Chapter 7: Wanted

  In a room filled with various corpses, an old man messing with a corpse turned to look at Ethan, letting out a regretful grumble: “I wondered why that skinny monkey suddenly delivered a body today, and even didn’t haggle. Should’ve known—you get what you pay for.”

  Ethan tried to prop himself up, but the moment his hand hit the floor, a sharp, piercing pain shot through his chest. He let out a cry of agony and collapsed again, the freshly broken ribs grinding against each other, leaving him too weak to speak. The old man ignored him, muttering to himself as he worked on the corpse.

  After catching his breath, Ethan strained to look around. It was a large room—more like a large house—with a simple structure: a high ceiling, spacious interior, wide doors, and several large glass windows high on the walls, flooding the space with light. Every corpse inside was clearly visible.

  “Corpses” wasn’t entirely accurate. Alongside a dozen whole bodies were dozens of dismembered ones, and countless organs preserved in glass jars, arranged on shelves and tables of varying heights. The place was a human anatomy museum. Ethan lay surrounded by a nude male corpse and several severed hands and feet, while the old man gutted a female corpse.

  Footsteps approached, and the wide wooden door banged. A voice called out: “Old Sandru in? Open up.” The old man shouted back: “I’m here—come in yourself.” The door swung open, and a dozen armed soldiers filed in. A few gasped softly at the sight inside.

  A squad leader asked the old man: “Anyone else here?”

  “People?” The old man, Sandru, nodded. “Every last one here’s a person. Find whichever kind you want.”

  “I mean, any new, suspicious living people you haven’t seen before?”

  “This one I haven’t seen, that one I haven’t either.” Sandru pointed at several soldiers. Their faces twisted—his finger, just pulled from the woman’s stomach, was covered in blood and other fluids.

  “The old man… well, there’s a prisoner who escaped from the city jail today. A dangerous, cunning spy. He killed everyone in the prison, including those two—fat and skinny—who used to sell you corpses. He’s still hiding in the city; we’re ordered to search.”

  “Haven’t seen a spy. No one’s hiding here. Search if you must.” Sandru bent back to his work.

  “Search everywhere carefully. Remember: male, around twenty, slightly tall, black hair, black eyes, left hand injured. And no talking if you find him—kill on sight immediately. Duke Mrak’s order. He might know dark magic, so stay sharp.” The leader barked. The soldiers drifted off slowly, a few frozen, struggling not to vomit.

  Duke Mrak’s order? Ethan couldn’t speak, but he heard clearly. He had no idea how, in his condition, he’d supposedly killed everyone in the prison and escaped here. But “kill on sight, no talking” was crystal clear.

  Playing dead was best—wait out the crisis. But luck was against him: the room was too bright. His face, even his bandaged hand, was visible.

  “Hey, look at this.” Sandru pulled something from the woman’s abdomen, holding it up triumphantly like a great discovery. “Bet she never had kids, but she had an abortion. People in the capital doing that.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Ugh—” “Blagh—” Two soldiers beside the leader retched. It was contagious; others joined in.

  “Fuck—who brought rookies?!” The leader jumped as vomit splashed his boots. Glancing at Sandru’s grisly find—still attached to the corpse by tendons—he gagged. “Fall out! Move out!” The soldiers fled like refugees.

  “Clean this up before you go!” Sandru chased them a few steps, cursed, then shut the door. He stomped over to Ethan, eyeing him oddly. “No idea how you survived being dragged here as a corpse, then went back to kill that skinny monkey.”

  Ethan saw him clearly now: tall, in a filthy robe unrecognizable by color. Gray beard and hair tangled with the robe’s threads, leaving little room to see his features. Only his eyes stood out—clear, no dullness of age.

  “Me neither. You know they’re after me—why not hand me over?” Ethan panted. Every word sent his broken ribs screaming.

  Sandru glared, as if the answer was obvious. “Why hand you over?” He shook five fingers. “You’re worth five coppers. Five.”

  “I’ll pay you back if I escape.” Ethan was lost. Badly injured, falsely accused, with no chance to explain.

  “Won’t escape. They’ll search everywhere—even women’s latrines. What’d you do?”

  “Just… saved the duke’s daughter in the marsh.”

  “Then slept with her? Had a kid? Sold her to a brothel? Slave traders?” Sandru’s imagination ran wild.

  “Escorted her to Bracada.”

  “Funny way for the duke to say thanks.” Sandru shook his head. “Don’t care why. Need help here—work off your debt. You’re not running. They won’t relax till they catch you.”

  Ethan stared, helpless. “Guess that’s the only way. But please… find a doctor or priest.” Pain slurred his words.

  Sandru examined him, then grabbed his ribs and yanked. Ethan screamed, feeling like several knives had been jammed into his chest and twisted. He nearly fainted, but when he recovered, the broken bones were perfectly reset—pain almost gone. What took a dozen Bracada priests hours, this old man did like a trick. Ethan, though no expert, guessed it was high-level healing magic.

  “Three months.” Sandru said.

  “What?” Ethan didn’t understand.

  “Fixed that—you work here three months.”

  Ethan held up his mangled left wrist. “What about this?”

  Sandru unwrapped it, sighing like he’d found coins on the road. “At least three years.”

  In Duke Mrak’s study, the duke, rarely, frowned as he heard the capital guard’s fruitless report.

  Knight Clovis stood at attention. Even seething, he remained imposing, composed—embodied the very essence of a “knight.”

  But his gaze, fixed on the floor, struggled to contain his anger.

  The duke didn’t scold him—he never scolded or lost his temper. But Clovis couldn’t forgive his blunder, one that might ruin everything, even endanger them.

  The duke suddenly asked: “Why kill everyone in the prison?”

  Clovis replied: “Feared the soldier might leak something.”

  “When someone’s locked up for no reason, do they really have the mood or leisure to chat?” The duke slowed, emphasizing each word. “Worst, you acted without checking. How’d the soldier lure the guards in? Knock them out? Escape? Knowing every detail would’ve revealed something useful.” He concluded. “You’re too young, too impulsive. Be patient, think from as many angles as possible—you’ll find more solutions.”

  “Yes. I’ll do everything to catch him.”

  “Think from more angles.” The duke repeated. “Don’t be too obvious—curiosity might stir. Let the guard handle it. Chances of trouble are slim. The soldier probably doesn’t know why he’s hunted, won’t report elsewhere. Just do our part. Go now. Don’t hint at any connection to the fugitive in front of others.”

  “Yes.”

  Watching Clovis leave, the duke’s frown lingered. An ambitious young man—capable, hardworking, ruthless. A fine assistant, subordinate, even a useful pawn. But not one to achieve great things.

  Too much desire clouds reason. Fixated on details, one misses the bigger picture, the subtleties. Fixated on a single leaf, one fails to see the whole forest.

  Too much ambition, too much cruelty, leaves no room for retreat. Going too far is as bad as not going far enough.

  The young man had a powerful family behind him. The Erneys were old nobility—high officials, wealthy merchants. He was the patriarch’s eldest son—a perfect match. But a terrible husband.

  Living with someone obsessed with gain is exhausting. Such people see only themselves.

  Alone in his study, Duke Mrak sighed, suddenly felt a little tired.