Step... step... step... The rhythmic thud of heavy footsteps and the clashing of metal keys echoed powerfully through the corridors. It was a tall man, wrapped in thick woolen clothes as if he were living inside a freezer—and truth be told, the place truly felt like one.
The massive man approached an underground passage and began descending the stairs. With every step, his breath turned into icy vapor, and his lips trembled. He gritted his teeth, muttering in annoyance: "Damn it... I can't believe all these reinforcements are for one frail individual!" He grumbled about the excessive security for a single prisoner, thinking he was just another convict, unaware that he was in the most dangerous spot in this entire prison.
Reaching the bottom of the passage, he looked up to see an imposing sight: a massive armored gate made of pure, reinforced metal. Standing before it were two guards wielding spear-like weapons ending in collars, similar to those used to catch beasts or wild dogs.
One of them barked: "Halt! Identify yourself and state your business!" Both guards raised their weapons with focused aggression. The large man sighed, reaching into his pocket and handing over a parchment. The guard inspected it carefully, then signaled his partner: "Open the gate!"
The three men stepped back as the sound of heavy metal striking metal rang out; it was a mechanical door operated by gears. As it groaned open, the two guards stepped aside, warning: "Go ahead, but remember... keep your distance from him!"
The man smiled, saying: "Thanks for the warning." But as soon as he stepped away from them, his smile vanished. He thought to himself: "Keep my distance? Really? From what I know, he's weaker than a crippled dog!" He glanced at the thickness of the iron door, which was as wide as his arm, brushed the thought aside, and continued until he reached the room.
There, his body truly began to freeze. Frost started forming on his woolen coat. He stood before a relatively old door and knocked. The door opened, and the large man was shocked by the scene: he saw a man with a massive frame, powerful arms, and harsh features dressed in warrior's attire. What truly shocked him was the whip in the man's hand, stained with dried blood.
The man swallowed hard. The guard asked in a hoarse voice: "Who are you?" He replied with a trembling voice: "I... I am one of the Leader's assistants. I've come for the report."
The guard looked at him coldly and said: "Proceed." Entering the room, the man was stunned by its state; it was a dark chamber with no light source except for the glowing red stones in the torches. The air was thin and smelled of heavy decay. Looking ahead, there was literally a "cage within a cage," and inside hung a corpse... or something close to one. A creature with pale skin and long hair draped over its shoulders, its body a map of scars, wounds, and bruises.
The large man's eyes widened in astonishment, wondering: "What could this person have done to be tortured like this?" The guard interrupted his thoughts: "Tell the Leader my apologies; we still haven't extracted any information from him regarding the map's location."
The man replied nervously: "Ah... yes, that is unfortunate indeed." He wanted to escape this tomb as quickly as possible. Once finished, he left, and the guard slammed the door behind him. The guard turned to the hanging man and said: "You're lucky. I have some business to attend to, so I won't be able to play with you. It seems you'll sleep well tonight."
The guard left, and a profound silence fell. The room, its emptiness, and its cold were the hanging man's only friends. His body looked almost like a zombie's, with strange features—handsome for someone half-dead. He thought to himself: "Ah... won't you come and take me too? I truly want you to take me... I want to rest."
Suddenly, a horrific headache struck him. Veins bulged on his forehead, and he screamed at the top of his lungs: "Why me!" After a while, he calmed down. He was in a pitiable state, his head filled with blurred, strange memories he couldn't quite grasp. Looking ahead, he noticed a pot emitting clouds of steam. He remembered that the guard only entered after the room filled with steam, and then "My body refuses to move."
He smiled eerily, like someone prepared for death for a long time. He turned his gaze to a saddle on the table, closed his eyes, and whispered: "Ah... another cursed memory." He dove into his thoughts, believing them to be mere fever dreams, and began hearing strange yet familiar voices...
"Wake up... Hey... you brat, wake up!"
"Ah... what!" Jon was standing in the stable yard, cleaning the filth of the Snow Bears. A man was shouting at him: "Why are you standing there like a statue? Move! Get to work, or else!"
Jon looked at him and said loudly: "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again." Then he looked down, muttering: "Damn it, what's wrong with me today? Why am I so distracted?" He gripped the cleaning broom, and the first thing he noticed were the cracks in his hands and the wooden splinters of the broom piercing them. He clenched his fist tightly, ignoring the pain, and began dragging the waste. The dust from the filth was suffocating, but he was used to it. He finished gathering it into the bucket.
A man who was counting the bears approached. When he got near Jon, he opened his eyes in shock, covering his nose in disgust: "Ugh, damn! What is that?" He looked at Jon as if he were no different from the filth and turned away annoyed.
Jon shot him a cold look. The freezing weather in this village didn't just affect physical health; it affected the heart. Jon placed the pile of waste without flinching; after a few hours, he was finished, his body completely covered in it. He headed toward the stable owner, who was sitting with his companions, laughing and eating fruit.
One of them held his nose: "Yuck... what is that smell?" The stable owner turned angrily and screamed at Jon: "What do you want!" Jon answered with features as hard as ice and a heart even harder: "I've finished the cleaning."
The man raised his eyebrows: "Ah, fine. I'll give you your pay." He pulled a vial from his pocket containing a transparent blue liquid and said: "What are you waiting for? Get out of my sight!"
Jon left without a word, while the owner grumbled to his friends. They asked him: "Why do you employ a boy like him? You could fire him and bring a grown man who finishes the work faster!" The man took a fruit and laughed before chewing: "Heh... because he's the only one who can stand the smell of the filth!" His friends laughed with him, mocking Jon.
It was close to sunset, and Jon was walking back to his house quickly. He heard sounds of joy and turned right to see a group of children his age running and playing, life visible on their faces—things Jon never understood or lived because of the heavy responsibility on his shoulders.
When they looked at him, they began to show disgust at his appearance and smell, shouting: "Filth boy! Filth boy!" Jon looked at them with indifference; his heart was stone. Their words didn't hurt him; what hurt was that the smell of the stable clinging to his clothes was the price he paid to buy his mother one minute of breathing and quiet rest.
He entered his home slowly, calling out: "Mother, are you okay?" He found his mother lying on her bed, her frail body dripping with sweat and her skin pale. Jon's features shifted from cold determination to deep sorrow. He clenched his fist so hard his veins bulged, but he hid it so his mother wouldn't suffer more.
He approached her with a smile, patted her head, and asked her to open her mouth to pour in the "Tears Elixir"—the immediate cure for the toughest injuries in this frozen hell, though it couldn't achieve miracles. Her skin began to improve, the sweat vanished, and her breathing stabilized. Jon smiled.
He wasted no time. He entered a nearby room, stripped off his filthy clothes, and showered in the cold water he was accustomed to, despite the sting of the frost that made his body shiver. He came out clean and went to the cupboard to take out a piece of meat and a large pot. He began cooking a meat porridge with an enticing aroma.
His mother woke up, saying: "Ah... Jon, is that you?" He replied: "You woke up just in time, dinner is ready." She smiled and said after they finished: "But dear, you didn't eat!" He smiled: "I ate before you."
He took his mother to her bed to rest and extinguished the fire of the red stones. He looked at the cupboard and found a shortage of meat: "Ah... if I continue like this, no food will be left." He took off his clothes and began to sleep, the moonlight reflecting on his frail body. He prevented himself from eating more than once a day to provide for the house, thinking: "I must work two jobs, or we won't survive."
In the early morning, before sunrise, Jon set off for the stable, but the owner met him with a cold stare: "You're fired!"
Jon was shocked: "Why, sir? What did I do?" The man scratched his head: "No reason. I don't want you here. Leave!" Jon grabbed the man's arm firmly: "Wait! You can't do this!"
The man grew angry and struck him a powerful blow to the stomach, making him vomit his food and nearly lose consciousness. He screamed at him: "I told you to leave, you little rat!"
Jon's features turned cold again. He stood up and wiped his vomit, wondering: "Now what? How will I get the medicine for my mother? More importantly... how will I provide food?" He wanted to return home frustrated, but he heard the creak of old wood and saw a mission board.
He stepped toward it, hoping luck would be on his side, and smiled bitterly; most jobs, like the red stone mines, were for adults only, or working at a shop for a "fish" salary, or a blacksmith's assistant giving elixir without food. Jon's problem was clear; the meat in his house was the result of his previous thefts in the market before his face was recognized and he was banned.
He sighed, surrendering to reality, and turned to leave. But he saw a large black shadow staggering—a man in his fifties carrying a bottle of liquor and singing loudly. Jon thought to himself: "Ah... another drunkard."
But he heard a knock on the wall behind him; he saw the man pinning his paper to the wall and walking away singing. Out of curiosity, Jon looked at the paper. His eyes widened, and he shouted: "Sir!"
The old man turned in annoyance: "Who's speaking?" He noticed the small boy and asked: "What do you want?"
Jon gripped the paper tightly, saying: "I want to work with you!"
Written on the paper was: [Fishing.. Salary: A bottle of elixir and a large fish]