The courtyard of the servant quarter stood as a silent witness to Song's torment, its cracked stone floor bathed in the dim glow of a single flickering lantern. Shadows danced like ghosts, long and thin, while the damp air seemed to cling to every surface. Song lay broken, pain surging like molten fire through his limbs. Hell loomed over him, his grin twisted with cruelty, the tattoo on his arm shifting and rippling like a serpent under the glow.
Song's shoulder throbbed violently, the sound of snapping bone still ringing in his ears. He could barely breathe, much less move. Hell crouched beside him, voice a venom-laced whisper.
"You sold my Forest Soul to Lunar Phoenix, didn't you?" Hell's fingers brushed Song's jaw, forcing his gaze upward. "Tell me how much you got for it… or I break every bone you've got."
Song clenched his teeth. "Ten thousand Merit Points," he forced out, lying through the pain. "That's all."
"Ten thousand?" Hell echoed, expression shifting from mockery to rage. He stood and brought his boot down with terrifying precision.
A sickening crack echoed through the courtyard. Song's other shoulder snapped. Agony bloomed, all-consuming, and he screamed—an animal sound torn from his throat. He collapsed onto the cold stones, cheek scraping the rough surface as tears mingled with dirt and blood.
Hell straightened, calm as ever, brushing his robes clean. "You spent those points on this little shack. Fine. But if I let you off easy, what will the others say?"
He didn't wait for an answer. The next moment, Song's legs exploded in pain as Hell casually stomped down, one then the other. Bones shattered. Song's screams faded into hoarse gasps, his vision blurring to black. He barely registered the faint glow of his interface:
The tattoo pulsed faintly, its warmth weak but steady. It couldn't fix shattered bones, but it kept him breathing, barely clinging to life. Hell knelt again, yanked the gatherer amulet from Song's neck, and broke its seal. The glow faded as the Merit Points drained away.
"Trash like you's done," he muttered. He tossed the empty amulet back onto Song's unmoving chest and walked off, footsteps echoing against the walls until they vanished.
The courtyard fell still, the darkness swallowing Song's pain-filled breaths. No one came. No one heard—or no one dared interfere. Blood pooled beneath him, the damp stones soaking it up.
I failed, Song thought, slipping into unconsciousness. The Fire Law's warmth was distant, its spark fading from his mind.
Minutes passed.
Then, without warning, a crimson aura began to shimmer around his broken body. It grew stronger, pulsing with rhythm, forming a faint cocoon of heat and energy. A small yellow orb floated in its center—pure, radiant. The temperature rose.
The cocoon pulsed, a soft hum vibrating through the air. Song's twisted limbs began to shift, bones realigning slightly, swelling receding. Not complete healing, but enough to move. Enough to survive. When the aura faded, his tattoo took over, the damage no longer beyond its reach.
Hours later, two servant boys stumbled upon him, eyes widening in horror.
"Gods! He's still breathing!" one cried.
They carried him back into his room, laying him gently on the cot. Word spread, and soon a low-ranked alchemist arrived. He examined Song with a bored expression.
"Severe fractures. You're lucky to be alive. I can't help much—just salves and rest."
He smeared pungent ointments on Song's chest and shoulders, then left without ceremony.
Gray light filtered through the ceiling cracks as dawn broke. Pain flared through Song's body, but his mind was clear. Footsteps echoed. Neighbors. He gave them a lie—"ambushed, didn't see their faces." They muttered half-hearted sympathies and cautions about the Magistracy.
No one cares, Song thought bitterly.
Later, the door opened. Two figures stepped in: a young woman with a stern look—Rill's assistant—and an older man in alchemist robes. Edge, the senior alchemist.
They stopped at his bed, eyes narrowing at his bandaged form.
"What happened?" Rill's assistant asked, her voice sharp.
Song tried to answer, but Edge cut him off. "Doesn't matter."
Edge cleared his throat. "Junior gatherer Song, it's been three months. No deliveries, no taxes. You eat our food, sleep in our rooms. The Magistracy's patience is over."
Song's stomach clenched.
"From today, you have one month to earn 100 Merit Points. Fail, and you'll be exiled."
Rill's assistant frowned. "Senior Alchemist, he's injured. He can't gather like this."
Edge raised an eyebrow. "Then what's your suggestion?"
She hesitated. "Give him two months to heal. Assign him an aide for when he recovers."
"You overstep your station, girl," Edge snapped. But after a pause, he sighed. "Fine. One month, 100 Merit Points. If Rill wants to waste manpower helping him, that's her business."
He turned to Song. "Fail, and you're gone. Clear?"
"Clear," Song rasped.
Edge nodded. "Rill's little slacker friend—send him."
"Yes, sir," the assistant said, and they both left.
Song stared at the ceiling, the weight of fate pressing into every breath. One month. One hundred points. Barely able to walk.
What now?
To be continued...