Chapter 7 - 07: Dying Wish VII

Chapter 7: 07: Dying Wish VII --- John stood alone on the dirt path that wound down from the manor hill into the surrounding countryside. Behind him, the towering walls of White Manor vanished beneath the shadows of storm clouds. Ahead, the road stretched endlessly, wet from recent rain, lined by trees already turning black with mold. He had nothing. No pack. No coin. Not even a cloak to protect him from the wind. The Duke had not offered him a single item for survival. Only the clothes on his back and the ring on his finger remained. But John did not stop walking. His boots sank into the mud with every step. His stomach clenched with hunger before the first night fell. The second day brought blisters to his heels and aches to his legs. On the third, he collapsed beneath an old bridge, curled beneath a broken cart wheel to block the wind. No one came. No one asked if he needed help. This world, just like Earth, had no time for those with empty names and empty hands. He learned that quickly. Villages sat like islands across the countryside, guarded by superstition and fear. Magic ruled everything. Farmers offered prayers to wandering magi. Inns had talismans carved into their walls. Strangers were treated like cursed things unless they could conjure sparks from their fingertips or show proof of Circle rank. John had neither. One day, Thieves cornered him, only to find he had nothing worth taking but the ring in his hand. It happened on a grey afternoon when the sky looked as tired as he felt. John was walking along the muddy road outside the village, arms wrapped tight around himself, hunger gnawing at his stomach like a caged rat. His clothes were thin and torn, his boots had more holes than leather. He had nothing to his name but the ring on his finger. That silent, pulsing thing. His only reminder that maybe he was meant for more. That was when they found him. Two boys, not much older than him. Commoners, but not the starving kind. Their clothes were worn but cleaner. Their eyes are full of mischief and something worse... cruelty. They stepped out from behind a wagon, blocking his path with wide grins and cracked knuckles. "Look at this one," the taller boy sneered. "A barefoot beggar thinks he can walk our road." John said nothing. He kept his head low and tried to step around them. But the smaller one shoved him hard in the chest, laughing when John stumbled back into the mud. "Where are you going, boy?" the smaller one asked. "That silver looks too fancy for a rat like you." Their eyes had landed on the ring. The only thing that still held a shine in John’s life. "Give it," the tall one said, stepping forward. "Come on. Hand it over. You look like you stole it anyway." "I didn’t steal it," John muttered. "Of course you didn’t," the boy said with a snort. "Probably fell off a dead man’s hand. Still counts." They grabbed his arm and pulled at the ring. Tugged. Twisted. Scraped their nails trying to pull it off. One even bit his finger in frustration. But it would not move. The ring stayed firm, unmoved, as if it had fused with his very skin and bone. "What is this thing?" the smaller boy growled. "Glue it on or something?" "No," John said through gritted teeth. "It just won’t come off." They did not like that answer. The beating came next. Fists. Feet. Elbows. John curled into a ball and tried to protect his face. The taller one kicked him in the ribs. The smaller one punched his back again and again, shouting curses with every blow. "You think you’re better than us?" the smaller boy screamed. "Wearing shiny things while we got none?" Something snapped inside John. Not a bone. Something deeper. Something darker. He felt his hand brush against a shape in the mud. A handle. Cold and chipped. He gripped it. A rusty old dagger. One of them must have dropped it during the scuffle. John moved without thinking. He twisted and rose with the dagger in hand, eyes wide and breath shaking. His arms trembled but he held the blade steady. "Stay back," he warned, voice hoarse. "I’ll use it." The taller boy laughed. "What, gonna poke me with my toy?" They lunged. John slashed. The blade cut across the smaller boy’s shoulder. Not deep, but enough to draw blood. Enough to make him scream and stumble back, clutching his arm. "He’s crazy!" the taller boy yelled. "He’s actually crazy!" The one who had been slashed turned and ran, disappearing between the trees, wailing as he went. The other cursed under his breath and followed a heartbeat later. John stood alone, chest heaving. The dagger hung from his fingers, wet with red blood. His knuckles were scraped. His lip was split. He was shaking. He did not feel victorious. He felt sick. He turned and ran. He ran through the woods, past empty shacks and winding roads, deeper into the countryside. He did not stop until his legs gave out. And when he lay in the grass gasping for air, he made a decision. He would not return to that village. He would go somewhere else. A new village town. A new start. Maybe there he would not be a shadow. Maybe there he could survive. He found work where he could. Carrying stones. Mending fences. Scrubbing inn floors with his bare hands until they blistered. Each day earned him just enough to buy stale bread or a cracked bowl of soup. He learned to chew slowly. Learned to ignore the rumble of his stomach.