13 days ago…
After glancing at Alex one last time and nodding at each other, Marc turned around and began to run toward the forest.
The guard with the crossbow was aiming at Alex, so he could run without needing to hide, but another guard began to chase after him.
He knew he could run faster than the guard, but the guard had stamina training, which meant he could keep running much longer than him.
'I need to get rid of the guard,' Marc thought.
Running ahead, he saw a rock big enough to cover him, so he made a dash for it, momentarily getting out of the guard's sight.
Behind the rock, he saw a stone as big as a basketball and picked it up with his good hand and his mangled one.
His hand hurt like hell, but he knew he couldn't make any noise to alert the guard when he passed by.
And surely, just moments after, he heard the clanking noise of the guard's armor as he approached.
"Fucking kid, wait until I get my hands on you, I'm gonna stick my spear up your ass," the guard said as he ran.
The moment the guard passed the stone Marc hid behind, he looked down and saw blood flowing around the rock.
"Hmph," the guard snorted, ridiculing the kid who thought he was so smart.
Marc, on the other side, was walking around the stone at the same time the guard did.
He picked up the pace a little and crept up behind him.
Without saying a word, he jumped, raising the stone over his head, and on the way down, he smashed it on the guard's helmet with all the strength he could muster.
A loud CLANK! resounded, the guard's helmet dented inward, and he fell to the ground like a ragdoll.
Marc didn't wait to see if he was unconscious. Quickly grabbing the spear from the ground, he used it to stab the guard's neck, severing his spine and killing him instantly.
"Sh-shit…" was Marc's reaction to the fact that he had taken someone's life for the first time. Well, that and—
"Bluurg!" He dropped to his knees and puked everything in his stomach.
After taking a couple of minutes to catch his breath, he reached into his bag, pulled out his pajama shirt, and wrapped it around his hand, which had been split in two.
"Ughh, it hurts like a bitch," he said, gritting his teeth.
Marc got up after that and resumed running to god knows where. He had lost his way the moment he started fleeing.
He ran and rested, just to keep running again.
It was night, but he didn't care.
He kept running and running, and after six hours of repeating the run-and-rest cycle, he finally reached somewhere.
"It's a lot bigger than a village, that's for sure," Marc said, amazed at the sight of walls and guards at the entrance.
"Welcome to Verring," was written on a big sign to the left of the gate.
He was exhausted, breathing roughly. As he walked toward the entrance, a guard stopped him in his tracks.
"Who are you? Do you have any identification?" the guard asked, his spear pointing slightly at Marc.
"I don't have any identification, but I need medical attention," Marc said, raising the hand that was covered in the bloody pajama shirt.
"Wow… There's medical attention inside, but if you don't have identification, you have to make one at the guard cabin before entering," the guard said, surprised at the sight of the blood-soaked cloth, knowing the wound must be severe to bleed so much.
"Let me tell you something, you'll head to the guard cabin with me. There, I'll sell you a potion, then make your identification, and you'll pay the entrance fee," the guard said after seeing Marc's state.
"O-okay," Marc uttered.
The guard called someone to replace him while he handled the registration, and so they began walking to the guard cabin.
Marc then remembered he had a bag full of stolen stuff, and if the guard asked to check his belongings, he'd be exposed.
'I have to come up with some sort of excuse ASAP,' he thought, his mind racing, making up all sorts of stories to explain what was inside the bag.
It was barely a three-minute walk to the guard cabin, and once there, the first thing the guard did was hand him a potion.
"Now let me see the wound so I can gauge the damage and know what potion to sell you," the guard said.
Marc hesitantly removed the cloth, revealing a mangled hand, cleanly split in half from the middle upward.
"Well, goddamn boy, that's some damage you got there," the guard said, impressed that the kid didn't utter a word of pain despite the wound.
"Still, a topical potion will do," he concluded.
"A topical potion?" Marc asked, thinking all potions were meant to be drunk.
"Don't you even know that, man? How old are you, fifteen?" the guard asked sarcastically.
"Actually… I'm fourteen," Marc murmured.
"You say whaat?" the guard asked, astonished.
"Yeah, I'm fourteen," Marc repeated.
"You mean fourteen years from retiring, right?" the guard said, still unable to believe that this grown-looking boy was actually a kid.
"I'm not lying!" Marc snapped, getting irritated.
"Okay, kid, calm down," the guard said.
He then looked closely at the supposed "kid" and realized he didn't even have a hair on his face yet. What a freakish growth rate. How tall was he going to be in four years? Two meters fifteen?
"Well, back to your wound. There are two types of healing potions — drinkable ones and topical ones," the guard started explaining as he uncorked the potion and began pouring it over Marc's hand, holding a bowl below to catch the excess.
"Drinkable potions are more of a cure-all. They treat the entire body, returning everything that was not meant to be damaged back to its original state. They're less effective overall, but they can also treat internal injuries. The greater the tier, the greater the effect, of course."
"Topical potions, on the other hand, can treat something in a specific area, and their effect is much more potent. They're also cheaper, but they can't heal the most dangerous kind of wounds — internal ones like bones or organs."
"Your hand is messed up quite a bit, but nothing a topical potion can't cure," the guard finished explaining.
"Well, thanks for the explanation, uhmm…" Marc began, realizing he didn't know the guard's name.
"Malcom," said the guard.
"Thanks, Malcom," Marc replied.
"No problem, kid," Malcom said, patting Marc's shoulder.
Then they began the process of identification. It was simple, and all cities had their own system.
Then came the question Marc didn't want to hear.
"May I look inside the bag? It's the last thing I need to check before you can pay and be on your way," Malcom said casually, like it was any other Monday.
But Marc's heart started pounding loudly.