always did to calm his mind: train. Pressing against the cold stone floor, he pushed his perfectly straight body up and down, doing push-ups in rapid succession. Yet the resistance, which should have strained his muscles, felt like less than half of what it had been before he started his cultivation.
It wasn’t until he had completed over a hundred push-ups that he began to feel the pain in his muscles he was craving, but even then, it wasn’t enough. This wasn’t sufficient to strain his muscles the way he needed to grow stronger.
Anthony glanced around the room, taking in the stone walls, the empty bucket, and finally the iron bars at the front of the cell. His eyes narrowed slightly as his attention remained on the bars.
“That will work.”
Stepping forward, Anthony placed his hands on the bars and pulled hard, finally encountering some real resistance. He began training in thirty-second bursts, pulling with all his strength for half a minute at a time before allowing his muscles to rest briefly.
The sound of creaking metal echoed through the building as the young man put constant strain on the thick iron bars.
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At The Jolly Farmer, a small pub near the inn, Bo sat at a table with an ugly grimace on his face, his bandaged hand resting on the wood in front of him. The terrible pain from his torn-off finger kept him in constant misery.
The man tilted a beer to his mouth, greedily swallowing the entire cup before gasping for breath and slamming the empty wooden mug down on the table.
“Ah! Ow, ow, ow!”
The vibration from the impact sent a wave of agony through his injured hand. Bo’s two companions looked enviously at the empty cup. The barkeep had given Bo the beer partly out of sympathy for his lost finger and partly just to shut him up, as his constant moaning was irritating the paying customers.
As Bo finished the free beer, he looked up with anger and began cradling his injured hand like a fragile infant.
“The bastard! I won’t give in until they hang ’im, I swear it!”
Bo continued to complain loudly, ranting about the joy he would feel on the day he saw Anthony’s lifeless body hanging from a rope. Neither Bo nor his two companions noticed the hooded figure quietly keeping tabs on them from nearby.