Lark led me through narrower and narrower streets until we reached a collapsed building. She slipped through a hole in a wall, and I followed her cautiously.

  Inside was a dark, narrow space. A small fire pit was in the center. It smelled damp and cold. She pointed to a pile of rags. “This is where I sleep”.

  I looked around. “No one else comes here?”

  She shook her head. “It’s too close to the Graupster territory. They avoid their own dens. And the entrance is too small for big dummys.”

  That was something, at last. I sat down, wincing as the movement pulled at my bruised stomach. The dull ache was a constant reminder of my place in this world.

  A piece of trash.

  “This will do for tonight. Tomorrow, we need a more permanent solution.”

  Lark huddled on the rags, pulling a thin, filthy scrap of fabric over herself. I joined her, the Needle hidden against my skin, its cold iron a sliver of defiance and a promise of security.

  Sleep wouldn't come easy. My mind raced, not with plans of grandeur, but with the sheer, grinding reality of our situation. Hunger. Cold. The ever-present threat of violence.

  I woke up as I heard voices. It was one of those moments were you wake up and are fully awake. Thank you, useless new body for not betraying me.

  A gruff voice whispered ".. I told you I saw her go in here more than once, we just must grab her, the Madame needs new wares and pays in Iron. It is free money."

  Thank you for telling me exactly why you are here, I thought. Not that I really knew who Madame is, but I am pretty sure being labeled as 'ware' is pretty much self-explanatory. I feeled around with my arm in the darkness, to find Lark. As silent as my beating heart allowed me, obviously, I am very well aware of the stakes that are at play.

  I tugged on Larks fabric, cannot really call it a blanket. "Lark.. " I whispered, ".. whatever you do, just wake up silent" but it seems she is pretty much out. Of course, she is a small girl. What did I even expect. Okay.. let’s try to safe myself first.

  I silently slipped from the pile of rags, my bare feet making no sound on the cold, packed ground. Needle felt heavier now, a desperate weight against my body. The voices were closer, just outside the wall, a torch illuminated a shadow stretching into our hideout through the crumbling brickwork.

  Two figures. One on the bigger side and a manlet. The bigger one held a club. The smaller one held a sack and a torch.

  "She said to bring young ones" the smaller one rasped. "Less wear"

  The bigger one grunted. "Let's just grab her and go. We need the iron."

  My mind went cold, all the fear washed away by a wave of pure, crystalline fury. They were talking about Lark. As if she were just livestock, waiting to be processed. My fury felt like a white-hot flame inside me. In this world, you get eaten, or you are the one who eats.

  I had to choose.

  There were only bad choices.

  Running meant being hunted. Fighting meant dying.

  That left the last option - the one that didn’t require strength.

  I stayed still and tried not to breathe.

  I pressed myself flat against the wall beside the entrance, my heart hammering against my sternum. I drew Needle in my hand, my grip so tight my hand hurt.

  I don't think this will work, I heard the voices poking against the ruin. Lark is still sleeping.

  I stopped thinking and began to move, I tried to exfiltrate.

  But I wasn't silent enough.

  A loose object shifted under my foot, the sound too loud to ignore in the tense silence.

  "Who's there?" the big one grunted.

  My breath hitched. I saw Lark stir, her eyes fluttering open in panic.

  Now or never.

  The bigger one stuck his head through the half-collapsed doorframe. His eyes were small and piggy, his face scarred. He saw me.

  "I GOT HER!" he yelled.

  There was no more room for thought. Instinct took over. I didn't plan it; I didn't predict it. I just moved. As he lunged, I drove my left foot into the wall, using the momentum to swing my body around. The Needle, held in a reverse grip, sliced through the air.

  It wasn't a clean kill. It wasn't even a good strike. I aimed for his eye, but my angle was awkward. The iron point scraped across his cheek, tearing a shallow gash, then slammed into the bone just below his temple.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  He roared in pain and surprise, stumbling back. His head was tough. Too tough.

  "RUN" I shouted to Lark while I kicked her. Not sure why I did so. As I climbed around, I tried to stab our visitor again, but my attack was easily blocked, and he grabbed my arm. "RUN YOU STUPID OAF" I shouted and that was probably the trigger for Lark to jump into action and... she bolted through a hole in the ruin and disappeared.

  My wrist was now in a grip of steel. I was caught.

  My wrist bones screamed. I was yanked forward, off my feet. Needle stuck in my sweaty fingers. The big grunt shouted "One just escaped, go catch her"

  After pressing down on his wound and groaning, the grunt looked at Needle in my hand, then at me, a grin spreading across his face.

  "Look what we have here," he sneered. "A little fighter."

  He hauled me up by my wrist, ignoring my struggles. "You'll regret attacking me, street rat."

  It was impossible to wrench my right arm free from the brute’s grip. He pulled on my arm and turned his head slightly to back out of the broken doorframe.

  "Oh, I'm going to enjoy this." he said.

  Without thinking, I reached across with my left hand, grabbed Needle by the hilt, and tore it out of my own clenched fist.

  With all my might I grabbed and hit Needle at his face.

  It made a disgusting wet smacking sound and Needle entered deep in his ear.

  He screamed. A raw, ragged scream of agony. He let go of my arm and clutched Needle in his ear, blood pouring through his fingers. He just fell, as if his legs stopped working.

  I didn't hesitate. I pulled Needle out of his ear. I climbed around the corpse and ran, my bare feet slapping on the cold cobblestones, my breath coming in ragged, painful sobs. I didn't look back.

  I ran until my lungs burned, until I couldn't feel the pain in my wrist or the scrapes on my feet. I ran until I found a tight and unwelcoming snickelway between two buildings and collapsed, shaking, Needle still clutched in my hand.

  I was busy processing what I did. What barely happened to me. The feeling of piercing his brain.

  Then about the consequences of it. I took a deep breath. I don't feel bad, I just feel icky, like having not showered for days. This was justified.

  I was alive. My first minion? Gone. I interrupted my head cinema, i must drive the momentum or I will get a bad ending.

  And of course, no EXP, so no power fantasy.. I chuckled. It was barely a sane chuckle.

  For a short moment, I just lay there, the cold sleeping into my bones, the sounds of the waking city a distant hum. Then, with conviction, I pushed myself up. My right wrist was swollen. It throbbed with deep, insistent pain.

  I am so sick of this world.

  I looked at Needle. It smeared with blood and gunk. The smell registered in my mind; it was not really a downgrade to my filthy and stinky beggar body. I wiped Needle on the inside of my torn tunic while trying not to vomit, the motion sending a jolt of paint through my wrist.

  And now I am a murderer. I don't feel bad. It is all just the shock. It’s my morals and ethics clashing with reality, not me going crazy. I did nothing wrong.

  I need to leave this town, without getting caught, I need to clean myself, and hide my blood marked clothing.

  I must try to move along all the workers that leave the town in the morning, that is my time window.

  I thought about Lark, but I have no capacity left to spare. Let’s hope for the best and ignore the rest.

  My wrist was already starting to swell. A sprain? A fracture? I didn't know. I wrapped a strip of cloth from my tunic around it as best I could with one hand, wincing at the pressure. It was a clumsy, useless job, but it was all I could do.

  The town was stirring. I could hear the shouts of vendors setting up their stalls, the rumble of cartwheels on stone. I had to move. I slipped out of the alleyway, keeping my head down, my broken wrist held close to my chest. I was just another piece of street trash, another beggar in the tide of humanity flowing toward the gates. I am only one of many.

  The main gate was a chaos of farmers, laborers, and merchants. Guards stood by, bored and disinterested, only glancing up for carts or people who looked wealthy. I shuffled through, my body a canvas of pain, my mind a fortress of cold focus.

  It seems the universal law that people that wake early and prepare to go to work are exempt from the scrutiny of guards, still holds true.

  Once outside the walls, the world opened. Fields stretched out on either side of the road, and the forest loomed in the distance. My goal was simple: put as much distance as possible between myself and this cluster fuck of a town.

  First, I needed to clean up. Then I needed food and shelter. The town was a horrible place—but it offered protection behind its walls.

  After what felt like hours of walking, a small creek came into view. A much-needed blessing. I stumbled toward it, my thirst already a physical ache.

  At the water's edge, I looked at my blurry reflection.

  My face was gaunt, streaked with dirt and sweat. And dried blood spatters. My clothes were a disaster, stained and torn, the caked blood on my sleeve a damning piece of evidence.

  Then I looked at my face, green eyes, red locks, and an oval shaped face.

  And bones, a lot of bones that press against my skin, I am pretty sure they should not be visible.

  I stripped, sweat prickling on my skin in the stagnant midday air. The water was ice-cold, but I didn't care. I submerged myself, the cold water hurt and I just thrashed around, shortly after it became warm enough, my wounds ached up. Not very smart. I started scrubbing my whole body, trying to wash away the filth, the smell, the memory of that wet smack and the scream. I washed my cloth rags, beating them against the rocks, watching the brown-reddish water flow downstream. I washed Needle until it gleamed again, a sliver of pure and cold iron.

  While my clothes dried on a bush, I sat naked on the bank, examining my wrist. It was purple and swollen, twice its normal size. I tried to move my fingers. It hurt. This was a problem. A serious one. I needed both hands.

  And my belly aches, I need to find shelter for the night. Hunger hurts, but there is no way I am going to die by poisonous berries or mushrooms.

  I followed the creek downstream, staying within the tree line, hidden from the road. The forest was different here. Wilder. The sounds were unfamiliar, a cacophony of birds and insects I couldn't identify. Every rustle of leaves made me flinch.

  As evening began to cast long shadows, I found a small, hollowed-out log, half-buried in the undergrowth.

  I smelled something familiar, shortly after I found a patch of wild garlic, the smell of welcome relief from the gnawing emptiness in my stomach. I ate the pungent leaves raw, my stomach cramping in protest at the sudden food. It wasn't much, but at least garlic isn't poisonous.

  I moved back to my new 5 Star hotel, it was cramped, but it was a shelter. I crawled inside, pulling my damp, clean clothes and Needle in with me.

  I was exhausted. Sleep came in fits and starts, plagued by dreams of grasping hands and grinning thugs, of Lark's terrified face.

  Neph sat on her throne, sipping hot tea and crocheting thick wool socks. Humans from earth, she thought, had an odd talent for turning long and irritating chores into something almost enjoyable.

  A flickering light orb moved through her throne room and sank into her throne. She stopped for a moment, considering.

  So soon? Not even a full day. I wonder which blessing might be appropriate for this offering...