"Damn outsiders."
The words were ground out between clenched teeth, almost inaudible, laced with a complex mix of scorn, relief, and a thread of lingering annoyance.
He stood with his back to the counter and the owner, facing the relatively dimmer corner of the food stall.
In his hand, he gently, repeatedly hefted the rough metal pieces that had just slid from his palm—still carrying a trace of warmth from that one-armed little white robe's skin.
The heavy, solid sensation was like a shot of adrenaline, temporarily suppressing the fiery emptiness in his gut and the pitiful panic he'd squeezed out during his performance of desperate pleading.
"Shh, Scar, don't let them hear you , just go."
The sturdier companion who had just held him back from behind—cooperating to act out that final struggle—leaned closer.
His voice was even lower, carrying his habitual caution.
Scar snorted roughly through his nose.
His brows habitually furrowed, plowing deep lines across his forehead—the old scar running diagonally from his brow bone to his ear twitched with the motion, like a stiffened centipede.
But the reassuring weight of the metal on his fingertips, and the memory of those two outlander white robes' near-"generous" gift—even if it was just casual charity, or some outlander naïve generosity he didn't yet understand—
This unexpected windfall still caused his knitted brows to relax somewhat.
A thread of smug, just-survived-a-disaster satisfaction crept up at the corner of his mouth.
"How was my act, Vito, hah."
He tilted his head, nudging his companion with an elbow.
His voice carried a hint of seeking praise, and the teasing ease of finally being able to relax.
Looking back on that performance just now—tears, snot, desperate collapse to the ground—he even felt it had been somewhat convincing.
The hunger was real.The fear was real.
But magnifying and kneading that reality to perform for specific people—that was another skill entirely.
Clearly, those two outlander kids had bought it.
Vito immediately plastered on an ingratiating smile, tinged with residual tension, and nodded vigorously.
"Top-notch. The boss's knocking didn't make my heart race as much as your yelling."
The flattery was half-sincere, half-not—but it was enough to please.
Hearing his companion's words, Scar felt even better.
Even the cramping emptiness of his stomach seemed less acute.
He began jingling the metal pieces in his hand more energetically, letting them clink together—producing a small, pleasant clatter, as if savoring a little victory tune.
His mind was already running calculations:
With these "chips," which less-strict stall could he go to trade for something solid?Something that could actually fill his belly—Instead of gambling on luck in this hellhole again.
Maybe there'd even be some left…
Just as his mind wandered—
His grip faltered for an instant.
Fwip!
A metal piece slipped from between his fingers, tracing a low arc toward the ground—toward the direction of a stack of rotting wooden barrels nearby.
"Shit!"
Scar's pupils contracted.
The beautiful daydream shattered instantly.
Almost on instinct, he let out a low growl—his whole body lunging forward like a startled frog.
The movement was far too swift for a man who had just been "weak and desperate."
Thump!
He landed hard on the packed earth floor, dust flying.
Ignoring the pain, his fingers hooked into claws, snatching at the metal piece just before it could vanish into the shadows behind the barrels—
Smack!
Crushing it firmly in his palm.
The cold, hard sensation transmitted up his arm.
The massive stone in his heart was just about to settle—
However.
Because of the overly violent leap and impact, the hand that had been holding the rest of the metal pieces loosened involuntarily.
Clink-clatter-clang!
Several clearer, denser sounds.
The remaining metal pieces burst free like fleas, scattering cheerfully, bouncing and rolling in all directions.
"Watch out, Scar!"
Vito's startled cry came a beat too late.
Scar lay sprawled on the ground, frozen in that ridiculous lunging-and-grabbing posture.
The smugness and ease on his face stiffened instantly—then shattered inch by inch.
He slowly, stiffly turned his neck.
First—his empty palm, holding nothing but dust and a few strands of straw.
Then—the metal pieces that had represented his freshly acquired "good luck" and "generous promise," now vanished into various corners of the stall.
His good mood vanished completely.
A searing surge of extreme regret, humiliation, and fury at his own clumsiness slammed straight into his skull.
His face flushed red in an instant.
Even the old scar seemed to darken.
"Argh—!"
He growled low, no longer cautious, forgetting entirely whether it might disturb the owner.
He clenched the fist holding the one recovered piece and hammered it—hard, wild—into the ground beside him.
Thud!
A dull impact.
Dust rose again.
But immediately after, another sound followed—
Splash…
A wave of icy liquid—reeking of damp earth and a suspicious sour stench—splashed violently upward from the ground near where his fist had struck.
It soaked across half his face, neck, and especially his waist.
The cold wetness instantly seeped through his thin, filthy clothes, clinging to his skin.
Scar froze completely.
Slowly—in disbelief—he looked down at his waist.
Dark water stains spread rapidly, the fabric plastered tight against his skin, cold and sticky.
He raised his eyes to where his fist had landed.
There—a broken clay jar he'd ignored, half-buried in the dirt, now cracked open by his punch.
Murky water that had accumulated for who-knew-how-long gurgled out, mixing with earth to form a filthy puddle.
Its source was precisely his soaked waist.
"Ohhh… damn it all…"
Scar ground the words through clenched teeth, his voice trembling—whether from rage or cold, it was hard to tell.
"Can it get any worse?!"
He sprang to his feet, ignoring the discomfort of his soaked clothes clinging to him.
Like an enraged beast fallen into a mud pit, eyes bloodshot, he scanned the ground, trying to spot the scattered, fleeing metal pieces.
The cracks in the corners were too dark.Under the barrels—out of reach.The one near the counter…
He glanced toward the owner behind it, who seemed to have entered a state of deep meditation.
He didn't dare approach immediately.
Can't find them.Can't find them anywhere.
The "hope" he'd just held heavy in his hands had mostly vanished in the blink of an eye.
Rage nearly blew the top off his skull.
His chest heaved violently, fists clenched until his knuckles popped.
The scar writhed grotesquely on his twitching temple.
He was on the verge of completely exploding—
"Got 'em here. Look."
Vito's voice cut in at just the right moment—calm, carrying a trace of relief.
He extended his hand.
Not to pull Scar up.
But to open his palm.
Several dirt-dusted metal pieces lay there—
exactly the ones that had bounced away.
Scar's raging fury deflated like a punctured balloon—pfft.
He panted heavily, eyes wide, staring at Vito's palm.
Then he jerked up his own hand—the one he'd been clenching white-knuckled.
Inside—
Only the single piece he'd lunged to grab.
He looked at the several pieces in Vito's hand.
Then down at the lonely one in his own.
His mind raced through the count.
One's missing.
When that outlander little white robe gave them the pieces—he hadn't counted carefully, but there were definitely more than this.
Vito's plus his own didn't add up.
The anger and shame he'd just forced down rebounded instantly—stronger than before—now mixed with the frenzy of feeling deceived.
"One's missing! You idiot!"
He snapped his head up, snarling at Vito.
His voice was hoarse and distorted from restraint, red veins webbing his eyes.
"You didn't pick 'em all up!Or did you pocket one?!Huh?!"
Vito didn't get angry.
Instead, he leaned even closer.
In those eyes—made overly large by long-term hunger—flashed a light mixing fear and desperate resolve.
"Forget about that, Scar. One less is one less…"
He spoke quickly.
"Remember what those two outlander white robes said?Especially the dirty one—the one whose eyes laugh."
As he spoke, Vito didn't hesitate.
He poured the several dirt-stained metal pieces from his own palm into Scar's still-damp hand.
They landed against his skin—carrying Vito's body heat, and a touch of sticky sweat.
"Hmph. As if I needed reminding."
Scar snorted.
But his expression softened noticeably.
He twisted the soaked, icy fabric clinging to his waist, squeezing out a bit of murky water.
Only then did he carefully gather all the metal pieces—both those returned by Vito and the one he'd clutched so fiercely.
He wiped them with a relatively dry corner of his clothes.
Then—one by one—he tucked them solemnly into a hidden inner pocket sewn into his lining.
His movements were slow and focused, as if placing away something fragile.
Only after finishing did he look back up at Vito.
The scar on his face twitched faintly in the dim light.
"Vito."
His voice returned to its usual rough, calculating tone—but now carried a rare edge of seriousness.
"This kind of thing…better leave it to me."
He paused.
Something flickered in his eyes—something Vito couldn't quite read.
Concern?Or a colder assessment.
Scar raised a hand and made a quick, vague horizontal slicing motion across the side of his own gaunt neck.
The gesture was small.
But its meaning was unmistakable.
Vito's face went pale instantly.The scrap of courage he'd mustered moments ago to bring it up collapsed like a popped balloon. His throat bobbed.
He instinctively reached up to touch his own neck, his voice trembling slightly even as he forced it steady.
"I—I'm not scared! Scar!""I-It's just… when the time comes, we find a spot, shout a few words real loud—like they said, right? I… I've got a loud voice!"
He puffed out his not-particularly-thick chest, trying to look confident.But his slightly shaking fingertips and darting eyes betrayed him.
Scar looked at him—face flushed red, veins standing out, forcing bravado while fear kept leaking through.
The vicious irritation in Scar's chest, stirred up by losing the money and getting soaked, mysteriously ebbed a little.He even felt the faint urge to laugh.
In this cursed place called Darenz, seeing such blunt, almost clumsy "bravery" was rare enough to count as a novelty.
But Scar suppressed the twitch at the corner of his mouth.He couldn't let Vito feel belittled.
This idiot was timid—but for now, still useful.And… maybe they really would need that all-or-nothing recklessness of his.
"Alright."
Scar spat the word heavily and stepped forward, slamming his palm down on Vito's shoulder.The force made Vito stagger.
"That's what I wanted to hear. Like a man."
Vito froze, then flushed a sickly red at the words like a man, fear still lingering beneath the color. His expression turned complicated.
Scar withdrew his hand.His face darkened again.
His voice dropped low, carrying the weight of final instructions, like arranging matters before death.
"Listen, Vito.""If I… when the time comes, if I can't hold on—if something goes wrong…"
He didn't finish the sentence.He didn't need to.
His eyes said everything.
"Run. Don't look back.""And my share of the 'benefits'… find a way to take that too."
Vito swallowed hard. His Adam's apple jerked violently.
"Scar…"His voice was dry, carrying the last traces of hesitation and doubt.
"Those… those two outlander white robes.Are their words really reliable?"
"What if… what if it's a trap for us?"
"They can just拍拍屁股走了—walk away clean.""But we… we have to stay here. In this place…"
This question—Scar had turned it over in his mind countless times.
Those two kids.Especially the dirty white robe.
His eyes were too lively.His smile too fleeting.Impossible to read.
But—
Scar didn't answer right away.
He fell silent for several seconds, his gaze drifting from Vito's terrified face, slowly sweeping across the food stall—the greasy counter, the stale smell of food clinging to the air, the faint, unsettling sounds leaking in from outside.
Finally, his eyes settled back on Vito.
His voice was eerily calm, almost hollow.
"How many people…""…that you know…""…are still around?"
Vito froze.
He opened his mouth as if to answer, instinctively lifting a hand, spreading five fingers—
But his fingers stiffened in midair.
His complexion rapidly drained of color.
Memories surged like icy tidewater—faces rising and sinking, one after another.
His raised hand slowly, weakly, fell back down.
His fingers curled into a trembling fist.
He shook his head—the motion slight, yet seeming to drain all his strength.
All the doubt, fear, and resentment crumbled into insignificance before that question—so simple, so brutally precise.
Vito's shoulders sagged.
The last flicker of resistance guttered out.
He looked up at Scar.What remained in his eyes was only tired resignation, and a thin thread of reliance.
"You're right, Scar."
His voice was hoarse.Repeating it sounded more like he was convincing himself.
"You're right."
Scar said nothing more.
He just patted Vito's shoulder again—this time lighter.
Then he turned away, no longer looking at him.
The metal pieces hidden against his skin felt faintly cool.
"Hmph… when I first came here," Scar muttered, his voice pressed extremely low, almost lip-synced,"the nights weren't this… creepy."
His gaze swept the surroundings warily, as if what lingered outside wasn't the slanting sunlight, but something formless and unseen, waiting to make all of Darenz shudder after dark.
His knuckles unconsciously rubbed the spot where the metal pieces were hidden.
The old scar looked especially deep in the dim light.
Vito's voice came out dry—but firm.
"I'll follow your lead, Scar."
This was no longer mere obedience.It sounded like a pledge made while clinging to a lifeline.
Scar withdrew his gaze.
The last trace of hesitation in his eyes was replaced by a ruthless, all-in resolve.
He licked his cracked lips, still tasting the salty bitterness of spit from his earlier performance of desperation.
"We'll do it."
The words came out short and hard—as if rallying himself,or sealing the final plan.
"At dusk.""That's when there are more people."
More people.More eyes.More chaos—about to erupt, but not yet.
Both cover…and possibly a deeper trap.
Vito took a deep breath and said nothing more.
Darenz's day slid irreversibly toward its familiar, terrifying night.
And their "opportunity"—and its "price"—
were both fixed on that brief, ambiguous boundary of fading light:
dusk.