Ashes of History

In a room filled with assorted corpses, an old man fussing over a cadaver turned to glare at Asa and lamented, "I should've known something was off when that skinny bastard suddenly offered home delivery today - and didn't even bargain. No wonder the price was too good."

　Asa tried to push himself up, but the moment his hand pressed against the ground, a stabbing pain shot through his chest. With an agonized groan, he collapsed back down. His freshly broken ribs ground against each other, the pain so intense it robbed him of even the strength to speak.

　The old man ignored him, continuing to mutter complaints to himself as he fiddled with a corpse.

　Gasping for breath, Asa painfully turned his head to survey his surroundings.

It was a vast chamber—or perhaps more accurately, a vast building. The structure was simple: high ceilings, expansive space, wide doors. Several large glass windows set high in the walls flooded the room with light, illuminating every corpse with crystalline clarity.

　Corpses" wasn't quite the right word. Alongside a dozen intact bodies were dozens of dismembered remains, plus countless organs preserved in glass jars, all arranged on shelves and tables of varying heights.

The place was essentially a human anatomy museum. Asa lay surrounded by a naked male corpse and an assortment of severed limbs, while the old man busied himself eviscerating a female body.

　After a series of footsteps, the broad wooden door was knocked upon, and a voice called from outside, "Is old Sandro in? Open up." The old man shouted back, "Here, come in yourself if you want." The door swung open, and a dozen fully armed soldiers entered. Several of them let out low exclamations at the sight of the displays inside.

　A squad leader-like figure asked the old man, "Is there anyone else here with you?"

　"People?" The old man named Sandro nodded. "Every single thing placed here is a person. Look for whatever kind you want yourselves."

　"I meant, have you seen any suspicious living strangers you haven't met before?"

　"Haven't seen this one, haven't seen that one either." Old Sandro pointed at several soldiers as he spoke. The soldiers' faces twisted slightly at the finger directed toward them—it had just been pulled from a female corpse's abdomen, coated in blood and other unidentifiable fluids.

　"This old man… Here's the situation: Today a prisoner escaped from the city dungeon—a vicious, cunning spy who slaughtered everyone in the prison, including that fat guy and skinny guy who often sold you corpses. The fugitive is still hiding in the city, and we're under orders to search." The squad leader explained.

　"Haven't seen any spies, and there's nobody hiding here. Search if you must." Old Sandro bent back over his corpse, resuming his work without another glance.

　"Search every corner thoroughly. Remember, we're looking for a male around twenty years old, slightly tall, with black hair and eyes, and an injury on his left hand. Most importantly—if spotted, do not engage in conversation. Execute on sight immediately. This is Duke Mullick's direct order. The suspect may possess dark arts, so stay sharp."

The captain barked his command with authority, while the soldiers dispersed sluggishly to begin their search. A few remained frozen in place, visibly struggling to suppress their nausea.

　Duke Mullick's order? Asa couldn't speak, but heard every word clearly. Though he couldn't fathom how—in his current mangled state—he'd supposedly slaughtered every prisoner in the jail before fleeing here, the "execute on sight, no talking" directive rang unmistakably in his ears.

　His best bet was to keep playing dead with closed eyes until the danger passed. Unfortunately, the room's bright lighting left nothing to the imagination—including the bandages on his hand.

　"Oi, come look at this." Old Sandro triumphantly fished something from the female corpse's abdomen, brandishing it like a prize discovery. "I'll wager this woman never bore children—but she certainly had an abortion. Fancy such things happening right here in the royal capital."

　"Ugh—" "Blergh—" Two soldiers beside the captain finally couldn't hold back and vomited. The sound seemed contagious as others soon followed suit, retching in waves.

　"Damn it—which idiot brought these rookies?" The captain's boots got splashed by vomit, making him hop in disgust.

Seeing more soldiers start to vomit, he took another look at the thing old Sandro was holding—still connected to the female corpse by sinewy strands… A wave of nausea hit him. "Fall back! Fall back! Move out, now!" The soldiers scrambled out like fleeing refugees.

　"Hey! Clean this up before you go!" Old Sandro chased after them for a few steps, cursing, then returned to shut the door. Grumbling, he walked up to Asa and stared at him oddly. "No idea how you got dragged here as a corpse by Skinny Monkey, then went back and killed him."

　Now Asa could see him clearly—a rather tall old man draped in a filthy monk's robe so stained its original color was gone. His features were barely visible beneath the tangled mess of graying beard, hair, and robe threads.

The only clearly visible features were his eyes - sharply contrasted between black and white, devoid of any dullness typical of his age.

　"I don't know what happened either. Since you knew they were after me, why didn't you hand me over?" Asa asked weakly. Every word sent waves of agony through his fractured ribs.

　Old Sandro widened his eyes and retorted with absolute conviction, "Why should I hand you over?" He vigorously waggled five fingers, "You're worth five coppers to me. Five whole coppers!"

　"If I get a chance to escape, I'll pay you back later."

　Asa was utterly bewildered by his situation. Severely wounded, inexplicably branded a wanted criminal, and now facing execution orders that denied him even the chance to explain - "Kill on sight, no questions asked.

　"No need. Looks like you won't be leaving the city anyway. They'll search here eventually - probably already combed through every privy in town. What did you actually do?" the old man pressed.

　"Just saved the Duke's daughter from the swamps."

　"And then conveniently bedded her? Got her pregnant? Sold her to a brothel? Slave traders?" The old man's imagination ran wild.

　"Escorted her safely to Bracada."

　"That's certainly a peculiar way for the duke to show his gratitude," Old Man Sandro shook his head. "But I've no interest in the reasons behind it. We're short-handed here—you'll work to pay off your debt. Not like you can escape anyway. With this much commotion, they won't ease the lockdown until they catch you."

　Asa remained dazed for a long moment before replying weakly, "Seems I've no choice. But first, could you fetch a doctor or priest?" His voice had grown slurred from the agony.

　Old Man Sandro glanced at him, reached out to prod Asa's chest, then suddenly gripped his ribs and gave them a sharp tug and twist.

　Asa let out a scream, feeling as though knives had been plunged into his chest and twisted. He nearly blacked out again. When he caught his breath and regained clarity, he realized the broken bones had been perfectly realigned—and the pain had almost entirely vanished.

　What a dozen Bracadan priests had taken all morning to heal, this old man had fixed as effortlessly as a street magician's trick. Though Asa knew little of magic, he could guess this was an exceptionally high-level healing spell.

　"Three months," Old Man Sandro declared.

　"What?" Asa didn't follow.

　"For healing you—you'll work here three months."

　Asa hastily raised his left wrist—the one that had been crushed by the werewolf—and asked, "What about this one?"

　Old man Sandro unwrapped the bandage and examined it carefully, then let out a sigh like someone who'd found money on the roadside. "At least three years."

　In Duke Mullick's study at the ducal manor, His Grace rarely furrowed his brow as he listened to the Royal Guards' report of their fruitless search.

　Knight Clovis stood rigidly at attention beside him. Even in this state of towering rage, he didn't betray the slightest loss of composure—still every inch the magnificent, measured embodiment of the very concept of knighthood.

　But in the lowered gaze he fixed upon the floor, flickers of barely restrained fury occasionally surfaced.

　His Grace didn't rebuke him. His Grace never rebuked anyone, nor lost his temper with a soul. Yet Clovis couldn't forgive himself for committing such a monumental error—one that might unravel their entire scheme, even endanger both the Duke and himself.

　The Duke suddenly asked, "Why did you have every prisoner in the jail executed?"

　Clovis replied, "I feared that soldier might have divulged something inside."

　"When a man is inexplicably locked up, how could he possibly have the mood or leisure to chat with others?"

　Duke Mullick slowed his speech and emphasized each word, "Most importantly, you acted without fully understanding the situation. How exactly did that soldier lure the jailer inside? How did he knock him unconscious? How did he escape? Had you known every detail, you would have surely uncovered something meaningful."

　The duke concluded once more, "You're too young, too impulsive. You must be patient and examine problems from multiple angles—only then will you discover more solutions."

　"Understood. I will spare no effort and exhaust every means to capture that soldier."

　"Think from more perspectives," the duke repeated with unwavering patience. "Don't leave obvious traces—people might grow curious. Leave this matter to the Royal Guards."

　After a moment's consideration, the duke added, "The chance of complications is slim. That soldier likely doesn't know why he's being hunted, nor would he dare report to anyone else. We need only focus on our own duties. You may leave now—remember, in front of others, never reveal even a hint of connection to this fugitive."

　"Understood."

　Watching Clovis's retreating figure, the duke's brow remained furrowed. This was a young man brimming with ambition—capable, diligent, and ruthlessly determined. He made an excellent lieutenant, a superb subordinate, and above all, a most useful pawn. Yet he was unlikely to become someone capable of achieving greatness.

　When desire burns too fiercely, it blinds reason. Fixating too intently on certain matters prevents one from grasping the whole picture and its subtle shifts. A single leaf can obscure the forest.

　Ambition too vast and methods too ruthless leave no room for maneuver. Excess is just as fatal as deficiency.

　Behind this young man stood a formidable family. The Erne were an ancient and illustrious house, their lineage studded with high-ranking officials at court and merchant princes in the provinces. As the eldest son of its current patriarch, he was a flawless match for political alliance—but he would certainly make a dreadful husband.

　Living with someone who prizes fame and profit above all else is exhausting. Such people see only themselves in their gaze.

　Alone in his study, Duke Mullick sighed, suddenly feeling weary.

　…

　It had been a month, yet the manhunt for that terrifying fugitive still raged on. Squads of Royal Guards could be seen conducting searches everywhere at any time. Wanted posters had been plastered across street corners, and people couldn't stop speculating about the criminal depicted.

　Some claimed he was a spy sent by enemy nations, others insisted he was some new breed of orc, while a few whispered he was a dark priest from the Necromancer's Guild.

　Asa stood among old Sandro and several vegetable vendors gathered before the butcher's stall, listening to the proprietor's animated tale about how the dark priest drew sigils in the air and with a single shout, severed every prisoner's head in the dungeon, leaving rivers of blood in his wake. The vendors exchanged nervous glances, agreeing to visit the church together for holy water protection.

　"You must sprinkle the holy water on intimate garments—underwear works best," old Sandro advised the vegetable peddlers.

　A patrol of Royal Guards brushed past Asa, a few casting curious glances his way.

　But just glances. Even Asa himself dared not look too long at his own reflection in mirrors these days.

　His face now resembled a grotesque wax mask half-melted by fire then hastily re-congealed - pockmarked with glistening boils, features twisted into a shapeless mass, even his eyes dragged askew. A half-orc or goblin would look ten generations more handsome in comparison.

　Of course it was merely a mask. An exquisitely crafted one at that, complete with visible pores and faintly pulsating veins beneath the warts, its texture indistinguishable from real skin. Old Sandro's craftsmanship was impeccable; the disguise caused no discomfort when worn. Though Asa dared not inquire what materials the old man had used in its making.

　Hunched back padded with cushioning, walking with an exaggerated limp, draped in a tattered full-length robe - the perfect attire to match his repulsive visage. After just two days trailing Sandro through the streets, the local denizens grew accustomed to his presence, universally recognizing him as the hunchbacked assistant to the eccentric old man.

　To think old Sandro was actually affiliated with the Arcane Academy, and that corpse-filled mansion belonged to them too—this came as quite a surprise to Asa. Even back in his rural hometown of Kalund, where miners and blacksmiths drowned themselves in cheap liquor and brothels, the mere mention of the Arcane Academy would make them straighten up with reverence.

　It was the Church's most vital institution, regarded by many as the very heart of the faith, a place where magic was studied and priests and mages were trained. To the common folk, royal affairs or matters of state felt like distant, abstract concepts, far less tangible and entertaining than the latest street gossip.

　But when someone fell ill, or was plagued by guilt over some misdeed, it was the priests from the Arcane Academy who came to their aid. Thus, in the eyes of ordinary people, it was a place of sacred nobility.

　Yet, just as even the most pious woman is still human and must answer nature's call, so too must the Arcane Academy study healing magic—and that meant studying the human body, which in turn required a dedicated place to store corpses.

　Naturally, given the sanctity of the Church, such research was conducted discreetly only when absolutely necessary, and such a place could not be located within the Magic Academy itself. The large house was built in a secluded corner on the western edge of the city, where the only living beings were Asa and old Sandro.

　Old Sandro's job was essentially to catalog and preserve various organs and limbs, leaving him with plenty of free time—sometimes even enough to wander the market.

　But more often than not, he preferred tinkering with corpses—reassembling different body parts from several individuals into a single humanoid shape, casting obscure spells on the remains, or slicing an organ into dozens of pieces to soak each in a different concoction, and so on.

　It was a hobby that consumed corpses at an alarming rate, which is why Sandro maintained good relations with the city's jailers and guards. Whenever an unclaimed or insignificant corpse turned up, it would promptly be sold to him for a few coppers.

　Asa's duties involved hauling bodies, assisting in dissection, mincing organs, running errands at the market, and handling meals for the two of them.

　The large house was usually completely deserted. But aside from the three stray cats nearby, there would be a visitor every two or three days—another old man, dressed in black robes, with sunken cheeks as if he'd never had a full meal in his life, dark circles under his eyes like he never slept well. He always came to see Sandro at night.

　Whenever this happened, Sandro would send Asa into the inner room to read by himself, while the two old men lit candles in the corpse-filled hall, chatting until midnight amidst the bodies and organs.

　Two months ago, he'd watched helplessly from the western wilderness hills as his entire unit was wiped out, then been hunted by orcs, fleeing desperately through the Lizard Marshes, nearly having his head torn off…

　And then he'd come to the royal capital, inexplicably becoming the most infamous fugitive in the entire city… Now here he was in a house full of corpses, helping an eccentric old man play with dead bodies. Thinking back on everything that had happened, even he found it hard to believe.

　Logically, he could have easily slipped away when old man Sandro wasn't paying attention—with this mask and his current notoriety in the city, he could move about freely. Yet he'd never done so.

　There were many reasons for not escaping—learning magic had been an unattainable childhood dream of his. Sandro's house held numerous books on the subject. And he was also waiting here for Bracada's caravan to bring Yianni back.

　This seemed to be the only glimmer of hope in his current predicament. The duke's "execute on sight" order had denied him even the chance to clear his name, let alone the fact that he was utterly clueless about the reasons behind it. His sole hope now lay in waiting for her return, to see if the misunderstanding could be resolved.

　Asa had always believed the duke's warrant for his arrest stemmed from some misunderstanding between him and Yianni. Given the circumstances, that was the only explanation he could cling to.

　But none of these were the most important reasons. The truth was, he hadn't fled because he didn't find this bizarre lifestyle particularly objectionable.

　Perhaps the sheer volume of bloodshed and brutality he'd witnessed that night two months ago had numbed him—now, living surrounded by corpses and organs didn't even faze him.

　Maybe it was because he'd brushed shoulders with death so often in the Lizard Marshes, coming within a hair's breadth of it countless times, that now, even with search patrols swarming the streets, he felt no tension at all.

　At times, when seeing groups of young soldiers exhausting themselves in their futile pursuit, he even felt an inexplicable fondness toward them. He'd be tempted to stop them, invite them to sit at a street vendor's stall for a bite, and earnestly persuade them not to waste their energy any longer.

　Old Sandro, likely accustomed to handling corpses, treated people with the same lack of wariness as he would the dead, making interactions with him remarkably effortless. He never pried into Asa's affairs—hadn't even asked his name. With only two living souls in the great house, the moment one spoke, it was clear whom the words were meant for.

　On the contrary, Sandro had even named the three stray cats that frequented the mansion searching for food. The two men interacted like old friends who had long exhausted their mutual curiosity about each other.

　More importantly, the daily magic study and meditation consume all his energy. Every day he can feel himself improving - from the simplest blood-staunching spells to genuine healing magic; from barely managing to light a candle between two fingertips, to being able to roast a fish barehanded.

　He also discovered a dust-covered book behind Sandro the old man's bookshelf. Its pages were made of some kind of leather, ancient yet showing no signs of damage. It was a peculiar tome - judging by its table of contents, it recorded an astonishing number of spells along with various magic-related skills and anecdotes.

　However, except for the table of contents and the opening chapter about meditation methods, everything was written in a script Asa couldn't decipher. Without consulting Sandro, Asa simply practiced daily meditation following the methods described in the only readable first chapter.

　Each day passed with such study, practice, and meditation. This life of complete immersion in constant self-improvement had begun when he was five years old - to him, this was the most tranquil and serene way of living.

　Everything flowed so naturally without the slightest tension or deliberate effort. Amidst this mundane existence filled with corpses and manhunts, Asa unknowingly spent an entire month.

　Ordinary life always brings relaxation to the heart. As time passes, one's senses seem to melt completely into every detail of this existence, no longer desiring any fluctuations or changes.

　But he knew this was impossible—after all, some things couldn't just end like this. He couldn't spend his entire life as a fugitive for no reason, nor could he forever dwell in the shadows. Though there seemed no immediate danger now, what he could least tolerate was anything that confined him.

　Moreover, he couldn't let so many people die in vain on that desolate western mountain. Driven by a strange intuition, Asa vaguely sensed that the report he'd delivered at the duke's manor hadn't truly reached its intended destination.

　"Hey, let's go. What's with the daze?" Old man Sandro shoved a parcel of purchased goods into his hands. Asa took it and limped along behind, head bowed.

　That night, after his meditation, Asa was drawn outside by a glow from the window. Stepping out of the great house, he beheld the second brightest full moon he'd ever seen in his life.

　Exactly two months had passed since he last saw such a moon—on that western mountain ridge in the wilderness. The same gentle yet dazzling radiance, with not a single star daring to share the sky's glory. This moonlight dragged Asa's memories back to that night, forcing him to relive the night of slaughter.