Ran returned to the outskirts of the Bloodrune estate.
He hadn't come back for revenge. Not yet. He was too weak for that. Right now, he needed one thing—survival. And for that, he needed strength. Training. Experience. Food.
The only place nearby that could offer those was the mercenary guild stationed not far from the estate. It wasn't a part of the Bloodrune family directly, but many of the warriors there took up contracts for them or from nearby lords. Mercenaries were tolerated so long as they didn't step out of line.
Ran had come here with hope in his eyes.
But after two days, that hope had taken a beating.
He had spent both nights sleeping near the guild stables. He offered to do anything—cleaning, errands, scouting, even being a bait if they needed. But no one looked at him like a person. They passed him by as if he were a ghost or, worse, a stain on the road.
They didn't want a weakling with a disease. Especially not a bastard of the Bloodrune household who couldn't even use proper mana anymore.
On the third day, Ran stood near a group of mercenaries who were drinking and sharing laughs. He tried once more, asking one of them if he could join their crew.
The man barely looked at him.
"You again?"
He muttered.
Then he kicked Ran square in the chest.
The world spun for a moment as Ran hit the dirt, his breath knocked out of him. He clutched his ribs, gasping.
"Trash like you doesn't belong here."
The man sneered and walked off, laughing with his friends.
Ran lay there, dirt in his mouth, pain shooting through his side. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. All he could do was breathe.
But he didn't cry. He didn't run.
Instead, he stood up again.
Limping now, he walked further down the open field to a different section of the mercenary camp. This one was quieter, but not less dangerous. A particular group known as the Sunflower Mercenaries had set up their own base here. Despite the peaceful name, they were known for being brutal and efficient.
Their leader, Geld, was a man no one messed with.
Ran found him sitting under a wooden canopy, sharpening his axe while his crew sat nearby drinking and talking. Geld looked like he was in his mid-thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, his muscles visible even under his worn leather armor. His eyes were cold. The massive double-edged axe resting beside him said enough about what kind of man he was.
Ran took a deep breath and approached.
"Sir Geld."
He said respectfully, his voice low but firm.
"I want to join your group. I'll do anything. Please give me a chance."
The entire area seemed to quiet down for a moment.
Geld didn't look up at first. He finished sharpening the blade in his hand, then raised his eyes to Ran. That one glare said everything—disdain, annoyance, and a complete lack of interest.
"You? You can barely stand."
"I—"
Ran started, but Geld cut him off.
"You'll be dead in a week. Weaklings don't survive in this work. They slow others down. They become liabilities. I don't carry dead weight."
A few of the mercenaries nearby chuckled, and the mocking began.
"Isn't that the bastard from the manor?"
"Yeah, the Bloodrune reject."
"I heard he's got that mana disease. Useless piece of meat."
"Should've just died in a ditch."
Ran stood there, jaw clenched, fists tight. The insults dug deep, but he forced himself to stay still.
"I'll do anything, I'll carry your gear, cook, clean, take the worst jobs—just let me stay."
Geld's hand twitched toward his axe.
"Do you have a death wish, brat?"
That's when someone else spoke.
A younger man stepped out from the shade. He looked to be in his mid-20s, lean but fit, with sharp blue eyes and a smirk that didn't fade. He had a sword on his waist and the same insignia on his armor as the others—he was one of them. His features resembled Geld's slightly. Maybe a relative.
"You're seriously begging like a dog, huh?"
The man said, amused.
"Leave it, Kelt."
But the younger man—Kelt—didn't stop.
"How about this... why don't we see how desperate he really is?"
Geld turned to him.
"Kelt—"
Kelt raised his boot, letting the sole hover just above the dirt.
"Lick it. If you want in so bad, prove it. Lick my boot."
The air went still.
Ran blinked. He hadn't expected that.
Neither had the rest of the mercenaries.
A few laughed, thinking it was a joke.
One guy said.
"He's not gonna do it. No way."
Another added.
"If he does, I owe you five silvers, Dorrin."
"I'll take that bet!"
More and more mercenaries started gathering, amused by the scene.
Kelt didn't move. He just stared at Ran, waiting, his smirk growing wider. His tone wasn't even angry—it was mocking, playful, like he was taunting a rat in a cage.
Ran stood frozen. His pride screamed at him. His throat burned with shame. His face flushed with heat.
But then he remembered lying in the dirt, starving. He remembered the manor's gates closing behind him. The kicks. The hunger. The disease eating away at his body.
He knelt.
Gasps echoed.
Whispers rose again—
"No way..."
"He's not actually doing it... is he?"
Ran stared at the boot for a moment. It was filthy—dirt, blood, dried mud, and who knows what else.
He lowered his head.
And he licked it.
For one second, the world was silent.
Then the camp erupted in laughter.
A roar of mockery exploded around him. Some were clapping, some were laughing so hard they were wheezing. Others were exchanging coins—apparently, bets had been made quickly.
"I can't believe he did it!"
Someone shouted.
"Gods, what a damn mutt!"
"Bloodrune bastard finally found his place!"
Kelt looked down at Ran with something between amusement and surprise. Then he chuckled.
"Well, damn. Didn't expect you to actually do it."
Ran wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, standing up slowly. His face was blank now. He had nothing left to be ashamed of.
Kelt turned to Geld, who was shaking his head.
"He's got guts. Might be useful."
He looked at Ran again.
"Welcome to the party."