In a dimly lit room, the walls dripped with moisture and old blood, a rotten stench hanging in the air like fog. Along one side stood a rack lined with surgical tools—knives, bone saws, clamps—some still stained from earlier use.
Two men, dressed in stained surgical suits and face masks, stood silently over a crude operating table.
On it lay a boy.
His upper skull had been sawed open, the bone cracked and peeled back. His brain was exposed—raw, glistening, and trembling slightly with each breath. Thin, crimson lines ran from the open wound down the sides of his face.
One of the surgeons reached out, delicately slicing into a section of grey matter with a scalpel.
The other one spoke in a low voice, muffled behind his mask."Still twitching. He's alive."
The first man didn't respond. His focus was entirely on the exposed brain. He adjusted the overhead light, then reached for another tool.
The boy's fingers flinched.
"Why the hell does the lich even want a kid without a brain, anyway?" the second man muttered, glancing nervously at the exposed skull.
"I don't know," the first replied, voice cold and detached. "Ask him yourself. Assuming you want to lose your tongue."
He reached for a long, hooked instrument and began poking around the boy's cortex.
"Besides," he added, "he paid a lot. That's all I need to know."
The second man scoffed, wiping his hands on a blood-streaked cloth. "Still gives me the creeps. It's not like the kid's got anything left in there worth using."
The room fell quiet except for the faint hum of mana-infused lamps above and the soft, wet sound of metal against flesh.
Then… a shudder.The boy's body twitched again—harder this time.
Both men froze.
"…Did you see that?" the second one whispered.
The first nodded slowly.
The boy's hand began to rise.
"Take the brain out now—before he wakes up fully."
"Right, right..."
One of the men grabbed a metal tool and carefully began lifting the boy's brain from the exposed skull. It rose slowly, slick with blood and nerves, while the other man used a thin scalpel to slice through the remaining veins and tissue still anchoring it.
With a final snap, the brain came free.
The boy's hand, which had twitched moments ago, dropped limp. His eyes closed.
"Good. This one's safe. Get it to the teleporter scroll—we're out of time."
"Yeah, fine."
The first man wiped his gloves off and gestured toward a sealed, rune-etched container beside the bed.
"Oh—and did the guards find the other kid yet?"
"I don't think so."
"Fuck." He slammed a tray off the table, sending scalpels clattering to the floor. "Go find him after you deliver the boy to the lich."
"Why me?!"
"FUCK OFF AND FIND HIM!"
The assistant flinched, muttering curses under his breath as he picked up the container and stormed out.
. . .
In a small lodge with a bar on the first floor, Arthur and William sat at a wooden table, each with a mug of frothy beer. Though they looked 15, their souls were anything but young—and neither could resist a good drink.
"Ahh… this beer's better than anything we had back in England," William said, downing his mug in one go without spilling a drop.
"Not bad," Arthur muttered, taking a slow sip.
"Good sir, another glass please!" William called, raising his hand toward the bartender—a bald, heavyset man in a medieval-style shirt and long leggings.
"Oh sure, kid," the man chuckled, already grabbing another mug. "Both of you are pretty damn good drinkers, huh?" he added, glancing at his beer stock slowly running dry.
William smirked. "Old habits die hard."
The bartender handed him another mug and walked off.
"Anyway, Arthur," William said, turning back, "how the hell do you even have money?"
Arthur calmly reached for his bag and set it on the table, pulling open the flap to reveal a pile of golden coins.
"Someone I helped gave me this," he said, almost casually.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Leclerc."
"…You mean the father of the protagonist? Leclerc?"
Arthur nodded, sipping his beer like it was just another Tuesday.
William stared, deadpan. "What the fuck… you found the protagonist's dad?"
"Yeah. Found him on a walk after I got here. Also ran into Alice."
William almost dropped his mug. "Where are they now?"
Arthur let out a short laugh. "Left 'em in a cave somewhere deep in the forest."
"Fuck. How?"
Arthur leaned back. "We all got captured when I first reached the city. Thrown into some goddamn prison. Leclerc was there—limbless, blind in one eye, couldn't even talk. Alice had an artifact jammed into her back."
William's face twisted. "What the hell do you mean 'artifact'?"
"Some ancient relic thing. Embedded straight into her spine. Her back was torn open, the artifact just… stuck there like a damn parasite."
William slammed his mug down. "Arthur, that artifact is one of the strongest things in the whole damn novel. Like—world-changing level."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? shit they probably captured now"
"Fuck, in the novel both of them never got caught."
Arthur leaned forward. "Tell me more, William."
"Was the guy who captured you… wearing a cloak?"
Arthur blinked. "All of them were wearing cloaks."
William stared. Then he burst out laughing—but it wasn't joy, it was panic dressed up as humor.
"Shit, Arthur… we're so fucked."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "How?"
"If they got captured, that means Alice's artifact—it's gonna get sent to the Lich in this town."
Arthur froze.
William kept going, his words speeding up, panic bleeding in. "And if the Lich's plan goes through—if he binds the artifact to his phylactery... WE ARE MORE FUCKED THAN FUCKED. Like erase-the-kingdom-level fucked."
Arthur stared at him for a beat, then quietly muttered: "...I knew I should've killed those robed assholes."
But of course we know Arthur cant]