The first thing that hit Nwyn was the sound.
Not just any noise, but the piercing echo of the woman's voice slicing through the air like a sharpened blade:
— GET OUT!
The scream detonated inside his skull, tearing through the haze that still wrapped around him. The world spun. His senses lagged behind, sluggish and disoriented. What had happened? Where had he been just a second ago?
It felt like he'd been trapped between a dream and waking, between two overlapping layers of existence.
He blinked. The image of the shopkeeper remained.
She was trembling.
Her hands were clenched, pointing at the door, eyes wide—too wide.
As if she were seeing a monster. As if she were seeing something that shouldn't exist.
The fear carved into her face was raw, primal, undeniable.
What had he done?
A sticky sensation of panic crawled through Nwyn's gut.
He tried to move, but his body responded like it was bound by invisible chains—heavy, slow.
A moment ago—or maybe a thousand—he hadn't been here.
It felt like something inside him had shifted without warning, something had been… breached.
— OUT! GET OUT OF MY STORE!
Something whistled through the air.
A flash of silver brushed past his face.
The coins.
They clattered as they hit the wooden floor, spinning before scattering in the dust. She was rejecting them.
She didn't want his money.
She didn't want anything from him.
Nwyn tried to speak, but his throat was dry as bone. The air barely passed.
His limbs were stones strapped to his body.
The vial in his hand slipped, shattering into a thousand fragments on the ground.
The liquid spread, and the tiny orbs cracked like malformed pearls, forming a slick, shimmering stain beneath the flickering light of the store.
He stumbled, fingers groping for the counter.
The rough wood scraped his skin, but he didn't care.
He just needed to stay upright, needed to understand what was happening.
But when he lifted his eyes, the woman took a step back.
As if he were something unclean. Something that didn't belong anymore. Her eyes didn't lie. She was terrified. The truth screamed from her expression like a gaping wound. The fear was real.
Tangible.
Sharp enough to slice the air.
Nwyn didn't understand.
He'd had a vision—he was sure of it.
A waking dream, a fragment of something too real to be illusion.
But what was it?
What had he done to spark such horror?
What had happened while he was… elsewhere?
His head throbbed violently, pulsing like something inside was trying to break free.
A strange nausea coiled in his gut, a suffocating pressure pressed against his chest.
Breathing became laborious.
He tried to gather strength, tried to understand, to force his mind to form a question, but before words could reach his lips, the woman—eyes wild with dread—grabbed a broom.
And came at him.
She raised it like a spear, wood creaking under the force of her grip.
The fury of someone who had no other option.
— I SAID GET OUT!
The words slashed the air.
He had no choice.
The impulse to flee overpowered everything.
But his muscles still lagged, slow and clumsy.
He stumbled through the doorway, the cold street air slapping his face like a punishment.
But it brought no relief. No clarity.
The city's usual symphony was muffled, dulled, like he was underwater, hearing from beneath the surface.
Every sound felt distant, too far away to be real.
Nwyn blinked, trying to focus, but the world spun.
The stone beneath his feet trembled.
Disorientation tightened its grip on his thoughts.
He tried to walk, but veered to one side.
His blurred vision made the world tilt, and had it not been for the coarse wall beside him, he might have collapsed entirely.
Sweat slid down his spine, cold as steel.
His chest rose and fell in ragged, painful breaths.
He didn't know how far he'd walked—if he had walked at all.
But he knew he was far from the shop.
Far from where Leny had been.
And he didn't want to see him. Not now.
I need help.
The thought echoed, but the world offered no comfort.
People passed by in a blur of urgency, eyes averted.
Or worse…
They looked.
Looked at him for a second, then turned away—fast—like he was something foul, something that shouldn't be seen.
He wanted to cry out, but his throat was sand, his lungs weighed down.
Every part of him screamed for escape.
To keep running.
To get lost in the veins of the city.
Where even the memory of a familiar face would be nothing but a distant mirage.
He lifted a hand—barely. A desperate gesture.
A woman passed with a basket, and when she heard his rasping voice, she turned her face so quickly it was as if she'd spotted filth in the shape of a man.
Her hurried steps were the only clarity in that moment.
He whispered again.
But the words vanished.
Swallowed by the heavy, broken air around him.
And then, a man in a dark robe was walking toward him. Nwyn, his body weary and feet staggering, took a hesitant step, trying to draw his attention. But the man, upon noticing the movement, veered away with the same revulsion one might show to a mangy dog, completely ignoring his presence. The silence that followed weighed even heavier on him.
What's wrong with me? The question struck like a blow. His feet were moving, yet the distance covered felt like an eternity. Everything around him seemed distorted, as if he were in a place no longer real. He could swear he had walked the entire road to Linteal, climbed through the arid plains and crossed the desert, beyond the sands… And yet, there he was, somewhere in Central, lost in a whirlwind of meaningless movement.
The chaotic night of the city didn't help, and Nwyn felt swallowed by the vastness around him. The sky above was black, as deep as an abyss, yet too bright for his dark eyes—a blinding clarity that seemed to mock his inability to understand what was happening. People passed him like shadows, dancing and intertwining in a frantic rhythm he couldn't follow, couldn't comprehend.
Each second seemed to thicken the confusion in his mind. The images from the vision—still vivid—flared in painful bursts, each flash of memory a strike of agony he tried to ignore, while another part of his mind fought to understand where he was, what all of this meant. The world felt like it was slipping through his fingers, and he had no idea how to keep up with it.
He had to get out. Now.
Without thinking, his feet began to move on instinct, leading him into the alleys that twisted like a labyrinth. The sounds of the market—once loud and vibrant—faded, muffled by the thickness of narrow walls closing in around him. Every step was a struggle to stay upright, to not collapse.
The stench of rot thickened the air, tightening his throat, but he had no choice but to press on. The world kept spinning around him, the shadows dancing as he moved forward, but his body was weak—barely able to support the weight of his own existence. The dizziness never left him, but he couldn't stop. Not now. He had to get out.
That was when he felt the impact.
Something solid and heavy slammed into him with brutal force, throwing him off course. The shock was violent, a muffled thud that echoed through his bones and stole the air from his lungs. He was thrown back, the crash against the stone floor bursting like an explosion, the cold of the filthy surface seeping into his skin. Dust from the street scattered, clinging to his body like an unwanted reminder of the misery surrounding him.
He tried to recover, but his senses were clouded, his mind burning in confusion and panic. Above him, a looming silhouette rose, blocking his view of the night sky and the alleys that had swallowed him.
— Well, well… Look what we have here.
The voice was rough, laced with disdain and cruel amusement. The man leaning over Nwyn was tall, broad-shouldered, and his skin was scarred deep, grime embedded in the creases of his face—a mirror of his own decay. He wore rags that had once been decent clothes, now undone by time. His dark eyes fixed on Nwyn with a predator's gaze, examining its prey. He seemed entertained by the scene, by Nwyn's weakness.
— Where you rushin' off to, huh, brat?
Nwyn tried to move, to break free, but his strength was gone. The weight of dizziness, of weakness, pinned him down, and his hands found no grip to hold. The man crouched suddenly, calloused fingers grabbing Nwyn's collar with brutal force. The pressure was so harsh it forced the breath from his lungs.
— You look lost… And the lost always carry somethin' good.
The man's filthy fingers dug into his pockets with scornful violence. Nwyn tried to resist, to push him away, but it was useless. His strength was draining, his movements too slow, too feeble. And then, the man found something.
Something different.
The package.
— This all you got? — the man growled, clearly irritated.
Nwyn's eyes locked on the bloodstained bundle hidden deep within the layers of his coat. He felt the tension rise, a heavy sense that something was about to happen.
The man, eyes gleaming with renewed interest, yanked the package free with no care, tearing the seam of Nwyn's coat. The fabric ripped with a dry snap, and what the man found made his smile stretch wider, a cruel amusement twisting his face.
Inside, a fragment of a red mask.
The piece was jagged, as if shattered from a greater whole, its surface worn, yet it still held a fierce color—a deep, intense red, like the congealed blood of an old wound that still lived within, preserved in the shard. Even in the darkness of the alley, it seemed to drink in the surrounding light, as if it had a presence of its own—dark and hypnotic.
— What the hell is this...? — the man muttered, spinning the fragment between his fingers with curiosity, and a hint of disdain. He didn't know what it was, didn't know if it was worth anything—but it sure looked better than nothing.
— Probably not even worth a bronze. — The man coughed, tossing the bloodied cloth to the ground with contempt. — Damn poor brat.
Something inside Nwyn snapped. He didn't know what it was, but everything within him felt like it had broken. Hatred, fear, rage—everything condensed into a single point, as if the pressure of his existence had finally been released.
He moved before his body even had a chance to react. With a hoarse scream, a burst of adrenaline and despair, he lunged forward. His feet were unsteady, his body weak, but the urge to fight back, to make the man pay for his contempt, drove him to hurl himself against him.
His fist was clenched, wild—a blow without strength, yet loaded with all the pain, fear, and rage he couldn't contain. He didn't know what he was doing, only that he had to do it.
The punch struck the man's chest, but it felt like hitting a wall. The impact didn't move him an inch, and the silence that followed was deafening. Just a second. Only one. But it felt eternal. The man looked at Nwyn, an even deeper scorn twisting his features, and then Nwyn's world exploded in pain.
The man's fist rammed into his stomach with the force of a battering ram, and the air was ripped from his lungs in a choked grunt. Nwyn's body doubled over instinctively, a wave of nausea rising in his throat as if it would swallow his entire being. Before he could react, a second blow struck his face. The impact was brutal, tearing the skin on his cheek and making his eye swell instantly. The whole world spun around him, everything becoming a dizzy blur, and the pain... the pain was unbearable.
Nwyn's head whipped back, feeling the hot liquid run down his cheek into his mouth, the thick, metallic taste of blood invading his throat. Each breath was a battle, and the blood, warm and viscous, spread across his tongue with a bitter sting. The taste of blood was never good, never something anyone should have to know—but there he was, forced to swallow his own defeat.
His vision began to warp, clouded by pain and weakness. The alley around him started spinning, shadows stretching, twisting, blending into threatening shapes. The air felt thick, reality unraveling before his eyes, and he no longer knew if he was dreaming or awake—but whatever it was, he couldn't make sense of it anymore.
Now, everything was dark. Worse—everything felt like an endless abyss.
— These country hicks come to the city... — the man snarled with disgust before delivering a vicious kick to Nwyn's ribs. The impact was like crushing an ant underfoot—a cruel pressure that shattered the boy's bones. Nwyn felt the searing pain radiate through his body, a wave that made every breath a burden. — ...And think they can go wherever they want, do whatever they want. — The man's voice dripped with contempt. He seemed entertained, but Nwyn's pain wasn't entertainment—it was punishment, something to be inflicted on anyone who dared think they were more than insignificant.
The man crouched beside Nwyn, and with a heartless gesture, tossed the fragment of the mask toward a wall like it was trash. Then, with terrifying strength, he grabbed Nwyn's face in both hands, pulling him close until his heavy breath mixed with the stink of sweat and rot.
— Tell me, you little shit, are you from the fields or the slums? You're not from the Central, that's for sure. — He spoke with a filthy smile, the words slithering out like a threat. Nwyn groaned—the pain in his face and body too much to bear—but the man showed no mercy. He shook the boy's head violently, the jolt worsening Nwyn's dizziness, a growing sickness that made it feel like his whole life was being ripped from his chest.
— I could call a few of my buddies, we could swing by your house... if you've got a sister or a mom... you know... — The man leaned even closer, the heat of his whisper flooding Nwyn's ear. — Even you would do for a little fun.
The words were venom poured straight into the boy's ears. He felt the revulsion, the horror—but the man didn't stop. With a violent shove, he slammed Nwyn against the wall. The back of his head crashed into the rough bricks, pain bursting inside his skull. He reached blindly for the ground, his vision blurry, his brain fogged by the impact.
But then, something closed around his finger. He saw the moment the man let go.
— I'm not really into boys, but you're cut— The man smiled, but the word was filthy, vulgar, a threat dressed as a compliment. That smile, up close, made Nwyn feel smaller, dirtier. He didn't let him finish the sentence. — AARRRGH!"
The man let out a muffled scream. Nwyn had driven the mask fragment into his side. It wasn't sharp like a knife, but it still tore, wounding the man the same way Nwyn bled from all his injuries. The aggressor's cry of pain was almost a victory—but Nwyn barely had time to savor it. The next move was fast, and the man's boot struck his face with full force, a storm of pain and fury exploding in his head.
— You... filthy son of a bitch. — The man screamed, rage burning in his voice. Nwyn's face throbbed, blood pouring from his nose, the swelling so intense he could barely open his eyes. Blood was everywhere, and he couldn't tell if the clog in his nose was pain or congealed gore.
The man yanked him up by the arms, Nwyn's face now just a mask of agony, and shouted, furious:
— You're gonna regret every second! — The man was enraged, gripping Nwyn's arm brutally as he snatched the mask fragment and flung it away like a worthless object. — I was just gonna mess with you and let you go—maybe even let you keep your clothes if you played it right—but now you're gonna suffer. I'm gonna rip your FUCKING EYES out!
The threat was a sentence, and Nwyn felt the chill of truth in every word. He didn't know what to do, but he knew one thing: no matter how hard he tried, the labyrinth of pain he was trapped in had no exit. And worst of all—he knew the man meant every word.
The blows didn't stop. They came in a relentless tide, each punch, each kick, another reminder of his powerlessness. The man's calloused hands scraped his skin as Nwyn's body twisted, every muscle tensed in pain. His chest burned, every impact a dull explosion that made him lose track of time. He no longer knew how long it had been since the first strike. His shirt tore, the fabric ripped from his body like paper.
But the pain wasn't just physical—it was more than that. It was emotional torture, a visceral humiliation. They weren't just tearing at his flesh. They were trying to rip something deeper from him. Something he didn't know if he could ever get back.
When the final kick hit him, his pants began to be pulled down. Nwyn felt an icy panic invade his mind, a terror that paralyzed him more than any pain. He needed to hold on, needed to resist, but the fear coiled around his bones, eating away at his strength. His breath caught, and he trembled, not just from the pain, but from the anguish of what he was about to lose. Something that might already be gone without him even noticing. But he didn't give in. He tried to hold on, gripping with every ounce of strength he had left, as if it were the only thing keeping him there, whole.
Everything was crumbling.
The mask... The mask...
And then, everything cleared.