1 ?

  BLOOD DEBT

  ACT I

  It’s just snow and debt now. That’s all this farm has left.

  The young man lay his head emotionless in the soil, arms spread out like he’d been dropped from the sky. The harsh, freezing wind of Purgatorio howled across the empty fields, swaying at the edges of his patched cloak as snowflakes gently drifted down against his skin, but the cold had already numbed him.

  His breath rose in the fading clouds, staring at the gray sky above. How long have I been lying here?

  Foulk Aster’s skin was pale, his hair was the color of dead wheat, and a jagged scar ran down from his left cheek. His dull, green eyes stared up at the sky with a visible tiredness, clothes stitched together from the remnants of other men’s coats. Blue patches, long brown sleeves, and a scar that might’ve once been red. He looked no older than twenty-three and used to care about things like looking presentable. But now he just tried not to look dead.

  He turned his head toward the frozen fields that were once promised with crops, but not a single sprout had survived ever since the last snowstorm.

  “This land is cursed.” He said to himself, watching as a gust of wind swept loose snow across the abandoned rows.

  “Foulk! Don’t just lie there!”

  The voice came from behind, but Foulk didn’t have to know that it was his father who stood on the porch of their worn farmhouse, wrapped in a coat that had seen better winters. “Snow’s covering the roots again. If you don’t sweep it out, we’ll have no chance of saving anything.”

  Foulk remained lying on the snow, his cheek numbed as it pressed against the cold. The distant creaking of wood and the clang of an old bell from a scarecrow pole were the only signs of life on the farm.

  “Get up,” his father’s voice was firmer this time. “I said get up, Foulk.”

  Foulk slowly pushed himself up on one arm, snow falling off his shoulder in soft clumps. “There’s nothing to sweep here. It’s just ice now. Ice and dead dirt.”

  His father stood behind him, arms crossed tightly with a snow-covered broom in one hand. He was a tall man once, but time had bent him for the worse. His expression, though, was hardened not by cruelty, but by utter disappointment.

  “Then sweep the ice.” He said in a calm tone.

  Foulk looked at him, his fists clenched. “Do you think sweeping will bring back the crops? Do you think the ground will listen if we show it respect? This farmland is already far gone! If you could just accept that…”

  His father didn’t respond right away. He looked down at his son, who bore his mother’s eyes, eyes of lavish green that he greatly missed. “No, I don’t think it’ll listen. But I’d rather fight a losing battle than kneel to nothing.”

  Foulk stood, brushing snow from his robe. His breath was trembling beneath the cold as the storm intensified, knocking away the broom that his father held. “You’re chasing ghosts, old man. This farm may have been our bloodline’s heirloom, but it’s not too late to start a new life. A life with no worries.”

  His father snapped. “And you’re running away from your name. We can’t let go of this farm that easily, knowing the hardships that our ancestors went through for this land to thrive. Only for us to throw it away like it was nothing.”

  Foulk looked away, toward the line of frostbitten trees at the edge of their property. His chest tightened as his father’s words struck a chord with him.

  Aster.

  That name meant something, once. A name passed down by hands that tilled the earth, who believed that the land would always provide. But that belief didn’t stop the cold from killing its roots.

  His father sighed, picking up the broom that had been knocked away.

  “This farm’s been in our blood for five generations. I know it’s hard, and I know the world’s gone cruel, but— “

  “I’m not staying,” Foulk said suddenly.

  A long silence followed. The man’s shoulders stiffened upon hearing. “You’re what?”

  Foulk took a few steps away from him, toward the porch where a small box sat covered in snow. He bent down, brushed off the top with his bruised hands, and pulled out the object inside. A crumpled newspaper likely sitting there for days, slightly damp from the snow, ink slightly intact. But the headline still burned bright.

  500,000 Ducat Bounty Placed on the Mythical Island Paradiso!

  “Whoever reaches the center of the world… shall have everything!”

  He handed the paper to his father without saying a word. His father read it slowly, his eyes narrowing on the bounty placed. “Paradiso? This is a death sentence. There’s no chance that people will ever find that!”

  “Or perhaps, a chance. A chance to get out of this frozen grave. A chance to start life all over for once.” Foulk replied.

  The old man grunted. “Paradiso can’t be found. Do you think anyone would travel thousands of kilometers across beast-infested waters for a fairy tale?”

  Foulk looked his father in the eye, fists clenched at his sides. “Maybe, but I can’t rot here any longer. I’m not strong enough for this life, but I have what it takes to fight for another.”

  His father stared at him, searching for the shell of his former, innocent self. And then he turned away, heading back toward the farmhouse as snow trailed in his boots. “Dinner’s at seven, in case your feet turn back.”

  Foulk stood idly in the field long after the door closed behind the old man. The wind died down for a moment, and in that brief silence, he had made his decision.

  “Fine, just so you wait.”

  Foulk raced to the door, slamming it open with a thud that echoed through the hollow farmhouse. The house had the smell of boiling roots and smoky ash, and on top of an unsteady shelf sat a row of empty jars, previously filled with dried herbs and spices.

  He hurried to his room, barely more than a cramped box, a bed made from straw tucked under a rotting window, and a chest that still had his initials, carved with a knife when he was a boy who believed the world revolved around him.

  He ripped the chest open, grabbing a spare tunic and his father’s old travel cloak from his previous adventures. He reached under the bed for the only thing he owned that still held value to him. A dull sickle with a chipped handle.

  It wasn’t much, its serrated edge was slowly being consumed by rust, and it was at the brink of collapse, but it would have to do.

  But just as he turned to leave—

  Thump.

  The newspaper slipped from under his arm and fluttered to the floor. The bounty placed on the island was visible, but below it was a name carved in fine ink.

  —Tybalt Caelum

  Foulk stood above it, the light flickering across his face.

  “…Caelum.”

  He knelt and folded the paper with care, putting it inside his cloak. He looked back around the room one last time as the wind grew stronger, breaking the window open. And then he twisted the doorknob, stepping out into the snow.

  However, something, or someone, approached him.

  Foulk had barely made it down the path when he saw the silhouette riding toward the farmhouse. A hunched figure on horseback, cloaked in thick black fur with the Purgatorio sigil etched in red across his shoulder.

  No… not now.

  The tax collector had approached him.

  Foulk stopped as the rider dismounted with deliberate slowness, his boots sinking into the snow as he approached him with a menacing presence, like a noose tightening around the neck.

  “Foulk Aster, you’ve missed your third payment.” Said the tax collector.

  Foulk replied, keeping his voice calm and steady. “My father sent word. We’ve had no harvest.”

  The collector pulled a small ledger from his coat. “No harvest is no excuse. By decree of the kingdom, failure to pay constitutes treason against the crown. You owe us seventy-eight shillings.”

  Foulk clenched his fist. “That’s nearly a full ducat. We haven’t earned that in three winters.”

  The collector’s eyes narrowed down. “Then your debt must be paid. By ducat, or by blood.”

  He whistled once, and behind him emerged two guards who wore steel armor under black coats with hands on their swords, each of them eyeing the farmhouse.

  Each guard was over six feet tall, towering over Foulk by a large margin. If he were to fight them unarmed, it would’ve been a death wish. Nonetheless, he wanted to pay, but they couldn’t. The only thing he could do was to pray.

  Foulk froze, trembling on his knees.

  “Take it easy, boy, you’ve got until the next moon. Pay your dues, or we’ll take what’s owed. One limb at a time, if we must.”

  The tax collector turned back to his horse, then paused. “If you’re too frightened to pay with your own blood, then we could settle with your fathers.”

  Upon hearing that. Foulk felt like he had taken a fist to the chest, his jaw clenching as his breath moistened in the cold air. He stood up straight, a fire igniting behind his weary eyes. “You come near him, and I swear to the Gods. Debt will be the least of your concerns.”

  The collector smirked. “Then you’d best start running, farmer. Because we’ll be back at week’s end.”

  He turned on his heel and disappeared into the snow, leaving behind only the horse's footprints and a warning that hung heavier than the blizzard itself. Foulk couldn’t believe it. His eyes were shaking in fear, contemplating what had happened just now.

  W-Why? Why does my father have to be involved with this?

  He sat against the snow in dismay; he couldn’t let those tax collectors get away with what they had just done. He needed a way. A way to pay them back.

  As Foulk stepped back into the farmhouse, his father sat in his worn chair, holding a steaming cup of coffee.

  “You heard.” Said voice, his voice devoid of emotion.

  His father didn’t look up. “I’ve heard enough. If we want them to stop, we’ll have to pay our debt.”

  Foulk stepped into the center of the room, gently putting the newspaper on the table. “I’m leaving now to pay our debt.”

  His father finally looked up; his face aged beyond his years from the endless snow. “We don’t have any payment, except for our blood.”

  Foulk replied. “We don’t. But I have another way of paying.”

  He reached beneath his coat and revealed the dull, metal sickle that had fully rusted. Though dull, it was still a blade, and in that moment, it meant their survival.

  His father’s eyes lit up when he saw the sickle. “What the hell are you doing with that?”

  Foulk turned the blade in his hand. “They won’t stop with our debt. And if we’ll have to pay with blood, might as well pay it with theirs instead.”

  His father stepped forward. “Foulk! Do you have any idea what you’re doing!”

  “What choice do I have? They’ll take you. And if not you, then me. And if not me, they’ll take the house, the land. Everything we ever stood for, everything we broke our backs to preserve. Our home, our blood, our pride, it’ll all be taken and swallowed by them, as if we were never here.”

  Foulk held the sickle tighter. “Do you even know what it’s like to be buried alive in a place that used to feel like home? To walk these fields and see the ghosts of harvests that never sprouted? To see your father grow older not from time, but from trying to hold together a world that’s already falling apart? They don’t care that we’re good people. They don’t care that we’ve bled for this land or begged the sky for mercy. All they’ll ever see is a number in a ledger. And if they don’t get what they want, they’ll mince our bodies up into signatures of failure. My blood, your blood, it’s all the same to them. And if that’s what their ideals are, I will resemble them in that.”

  He looked back at his father, his eyes shaking not from fear, but from desperation. “So, what do I do, Father? Wait for them to ride in and write the ending for us? Wait for them to decide how our story goes? If protecting you means becoming something I’ve never wanted to be, then so be it. You told me it’s better to fight a losing battle than to kneel to nothing, and I’ll be willing to walk into a storm with a blade than to stay here waiting to be buried without either.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  His father whispered with concern. “You’re talking about murder.”

  Foulk slammed the table between them. “No, Father. I’m talking about protection. If walking out there with a blade is what it takes to keep you alive, then I’ll be willing to wear the name ‘criminal’ like a cloak.”

  His father looked down at him, the boy who once chased snowflakes, who used to sleep by the fireplace during harvest season, now stood like a man filled with nothing but anger in his heart.

  “You’ll damn yourself.”

  “Then let me be damned. So long as you’re alive.”

  His father stood up and sighed, staring at the embers of the fireplace. “You think I want you to carry this curse? You think I don’t feel the weight of every winter you’ve gone hungry so I could eat? Every time your hands bled, so mine wouldn’t? You don’t owe me a sacrifice, Foulk. You owe yourself a life.”

  Foulk stood still with a shallow breath, his beige hair swaying in the freezing wind. “And this is the only path I see. I’ve broken soil until my bones ached. Watching the sun rise on a land that gives nothing back. I’ve waited for change like a fool praying for spring in a dying forest. If I stay here, I’ll fade. And if I go, I’ll fight. That’s my choice.”

  Then, his father grabbed Foulk by the shoulders and hugged him, something he couldn’t recall ever since he was a kid.

  “You should’ve let them take me. The debt was mine all along.”

  Foulk pulled back, his eyes gleaming with determination. “No, the debt was never yours. It was ours. Every season we lost. Every field froze over. Every time I saw you hold back food, so I could eat. That price has already been paid a hundred times over; I’m just making sure they felt it for themselves.”

  A moment of silence sat between the two. His father stood there as the fire behind them crackled.

  “You’ve got your mother’s fire… and my damn stubbornness.”

  He looked down on his weathered hands, hands that tilled the same soil for decades, built the same fences, and buried too many dreams beneath the ice.

  “You think you're protecting me, but you’re just becoming me… carrying the same curse I swore would end with me. “

  He looked back up at Foulk, his eyes gleaming with both sorrow and pride. “But maybe I was wrong. Maybe the only way to protect something is to be willing to burn for it.”

  He stepped forward and put a hand on Foulk’s shoulder. “If this is the path you’re walking… don’t do it in shame or desperation. Do it like an Aster, and don’t just fight to survive… fight to win.”

  Foulk held his gaze, nodding once as his grip tightened around the sickle. “I promise, Father. I’m not coming back to this farmhouse until I’ve ended this.”

  He turned back, his cloak swaying behind him as the wind howled across the broken window, his eyes focused on the newspaper that showed the bounty placed. His father didn’t follow through, he simply watched the boy he raised walking into the blizzard, devoid of any emotion.

  And Foulk never looked back.

  Not because he didn’t care… but because he knew if he did, he’d never be able to leave.

  ACT II

  Foulk walked on the soil of Purgatorio for hours, his skin turning paler as the freezing breeze caught his attention. He hadn’t realized it already, but he was approaching the city of Liquefrost.

  Snowflakes poured endlessly from the sky, but the streets never piled with snow as steam vents and underground furnaces kept the walkways warm enough to prevent collapse. Foulk had never seen a city like this. He had never been beyond the farmland, never walked the streets where beggars and nobles passed from shoulder to shoulder.

  His cloak was damp, and his boots squished from melting snow as he wandered through its narrow alleyways. He traversed through the lower ridges of Liquefrost, where the smoke and steam covered the rising sun. While gazing at the buildings of the city, he turned to a civilian who caught his attention.

  He wore a patched-up coat and a worn scarf, almost like his. He appeared no older than his father, but his eyes still gleamed with something his father had long lost a few years back.

  Foulk stepped closer, catching the man’s eye. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Harley Vesk, Jason Jett, and Theodore Black. They were tax collectors who came through my family’s land a while back.”

  The civilian glanced at Foulk’s clothes and posture. “Tax collectors, eh? You seem to be looking for some trouble, then. Someone asked me the same question just before you came, I wonder what’s the deal with them? Were they corrupt? Did they do anything suspicious lately?”

  Foulk’s hands stiffened, grasping for warmth. “Pardon me, sir. But where can I find them?”

  The man sighed, scratching his gray beard. “I don’t know where the other one is. But two of them hang around in a stronghold near the refinery gates. They’re not hiding, though, if that’s what you mean. But if you mean business to them… you’re going to need more than just a cloak and a pair of boots.”

  He pointed his finger toward the horizon, where steam-powered locomotives ran along the tracks. “See that place? That’s the refinery district. It’s where they make the engines, the machines that keep this city moving. But it’s caused some sort of conflict where they’ve increased the tax for the mass creation of those vehicles.”

  Foulk squinted toward the smoke-filled skyline. “What are those?”

  The civilian laughed and leaned forward slightly, seeing the wonder in Foulk’s eyes. “Those are locomotives. Massive steam-powered beasts that can travel miles in no time. You won’t find anything like that on a farm. And look at those flying ships up there!”

  He pointed to the sky, to where an airship soared through the sky. Upon looking at it, Foulk was stunned, his eyes frozen in disbelief. He had never seen anything like it in his entire life, and that thought made him wonder what more the world could offer.

  “You’d think they’re magic, but it’s all just science and machinery. It just goes to show you how much we’ve progressed as a nation.”

  Foulk’s mouth hung open for a moment, he had seen carts and horse wagons before, but this? This was something different. He had no words for it, just a heavy throb in his chest as he watched the vehicles rumble down the tracks.

  The civilian snorted, seeing the confusion in his eyes. “Not used to the technology, huh? Figured as much. The world’s changing fast, kid. You’d better get used to it if you want to stay alive in a place like this.”

  He glanced at Foulk’s dull sickle and the rust that had been eating away at its efficiency. “Don’t just rely on your sickle. Not when they’ve got machines like that working for them.”

  Foulk felt an uncomfortable sense, shifting his sickle to the left. “They didn’t have machines where I’m from. But I’m not here for machines, I’m here for revenge.”

  The civilian raised a brow. “Then you’re in the wrong place. But if you’re still looking for those two, they’re probably holed out near the eastern stronghold. You’ll find it by the ‘prison without bars’ refinery just past the main docks. But you’d better be ready for a fight, especially with that sickle of yours.”

  Foulk nodded. “I’ve got no choice. I’m going to settle this debt with their blood.”

  The man’s face grew grim. “Well then, you better move quickly. Because the more people you piss off in this city, the lesser the chance you’ll make it out alive.”

  Foulk gave a quick nod of thanks and walked away. Still overwhelmed by the sight of locomotives and airships on his way ahead. This city felt bigger than he had ever imagined. But there was no turning back now.

  He had barely taken a few steps in. Suddenly, a series of loud grunts and groans cut through the city, echoing throughout the alleyways of Liquefrost. His heartbeat quickened, with the instinct to act overpowering every other thought.

  He ran his way toward the scene, pushing through the thick haze of steam, regardless of the cold wind that bit into his face. He curved around into a corner and froze, eyes broadening at the sight before him.

  A familiar man lay down on the ground, struggling to breathe as his leg twisted over like he had fallen off a two-story building.

  He was none other than Harley Vesk, the man Foulk had been searching for. His body shook in fear, his eyes twitching as he groaned in pain.

  A trail of blood painted the ground behind him. His face was swollen beyond recognition, with one eye beaten to a pulp. He looked up as Foulk approached.

  “Foulk Aster… I’m surprised they let you get this far. But I am in a dire situation right now. Help me get up, and your debt will be paid.”

  Foulk said nothing as Harley coughed up blood, seeing the wreckage around them.

  Harley begged, his life was on the fine line between life and death. “Listen, I can fix this. I can fix it all. Your father’s name? Wiped clean from the ledger as though he paid it in full. The land? We’ll never set foot in it again. No more debt, no more collectors.”

  Foulk simply stared at him, unfazed by what he had just said. “I’m not here for paperwork. I’m here for revenge, and it seems that someone’s already done the deed for me.”

  He looked in front of him, a tall, pale man with luscious white hair and a lean, muscular build. He held a flintlock in his right hand that had four bullets, its silver gleam reflecting against Foulk’s eyes.

  Harley’s voice seemed desperate now. “Foulk Aster! Can’t you see I’m offering a deal? You don’t have to do this to me! Save me, and I’ll vow to fix everything! You’ll never hear the name Aster spoken with pity again. You’ll be a respected member of society. I’ll sign the papers myself and send men to rebuild your farm!”

  He turned his head back and gazed at the still figure standing beside him. “But this guy… he’s just a filthy murderer with no regard for human life!”

  Harley pleaded for his survival, crawling towards Foulk as though he were his savior.

  But Foulk had already decided…

  “Do you know the last time I saw my father cry?”

  Harley couldn’t answer the question. But Foulk didn’t need to wait for an answer.

  “He was kneeling in the frost, clutching a jar of shillings that couldn’t even buy a week’s worth of food. And when he offered it to your men… they laughed. I watched my father dig graves for livestock that froze before dawn. I watched him walk barefoot in the snow because his boots had holes too wide to patch. I watched him work the land with hands bleeding into the soil.”

  He crouched down, face level with Harley’s.

  “And he never once blamed you. Not once. Said men like you just played the role you were given. Said there was no use hating a wolf for biting when it’s hungry. But you weren’t hungry. You were full. Full of wine and pride. Yet, you still fed on my father’s.”

  He stood up before Harley, his eyes darkening over the thought.

  “I don’t need to kill your men. Because he already did. I came here to pay the blood debt, but I didn’t expect to see it already paid. So, you want mercy? You want to buy your life with the same silver you used to put our lives in a chokehold?”

  He leaned closer.

  “My father’s still alive. But you already buried him. You buried him beneath his shame and silence, and the weight of feeling less than a man.”

  Foulk stood tall as the wind picked up, snowflakes falling from the sky, and the fog thickened.

  “You deserve this.”

  Bang.

  Harley coughed out blood from his mouth as he suffered immense pain in his stomach. His eyes dimmed, vision going dark as fragments of his life passed before his very eyes.

  And then…

  …darkness.

  His body lay limp across the road, a pool of blood surrounding him. Snow was piling up between him and Foulk like ashfall.

  The murderer put his flintlock back into its holster. “Our blood debt has been paid. Those tax collectors deprived me of my freedom, and this was my only choice. It should be the same for you, isn’t it?”

  Foulk didn’t speak for a while. He stared at the bloodshed beneath him, the deceased man who once held authority over his family like a leash.

  “What about the others? The ones who came with him? Jason Jett and Theodore Black—”

  “I killed them before you even got here. But he ran and left them behind to stall me.”

  Both Jason Jett and Theodore Black perished in the confines of the prison. Jason died, begging with a sword shoved in his abdomen.

  He tried to reason with the murderer, believing brute strength could match a force like him.

  He swung with anguish, but every attack was countered. And when the figure cut Jason’s arm with a beam. He dropped to his knees and started screaming for mercy.

  “We were just following orders! Please, I have a family—”

  But he silenced him before he could even plead, stabbing him in the heart.

  Theodore Black tried to run. He saw what happened to his comrade and didn’t hesitate. He leaped out the window, broke two of his legs, and crawled to the alleyway, hoping the fog would give him survival. But the murderer was already ahead of him, blocking the way out.

  “I-It wasn’t me. I just managed the ledgers—”

  His throat was slit open before he could scream. His blood was smearing the concrete walls of the alley.

  By the time Foulk arrived, Harley had fled, leaving behind his two comrades inside the prison. The snow continued to intensify, bringing forth large amounts of snowfall into the city, to the point where the city’s underground furnaces refused to operate. He walked urgently to the main district, hoping someone would witness the crime, but he was shot in the leg.

  Foulk looked at the man still standing beyond Harley’s corpse before asking. “What’s your name?”

  The figure stepped forward, his eyes shimmering with prismatic colors.

  “I’m the one who killed the other two. Jason Jett died screaming, while Theodore Black tried to run. But neither of them made a sound worth remembering to me. They were just some worthless pigs who loved money more than anything.”

  Foulk stepped forward. “I didn’t ask that—”

  “I know.”

  The figure looked dead straight at him. It was the kind of look that couldn’t be distinguished at all, whether it was friendly or sinister.

  “My name is N. Just the letter.”

  Foulk raised his brow slightly. Who would name their child N? He said to himself before continuing.

  “N… why did you come here? Was it for vengeance like mine? Or was it for a different motive?”

  N tilted his head. “No, I’m here for the same thing you came here for.”

  He stared at Foulk’s coat and pointed his finger at the newspaper he was concealing beneath his cloak.

  “I want to find Paradiso, the center of the universe. I want to find it because it’s the only place worth seeing in this cruel world. A place of perfection, a place without sin, a place where I can discover my true self, to discover the truth of the universe itself. Is there a place like that anywhere in this world? No, but no matter what, I’m not going to die before I see it…”

  “…What about you? What is your motive? Are you here to kill some tax collectors, or is it something ambitious?”

  Foulk looked down at Harley’s lifeless body one last time, then looked back at N. “…I didn’t come all this way just to kill a few tax collectors. I came here because there must be more than just this. At first, I wanted to discover Paradiso for its bounty, but ever since I’ve seen those locomotives and airships a few minutes before we met, and it made me wonder how much more this world has to offer, and how much more I was about to see…”

  “…People say Paradiso’s a myth. But even if it is… I need to know. I need to see what’s out there. Because if there’s even a fraction of a chance that it’s real, then that’s a future worth fighting for. You’ve got strength, and I’ve got the reason. So, I’m asking… let’s team up. Just far enough to discover the truth.”

  N couldn’t speak; he couldn’t do anything but watch Foulk’s resolve in his eyes. But even with that, he couldn’t trust him.

  N chuckled. “I see. But I can’t trust you just yet, not until you see this.”

  A flash of regret showed in his eyes as he held his right wrist tightly, taking off the sleeves on his coat to reveal twelve mysterious marks, each drawn from his flesh. Upon looking at it, Foulk felt a pain that could be considered immeasurable, the pain of boiling alive in a pot of water, but a hundred times over.

  Foulk couldn’t do anything but wail as loud as he could to numb the pain, but it was futile. The twelve marks seared into his flesh, similar to N’s, and once all twelve marks were etched permanently into his wrist, the pain faded away.

  N grinned. “If you think you’re going to walk through this with nothing but hope and your little ideals, then you’re already dead. But you want to see what’s out there? Fine, I’ll show you.”

  Foulk yelled. “What the fuck did you do to me?!”

  N replied. “The Twelve Marks of Testament. You should thank me for giving it to you like this, I had it passed to me the hard way. The Marks will be your burden. No, our burden until we’ve passed the trials. And if we’re lucky, then we could find what we’re looking for.”

  Foulk’s vision collapsed into darkness. The pain was too great for him to handle. His last vision before going unconscious was that of N, looking at him with no emotion, unclear whether he should spare or kill him.

  Foulk tried his hardest to speak. “H-Help… p-please.”

  But his body gave up, his mind had already shut down, the only thing still intact was his throbbing heart, now beating slower and slower.

  N couldn’t bother saving him. It wasn’t his obligation to do so. But something had snapped inside him, something unusual. He heard something in the distance, the sound of footsteps closing in behind him.

  “This is the Purgatorian Military Force! Stand down your ground, and you will be spared for your actions!” The soldier screamed.

  N knew for himself that he couldn’t leave him behind. He grabbed his flintlock, aiming it directly at Foulk’s face. He couldn’t risk getting caught, and the possibility of his identity being revealed after all.

  But when he pulled the trigger, it simply left a click. He had already spent all his ammunition on Harley Vesk.

  “Shit. I don’t have much of a choice, doesn’t it? Foulk Aster. Maybe the flow of causality may have caused this encounter. But I can’t trust you. I can’t trust anyone, not even myself.”

  As a last resort, he picked up Foulk’s unconscious body, leaving the newspaper out in the cold as the only trace of evidence between them.