Scar dragged Vito along the route he had rehearsed countless times in his mind, squeezing through streets that were growing increasingly crowded, until they reached the crossroads he had chosen—where dusk always drew the largest flow of people.
The area lay close to several large workshops and the edge of the marketplace. It was the hour when laborers, worn down by a full day's work, hauled their tired bodies home, stopping along the way to buy cheap food or exchange hurried farewells with acquaintances.
Voices clashed in the air.The smells of sweat, dust, and faintly spiced cooked food mixed together.
Faces—numb or exhausted—drifted past their eyes. People nodded to one another, spoke in low voices. There were impatient scoldings at children, brief complaints about tomorrow's work.
Just as Scar had hoped:
Enough people.Enough noise.Enough movement.
He shot Vito a look, then took a deep breath.
He compressed everything in his chest—fear, desperation, and the thin thread of greed stirred by a promise—into a single breath, and detonated it from his throat—
"How much longer must we endure—!!!"
The hoarse shout, thrown with all his strength, was like a rough stone hurled into a relatively calm river of sound.
For an instant, a small patch of the street fell silent.
A few gazes turned toward him—curious, confused, irritated at being disturbed, or simply looking for entertainment.
Several people who had been about to leave stopped and turned back, staring at the red-faced man with the grotesque scar on his temple.
But that was all.
No one responded.No one echoed him.No one showed the "resonance" or "indignation" he had imagined.
Most pedestrians merely paused, glanced at them, then stepped around the two of them like a rock in the road, continuing on their way.
The noise quickly flooded back in, swallowing that brief silence, as if his shout had been nothing more than a pebble tossed into a deep pond—its ripples faint, quickly consumed by stronger currents.
Scar panted, his chest heaving.
Watching the crowd resume its "normal" flow, the tension in his chest was replaced by a strange sense of satisfaction.
He had shouted.Shouted loudly.Done exactly what the filthy white-robed man had told him to do—"make some noise."
If it hadn't stirred much, that wasn't his fault.People in Darenz were numb like this.
He had kept his end of the bargain.
He turned to look at Vito behind him, forcing something like a "mission accomplished" expression onto his face, lowering his voice.
"That's it. We've done what we had to do. Wind's picking up—let's disappear."
Vito didn't move.
He stood there, his face pale under the fading twilight—not with fear, but with a kind of frozen, contemplative tension.
His eyes weren't on the dispersing crowd.
They were locked on Scar.
"Scar… Scar," Vito said, his voice dry."It's not over yet."
Scar froze, then anger flared up.
This idiot—what was he stuck on now?
"What do you mean?" he snarled under his breath. "Let's go! You waiting for them to gather and watch?"
He shoved Vito, trying to drag him away.
But Vito's feet were nailed to the ground.
Instead, he grabbed Scar's wrist. His grip was strong.
In his eyes flickered something Scar didn't recognize—a mix of greed and extreme caution.
"What if…" Vito licked his lips, his voice pressed low but painfully clear,"what if they go back on it? Say we didn't do it right. That we didn't shout properly?"
"Then what?"
"Who do we confront?"
"Those few chips we got—wouldn't they be for nothing? And we'd still be in trouble."
Scar's movement stopped.
The words pierced his earlier satisfaction like an icy needle.
Right.
Those two outlander white-robes were secretive, their words always wrapped in fog.They had given only a place and a command.
Whether the task was "complete" was entirely up to them.
What if they denied it later?Or made excuses to withhold the promised "other half"—or something more?
"Bullshit," Scar snapped, but his confidence wavered. His eyes shifted."So many people heard it. They wouldn't dare."
"So what if they heard?" Vito said quickly. His thoughts were racing now."Scar, think about it."
"If we're shouting, we need more people to hear it."
"We need a whole crowd. Shouting together. Make it big."
"Then they can't deny it."
"And…"The greedy light in his eyes grew brighter.
"If there are enough people, maybe we can… negotiate again."
"If things get bigger than they expected, wouldn't they have to… add more?"
Scar stared at him, stunned—as if seeing his usually timid, foolish companion for the first time.
A crowd?A real scene?And squeezing out more?
The chaotic thoughts in his head were suddenly pierced through by the possibility Vito painted.
Right.
Just completing the task meant nothing.
In Darenz, chances like this didn't come often.
If they were already doing it—why not squeeze it dry?
With enough people behind them, even those outlander white-robes would have to think twice before reneging.
And if they really managed to stir up people who were just as sick of this miserable life…
Maybe—just maybe—it could lead to even more.
"You're a damn genius, Vito!"
Scar slapped his thigh hard.
His expression flipped instantly, excitement flushing his face, the scar on his temple twisting with it.
"Why didn't I think of that?"
"That's it. That's what we do."
"We're not shouting for nothing."
He scanned the surroundings.
The few curious onlookers from earlier had long since melted back into the flowing crowd.
The street was still loud, but the atmosphere had subtly shifted.
The light was dimmer.Shadows stretched and connected.Vendors were packing up faster.Pedestrians walked with more urgency.
Darenz's dusk was sliding toward an unsettling night.
But a fire was burning in Scar's chest now.
Fear was pressed down beneath greed—and the vision of greater gains.
He looked up at the darkening sky, then toward the sparse lamps beginning to glow at the far end of the street.
"Heaven's will," he murmured, the corner of his mouth twisting into a vicious curve."Not too late."
His gaze swept through the passing crowd like a hawk's—
Searching for faces especially worn down.Eyes filled with hostility or despair.People who might react differently to a cry of how much longer must we endure?
The task had shifted.
From simple shouting—to dangerous agitation and gathering.
The streets of Darenz at dusk began to stir with undercurrents, moving in ways no one had planned.
Scar lowered his head.
His gaze wandered across the uneven, muddy ground at his feet.
In the dim light, gravel, clumps of dirt, and dried filth were mixed together.
His eyes scanned back and forth, as if searching for a lost treasure—until they locked onto an unremarkable, dark-gray stone shard with a naturally jagged edge.
That edge caught the light, cold and irregular.
He squatted down, the movement slow—as if it wasn't just his body lowering, but a heavy decision settling into place.
He brushed aside debris and picked up the shard.
It was cold.Rough.Heavy enough.
The sharp edge bit into his fingertip.
"Vito," Scar said, his voice muffled, still crouched, not looking up."In the end… this only comes down to the two of us."
He weighed the stone in his hand, feeling its coarse reality.
"But—Scar, if there are more people—" Vito began.
Scar cut him off with a sharp wave of his arm.
"One more mouth means one less spoonful for us."
He finally looked up.
In the twilight, his eyes burned—a near-mad clarity mixed with greed.
"I'll put in this 'capital' myself."
He bit down hard on the word capital.
He gripped the stone shard with both hands, the rough surface grinding against the calluses on his palms.
He swallowed.His Adam's apple bobbed violently.
As if forcing all the fear, hesitation, and the last instinctive resistance to pain back down his throat.
For a brief moment, his muscles slackened.His shoulders sagged.The hand holding the stone trembled.
As though every ounce of gathered courage had drained away.
But the next moment—
"Do it!"
A short, decisive growl burst from between clenched teeth.
His slackened muscles snapped tight like iron.
Both hands gripped the stone fragment, carrying the full force of his body and that all-or-nothing madness, and smashed it down against his own temple—just above the old scar.
Thud!
A dull impact—solid enough to make one's teeth ache in sympathy.
Scar's jaw locked instantly, his cheeks swelling as he bit down hard.The sensation in his forehead wasn't the explosive agony he'd imagined, but a heavy, spreading throb, followed by dizziness.
He freed one trembling hand and fumbled toward the spot he'd struck.
His fingertips came away wet—warm.
But it seemed… not as much as he'd expected.
Not enough?Not convincing enough?!
The thought slithered into his mind like a venomous snake, instantly igniting a darker rage—a savage fury at his own "insufficiency."
Wham!
He swung the stone again, harder, more precise, aimed at the exact same spot.
Thud!
Again.
Thud!
The consecutive dull impacts rang out painfully clear in the deepening twilight.
Vito beside him was completely stunned, mouth hanging open. No sound came out—only his body trembling uncontrollably.
"Scar… Scar…"Vito's voice finally squeezed free, broken and shaking, edged with a sob.
The sound seemed to yank Scar back from his trance of self-violence.
He stopped.
His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving violently.
Then, he loosened his grip.
The stone fragment—smeared with fresh moisture and speckled with sharp crimson—dropped onto the muddy ground with a soft plop.
Scar stared down at it, momentarily dazed.
Against its rough surface, the scarlet flecks were unnaturally vivid in the gloom—like tiny, cruel flowers that had bloomed in an instant.
Slowly, hesitantly, he raised the hand that had touched his forehead and held it before his eyes.
Sticky.Warm.
In the rapidly darkening twilight, the liquid coating his fingertips showed as a deep, heavy red.
Not sweat.Not tears.
Blood.
Hot—his own blood.
The real texture.The real color.The real metallic scent.
It flooded into his nose with each breath.
Confirmed.
None of it was illusion.Not cowardly imagination.
This was real—the "capital" paid in full.
The pain at his temple began to pulse clearly now, sharp and insistent, mingled with dizziness, crashing against his consciousness in waves.
And yet—strangely—it didn't bring fear.
Instead, it felt like a jolt of adrenaline.A burning confirmation.
To survive.For a mouthful of real food.For the few metal pieces in his pocket that might buy a turn of fate.For that vague yet irresistible promise of "more" whispered by the outlander white robe.For a possibly different tomorrow in this godforsaken life.
Wasn't all his struggle for this?
All the humiliation swallowed.All the scheming in filthy corners.All the terror crushed down during the screams of the night.
Wasn't it all for this?
"Hah…"
A short, pained laugh escaped Scar's throat as he sucked in a breath.
He wanted to laugh out loud—at the absurdity,at the cruelty,at himself as a thoroughbred gambler, staking face and life on this filthy table.
Life?Wealth?Tomorrow?
Those words were too big. Too empty.
Right now, they had only condensed into two things:
the warm blood streaming from his temple,and the cold metal pieces pressing against his pocket.
But it was enough.
This was enough.
Now, all that remained was to finish the show.
To use this fresh wound,this streaming blood,this all-in ferocity—
to ignite those people who were rotting in silence just like him.
To complete that "big scene."To claim what was owed—or… to dare hope for more.
"To hell with this damn Darenz…"Scar growled, wiping the blood from his brow with the back of his hand, smearing half his face red.
In the dim light, he looked terrifying.
He gulped in the cool evening air, but it brought no relief—only the taste of blood and dust.
"To hell with those damn outlander white robes!"he cursed again, unsure whether he was cursing their manipulation, or himself for gambling his life on their promise.
He staggered upright.
Dizziness made his steps falter.
Vito instinctively reached out to help—but was shoved away by a blood-smeared hand.
"Come on," Scar said hoarsely.
His voice held a strange calm now—even a trace of exhaustion and certainty, after madness had settled.
"Now… we've got 'material.'"
"Let's find some people."
"And have a good… 'chat.'"
With his blood-soaked temple held high like a grim, tragic banner, Scar plunged back into the street, soon to be swallowed by night.
Drops of blood slid down his cheek, dripped onto his clothes, and seeped into Darenz's eternally filthy dust.
The stage was set.
The protagonist had offered himself as the first sacrifice.
Now, all that remained was for twilight to close completely—
and ignite the long-suppressed, silent volcano.