Finally, he was out. If not for his carelessness, he would've gotten out much sooner. He'd made a mistake and nearly headed for the southern entrance. That forced him to backtrack quite a bit.
He stepped outside quickly and checked his hand. The bleeding had stopped long ago—only dried blood remained now. Of course, the pain was still there.
With the hand stable for now, he decided his first priority was to find a physician. But now he had a dilemma—where?
The outer city would be less risky in terms of being recognized, but in his current state, he'd be easy prey. On the other hand, if he went to a physician in the inner city, he risked being spotted.
Roan bit his lip. He decided to take the risk. His face was hidden anyway.
If he remembered correctly, there should be a physician's shop near the left-side slope.
This time, he didn't hurry. He walked at a brisk pace, trying to think of anything that could go wrong—anything he was forgetting. But nothing came to mind.
It didn't take long to reach the slope. He looked around and found the area vacant.
Strange. There were usually scavengers picking through the garbage dump near the slope.
The anomaly gave him pause, but he was too close to back down. So, with nervous steps, he continued his journey.
The strangeness didn't end there. The streets were empty. Doors shut. The usual noise from inns and brothels—gone.
What the hell happened? Roan wondered, anxiety creeping in.
He finally reached the physician's place—and stopped short.
He hadn't seen a single person all the way here, but outside the physician's shop, there were at least a dozen people.
That wasn't surprising. What was surprising was how they carried themselves. They all seemed to know each other.
And then it clicked.
There was a gang fight. That explained the silence.
He didn't dare approach. Instead, he observed them from a shadowy corner, watching the injuries.
The physician was tending to a man with a severed hand. Roan winced. This wasn't some usual squabble—it looked like a major fight. Are the gangs at war now?
If the furious expressions were any indication, then probably yes. The silently weeping woman staring at nothing in particular suggested there had been deaths too.
Why now? Roan wanted to scream. The outer city had to be in chaos the one time he came here. Talk about a fucking unpleasant coincidence. Wait. Coincidence...?
Is this the work of that entity? Roan asked Naor.
Maybe. Naor replied.
Roan frowned. Are you not allowed to tell me, or do you not know?
Both, Naor said reluctantly.
Roan's frown deepened. What does that even mean? Whatever. This was the price for using the "gift."
He'd have to be more careful with what he used it for.
He waited for a bell in that shadowy corner. The longer he watched, the more serious the gang business seemed. Not a single person came out of their home the entire time.
Why would the gangs go this far? The House of Sha would have to intervene now—just to save face.
He was properly fucked, wasn't he?
Though, this also made him reconsider whether it was truly the work of that entity. He hadn't used that much knowledge. A large-scale gang war? That seemed excessive.
He pushed the thought aside for now. The coast was finally clear.
He waited a few more minutes after the last footsteps disappeared. As he approached, the physician looked him up and down, stopping when he noticed Roan's missing finger.
"Another fight?" the physician said exasperatedly.
What? Roan blinked, confused. But then he realized—the physician had mistaken him for a gang member. He decided to roll with it.
"Yeah. There was a fight in the outer city two bells ago," Roan said, sitting in front of the desk.
"Why'd you come here, then?" the physician asked, confused—and maybe a little suspicious.
"The physician there is too busy. Lots got injured," Roan said dismissively, then changed the subject. "When did the fight here end?"
The physician narrowed his eyes. "Sometime before the ninth bell."
Yeah... that doesn't seem like that entity's work. Roan decided not to press the idea any further.
He showed his hand to the physician, who looked surprised but didn't comment.
The man carefully removed the outer cloth and, to Roan's irritation, tossed it into the garbage pile.
It was a nice cloth...
"Hold it gently," the physician said, pointing at the pad. Roan obeyed silently.
The physician left and returned with a bowl of water, where he submerged Roan's hand.
Roan bit back a hiss of pain. The man pulled out a few small clothes and two bottles of medicine.
"Business must be flourishing today," Roan muttered—half to distract himself from the pain, half out of genuine curiosity.
The physician snorted. "You guys pay half price, so it's the usual. Plus, no one's coming here for the next few days, so overall, it's a net loss."
That sounds like a rehearsed excuse...
"With the number of people dead on our side, I figured there'd be more injured," Roan said pointedly.
"How many died?" the physician asked—clearly trying to change the subject. That worked for Roan.
"Eighteen. At least a hundred injured—on our side. No idea about theirs."
The physician nodded. "Eleven here. Not many injuries. I've treated thirty-four so far. Thirty-five, including you."
Roan's eyes narrowed. "You didn't treat their men, right?"
The physician gave a sheepish look. "My business is with you. I wouldn't dare treat the smugglers."
So it's the smugglers' gang...
"I'll put in a good word for you," Roan said approvingly.
The physician's eyes lit up with hope. "So, about my loan...?"
Loan shark and smugglers, Roan thought, snorting. "That's for the boss to decide, not me."
The physician's face fell—but only for a moment. He forced a smile.
"The smugglers are only acting high and mighty because the Lord isn't here. As soon as he returns, they'll be reminded of their place."
Ah. So that's why. It made sense. The physician was right—once the Lord returned, the smugglers' upper ranks would be replaced. Maybe the Lord would even install his own men.
As for the loan sharks… everyone knew the Lord owned them. They'd just get a tug on the leash to remind them who was really in charge.
"I wonder when the Lord will be back," Roan said aloud.
A flash of disgust crossed the physician's face—aimed at him. It vanished quickly, but Roan noticed. He ignored it. He understood.
Loan sharks acted all high and mighty, but at the end of the day, they were just hounds on a leash.
"With the war escalating in the northern plains, probably not for a few months."
Grim news.
War affected everyone. Worse yet, the kingdom was losing. The retreating legions burned wheat fields to deny resources to the principality.
But it did more harm than good. Last Roan heard, a company from the principality had sneaked through and set fire to several regions in retaliation. They were clearly trying to starve the legions out.
But it wasn't the legions who were starving—it was the common folk. People like Roan, who had to give up their food so soldiers could eat.
Prices had skyrocketed. And the hounds had picked up the scent—ready to bleed everyone dry.
If not for the royal treasury pouring out funds like water, there'd probably be civil war already.
Not that it mattered much to him. A beggar was still a beggar. The only difference? More competition.
The physician stopped talking when Roan didn't respond. He quietly removed the pad, cleaning the dried blood with a small cloth.
The wound looked red, swollen, and grotesquely shaped.
Roan grimaced but said nothing.
The physician was about to pour a watery medicine on the wound when Naor suddenly said, "Tell him not to use that directly. It'll cause problems later. Mix it with the water."
Why? Roan asked, confused.
"You wouldn't understand even if I explained," Naor replied with barely hidden disdain.
Roan ignored the attitude. Why are you suddenly helping me?
"You're not as useless as I thought," Naor said cryptically—and offered nothing more.
Roan stopped the physician and said, "Mix that with water first."
The man looked confused. "Why? I always apply it directly."
Roan lied smoothly. "The physicians on our side do it this way."
The physician looked doubtful but complied.
Roan submerged his hand again. When Naor gave the okay, he pulled it out.
The physician then applied a gel-like substance and bandaged the wound again.
"That'll be ten copper," the physician said, a bit nervously.
Roan raised an eyebrow.
"I usually charge eight," the physician added quickly, "but I used double the alcohol."
Roan knew he was being overcharged. But he had something else in mind.
"How many coppers do you have on hand?" he asked casually.
The physician narrowed his eyes. "Why do you ask?"
Roan looked pointedly at the pile of garbage. "What are you going to do with those?"
He wasn't a fool. The physician would wash them and reuse them as bandages. It was what he would have done. Illegal—and a reputation killer if people found out.
The physician swallowed hard. "I have 548 copper."
Roan took out five silver. The physician looked stunned. Roan held a finger to his lips—then slid it across his throat.
The man paled but took the coins with a trembling hand. He pulled a pouch from beneath the desk and removed some coins under Roan's narrowed gaze.
It wasn't enough.
To Roan's mild surprise, the physician handed him the entire pouch.
Roan resisted the urge to count it right there and smiled. "Pleasure doing business with you."
The physician forced a smile. "The pleasure was mine."
Roan said nothing more. He walked out at a normal pace, then slipped into a nearby shadowed alley.
There, crouched in excitement, he counted the coins.
It took a while, but there were 490 pieces of copper in the pouch. Combined with what he had, he now had 504 copper and two silver.
Praise the Lady, he thought. He'd never seen this much money in his life.
He stood up from a crouch he didn't remember taking.
The joy didn't last. He had questions for Naor—but those could wait until he found a place to rest.
Now, he had to navigate a city in chaos. And it was only going to get worse in the months ahead.
There really was no rest for him.