"The Land of Sorrows?... Interesting. Such an intriguing name. So, which era are we in now? The Second Era? It cannot be."
"The Third Era, year 1180, January, the depth of winter."
"Hmm... I see. Remember this day, boy. I hope you will engrave it in your memory, for in the days ahead, you will come to understand just how significant today will be for you."
The young beggar silently watched Dark Extinction, letting the words wash over him. When the speech ended, he suddenly spoke up, "Dark Extinction, how do I remove you?"
Dark Extinction glared at the beggar, a cold sneer curling on its lips. "What, does it hurt? Remember this well. Every time you accept more of my power, you will experience this pain. Unless you sever your arm, these chains, linking to your blood vessels, will never loosen."
Upon hearing this, the beggar fell silent. A hint of regret crossed his mind. Dark Extinction let out a dismissive grunt, its crimson pupils narrowing into fine lines before vanishing in an instant, just as it had appeared. The blood in the hollow seemed to be absorbed by the sword, leaving no trace. The red light within the tent faded, and finally, sleep was within reach…
Such a pity.
As his eyes closed, a profound sense of regret stirred in the beggar's mind, hidden behind his emotionless expression.
A sword that could not be removed… That meant he could not pawn it, nor exchange it for Sula...
...
The storm had passed by dawn. Senag enjoyed a rare, sunny morning. The river, slightly frozen, glistened with flecks of gold, while a white carpet of snow blanketed the streets.
Beneath the bridge, a sliver of sunlight managed to creep in. Though the light was meager, it painted the tent with a warm hue. As the sound of approaching carriage wheels filled the air, the tent stirred.
The beggar's head emerged from the fabric... No matter how warm it was outside, his vigilant eyes scanned the surroundings. Even the smallest mouse, before venturing out, would observe its surroundings to avoid becoming breakfast for a hawk or serpent.
The tent flaps parted, and the beggar slowly stepped out. Cradled in his arms was the infant, as though he had never let her go the entire night.
The morning air, seeping through the bridge, carried a coldness distinct from the storm. The beggar shivered involuntarily, clutching the swaddled infant tighter, lowering his head.
Tiny droplets dotted her face, catching the morning light and reflecting a rainbow of colors. Her flushed cheeks still bore the faintest breath. He touched her... The fever had not subsided.
The beggar gathered fresh snow and placed it into his kettle to heat. But in doing so, he had no more wood to keep the tent secure and was unprepared for the next storm. He bit into a hard piece of bread, swallowing it with saliva. Once his stomach felt slightly satisfied, he tore the bread into small pieces, adding it to the kettle to dissolve. He dipped his finger into the mixture and slowly fed it to the infant.
"Umm... Wah..."
Sensing the sweet aroma of food, the infant's lips parted slightly, sucking on the beggar's finger. Perhaps due to her hunger, her sucking was forceful, her tiny hands gripping his finger with a surprising strength, unwilling to let go.
The beggar continued feeding her, painstakingly repeating the motion for an hour.
But that alone would have been tolerable.
Suddenly, the beggar's hand froze. At the same moment, the infant trembled gently in his arms, then, with a relieved expression as if a problem had been solved, exhaled a deep breath and fell back into a peaceful slumber...
Warm liquid seeped through the swaddling and onto the beggar's hand. It trickled along the chains, finding its way into the still-healing wound on his right arm, sending a sharp sting through him. The cold morning breeze froze the warmth, turning it to ice.
The beggar stared at the infant in his arms, his face emotionless, but his eyes cold and devoid of compassion. He had encountered "trouble," and this "trouble" would no doubt consume much of his time, adding to the list of unpaid tasks.
The cold wind stole the warmth of the liquid. The infant, now chilled within the swaddling, began to show signs of discomfort. Finally, she opened her mouth, using the only weapon she had—crying—to announce her distress.
"Human boy, what should we do according to your plan?"
Dark Extinction's voice carried a hint of mockery. It seemed genuinely curious to see how the beggar would respond.
"...Handle your own matters."
The beggar's cold gaze lingered on the crying infant.
"Your parents are dead. In this world, no one will come to clean your mess."
With those words, the beggar turned and tossed the crying infant onto a pile of dry grass, then walked out of the tent...
...
The morning was nearing its end. The sun hung high, emitting its rare warmth. Pedestrians, bundled in thick coats and wearing sturdy, insulated shoes, trudged through the snow. Even on clear days, the cold still clung to the winter air.
Beside the bridge, a simple rack made of branches had appeared. Upon it hung the swaddling, now cleaned by snowmelt, fluttering gently in the wind, drying in the crisp air.
Beneath the bridge, the beggar stood bare-chested, shivering as his lips turned blue. He held his arms tightly against his body. After discarding some filthy dry grass into the river, he re-entered the tent, gazing at the infant covered by his blanket, lying amidst the dried grass.
"Boy, your actions baffle me."
Shivering, the beggar flipped his tattered coat inside out, then carefully wrapped the infant in the old but clean and warm coat. After folding the fabric, he gently cradled the infant again, wrapping both her and the blanket in the same bundle.
"She can be exchanged for Sula."
Stepping out of the tent, the beggar felt the biting cold of winter pierce his skin.
"If she's filthy and stinks, there will be less Sula to exchange."
With those words, the beggar shuddered again and stepped into the winter noon.
...
In the chaotic and disordered border city, what is most abundant?
Flower streets.
It is precisely because of the filth here that this ancient tradition has managed to survive like cockroaches in every dirty corner.
In the northeastern part of Senag, this area is infamous for diseases, drug addicts, robbers, and murderers. Even the snow cannot cover the rampant disorder and degradation that spreads throughout the region. Wealthy people avoid this place entirely. They have the means to enjoy finer pleasures and would never come here to select women who have neither beauty nor refinement, like slabs of fat waiting to be used.
Yet, there is one thing even the rich cannot deny, or, with contempt, might agree upon. This place is where the poor come to relieve their desires, and where criminal transactions are common.
The beggar huddled in an alley, like a mouse eager to survive, peeking out from the shadows. Only after confirming that no one was walking on the noon streets did he lower his head, cradling the infant, and step onto the flower street.
"Where are you going?" Dark Extinction's voice mocked from his mind.
"To trade her for money," the beggar replied bluntly.
"Heh, interesting. Hey, she's looking at you, you know? Look."
The beggar lowered his head, slightly lifting the blanket to peer inside. The infant had awakened, her emerald eyes wide with fear yet fixated on his face.
The beggar's steps slowed slightly as he gazed down at her flushed face. Her lashes were long, and her tiny lips were pale, though her breaths carried the faint scent of milk... sweet, pleasant.
The beggar's hand trembled slightly. He turned his head away, no longer looking into those innocent eyes. Yes, she should not look at him like that, nor should she show such a dependent expression. Because, in no time, this person she was staring at would exchange her for Sula and cast her into the brothel to fend for herself.
"Umm... Ah... Ba... Wuwu..."
Meaningless babbling came from the beggar's arms. The infant's condition seemed to improve, but the beggar quickened his pace, heading toward his destination.
...
The Pink Lady.
The largest tavern on Flower Street, specializing in cheap wine and inexpensive women, bore such a vulgar name. It was a gathering place for clients, as well as a battlefield for thugs and thieves.
At noon, the Pink Lady was still closed. The beggar glanced at the front door before swiftly moving around to the back, the door where trash was discarded. He knocked.
...
"Clank!"
The peephole on the door slid open, revealing a face marked by malice and petty merchant cunning.
"Who is it?"
"It's me."
The man looked down, saw the beggar, and let out a cold laugh. He closed the peephole, and two minutes later, the door creaked open.