Snap!
Marcellus's screams pierced the air once again as a merciless boot ground into his hand, shattering his digits in multiple places.
Agonizing pain radiated from his waist—a cruel reminder of the knife Ganoes wielded.
Then, with brutal force, the boot descended upon his hand once more, further pulverizing the already broken bones and causing excruciating agony.
Marcellus's cries filled the room as he teetered on the edge of consciousness, momentarily slipping into the realm of unconsciousness.
When he regained awareness, he couldn't determine whether it was a fortunate or unfortunate return.
"Be careful, Ganoes. Don't kill him just yet," Thin Man cautioned.
Marcellus whimpered, his eyes tightly shut, trembling with both pain and fear. He longed to escape this torment, wishing he could retreat to the safety of his dreams.
"That would be an easy task, given his weakened state," Ganoes replied, his voice filled with a chilling detachment.
"Sometimes, you're unlucky, and they die too quickly," Thin Man retorted.
Marcellus took a shaky breath, then another.
He mustered the strength to crack open his eyelids, but the stars swirled in his vision, and he groaned in discomfort.
His gaze settled on Ganoes. "I know you, I'll kill you" Marcel rasped, his voice strained.
Ganoes knelt down, a mix of denial and apprehension flickering in his eyes.
"No... No, you don't, you won't" he countered, his voice laced with uncertainty.
In an act of sadistic brutality, he pried open Marcel's mouth and forcibly pulled out his tongue.
With a single ruthless slice, Marcel's mouth filled with blood, causing him to scream before choking on the crimson fluid.
Ganoes callously discarded the severed muscle of his tongue onto the tavern's blood-stained floor.
Marcel moaned in agony, attempting to speak through his blood-filled mouth.
"Phese, phese." he managed to utter, his words muffled and unintelligible, his mouth overwhelmed by the taste and presence of blood. He coughed, the act of swallowing without a tongue proving to be an unpleasant and difficult ordeal.
"I've waited far too long for this," Thin Man remarked, kneeling beside Marcellus.
"Stab him there, Ganoes," he directed, pointing to Marcellus's shoulder.
Ganoes obediently complied, plunging the knife deep into Marcellus's flesh, eliciting another anguished scream.
The relentless onslaught continued, with Thin Man indicating other areas of Marcel's body for Ganoes to target.
The knife punctured his thigh, his screams reverberating through the air, drowning out the sounds of his surroundings. Marcellus longed for an end to his suffering, his hearing fading away amidst the waves of pain and his own agonized cries. Thin Man's laughter occasionally pierced through the deafening torment.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Thin Man's voice broke through the cacophony. "Let's finish this."
Thin Man extended his left hand, palm facing Marcellus's chest.
A sickening sound of bones cracking echoed through the air as waves of agony surged through Marcellus's body.
He lost consciousness again, and in his hazy state, he remembered words from the dream-like ritual.
Although most of the dream remained elusive, the words echoed clearly, spoken in Sabastian's voice, '...In due course, if fortune smiles upon you and you leave this realm, you may acquire a boon and become a sword saint.'
He jolted awake, consciousness sputtering back like a dying fire.
The memory of the dream clung to him like cobwebs, fragmented and hazy. Yet, one sliver pierced through the fog: Sebastian's voice, echoing hollow from the forgotten corners of his mind.
"...boon... sword saint..." The words spun, taunting him with their hidden meaning.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the light bled through, searing his eyelids with molten gold. It pulsed with a rhythm like a beating heart, thrumming against his skull.
The air crackled with energy; the scent of ozone sharp on his tongue.
At that moment, Marcellus's long-awaited boon from the ritual manifested itself.
The blinding light morphed, swirling into a kaleidoscope of shimmering shapes. Was this the boon?
Pulse condensation!
An incredible power coursed through his veins, mending his wounds with astonishing speed.
A tremor of hope battled the gnawing fear in his gut. This could be his escape, his salvation. But what price would he have to pay for such a gift? His heart hammered against his ribs; a frantic bird trapped in a gilded cage.
Marcellus had yearned and prayed for this moment, and his fantasy turned true, no, his dream came true.
He felt a surge of strength like never before, his muscles becoming toned as if infused with untapped power.
Sensing Ganoes retrieving the knife from his gut, Marcelus seized the opportunity. Guided by his newfound boon, he directed the knife from Ganoes swiftly towards Thin Man's head, striking with precision.
It was too fast for Ganoes to react, Marcelus had gone from a nearly comatose state to pulling moves as fast a knight.
Ganoes instinctively released his grip on the knife, but it was too late. Thin Man's expression shifted from bewilderment to incomprehension as the blade found its mark.
Thin Man died quickly.
Marcelus wasted no time, swiftly seizing Ganoes's body and swiftly turning him around in a choke position.
Marcellus, fueled by an inner surge of strength, deftly manipulated Ganoes' head, causing it to turn in an unnatural and decisive manner.
The sound of bones snapping filled the air, marking the irreversible end of Ganoes' life.
The action was executed with a fluidity that belied the immense power behind it.
Death claimed Ganoes in its cold embrace.
This all happened in less than ten seconds!
Marcellus's chest heaved with laboured breaths as the remnants of the boon slowly dissipated from his body. The surge of power that once coursed through his veins, invigorating his lungs and muscles, now waned like a dying ember.
Though the boon had healed the multitude of torture-inflicted wounds that adorned his body, it had left him depleted and weakened. He struggled to even lift himself from the pool of his own blood, his body was drained of its vitality.
In the silence that enveloped the room, Marcelus lay motionless, his mind weary from the relentless screams of pain that had echoed within him.
The torture and torment had taken its toll, leaving him drained both physically and mentally. His body lay amidst the aftermath of the gruesome night, the room reeking with the stench of blood and entrails.
The fire that had been ignited earlier was now dwindling, the consuming flames reducing to mere embers, leaving little left to fuel its hungry dance as sparks flew indiscriminately and the air smoky.
In the midst of the desolation, Marcelus found solace in the cold embrace of Ganoes' lifeless body.
The once vibrant warmth had dissipated, replaced by an icy chill that mirrored the grim reality of their predicament. Marcel cuddled the lifeless sack of meat, seeking a semblance of comfort in this macabre tableau.
The room, now adorned with scattered guts and the remnants of shattered lives, seemed to overshadow even the stench of Marcellus's own urine.
The magnitude of the carnage that had unfolded within those walls weighed heavy on his senses, reminding him of the carnage he and Aiden had caused in the dream-like realm.
He contemplated that Maven was his father, he had never met his father. His mother was a working girl similar to Ruby Bliss she had stopped working when she found she was with child but could never confirm the father, he was basically a bastard child.
The room held an eerie silence as if the very walls were witnessing the aftermath of a tragedy too profound to comprehend.
Marcelus, with a heavy heart, reluctantly released his embrace from Ganoe's lifeless form. The onset of mustiness was beginning to manifest in a faint, unsettling odor.
His body, weary and shaking from sheer exhaustion, and his spirit wounded by the ordeal, Marcellus was beset with a daunting thought.
How would he ever articulate the events that had transpired?
The complexity and brutality of the situation weighed on him, leaving him to grapple with not only the physical and emotional toll but also the challenge of conveying this harrowing experience to others.
Would I be hung?
Despite his assertions of being a disciple of the Church of Combat, Marcellus' mentor was a rather abrasive priestess assigned to him at random.
She frequently ridiculed him, her words laced with mockery, and showed little tolerance for any signs of weakness. Her approach was stern and unyielding, often pushing him to his limits with a harshness that bordered on cruelty.
Marcellus reached a decisive conclusion, his thoughts resolute. No, I must depart. Remaining in Wisbech is no longer an option.
He knew all too well that if his situation came to light, she – the priestess, so quick to mock and challenge – would be the first to propose a trial by combat.
The very thought of entrusting his fate to the whims of such a volatile and unpredictable woman was unthinkable. His life was important entrusting it to someone he deemed irrational was a risk Marcelus was not willing to take.
As Marcelus weighed the next options, he could take to redeem his life, the first path was to become a knighted by the empire, this led to the merciless embrace of a brutal war, a conflict that had devoured countless lives for four long, agonizing years.
On the other hand, there was the seductive allure of the gladiator arena. The prospect of testing his mettle in a controlled environment, where the rules were clear and victory was measured in the cheers of the crowd, sparked a different kind of fascination within him.
The arena promised a stage upon which he could showcase his abilities and potentially earn recognition and glory.
However, Marcel also entertained a third option—a path less conventional but no less viable.
He considered the life of a sellsword (mercenary to be technic), a warrior for hire who fought for the highest bidder. It offered a level of independence and freedom to choose his battles, unburdened by the constraints of allegiance or ideology.
Yet, he understood the stigma associated with being a sellsword, particularly in the midst of a war where loyalty and courage were held in high regard.
The Church of Combat's disdain for cowardice hung heavily in Marcellus's mind. Becoming a sellsword meant risking the ire and disapproval of those who upheld the ideals of honour and loyalty, Temple priests. It meant straying from the path of traditional warriors, venturing into morally ambiguous territory where the line between right and wrong could blur.
As the ephemeral power of the boon faded, Marcelus found himself left with the remnants of the effects—the Harmonious Nexus Path and his meagre fighting skills.
While the boon had granted him a temporary surge of strength and healing, it was merely fleeting.
Marcelus was a self-aware enough swordsman to recognize the shortcomings of his swordsmanship. He had honed his skills through countless battles in the dream-like world, but he knew that his abilities were still lacking.
Yet, despite his shortcomings, Marcelus was not one to surrender to despair. He understood that mastery of any skill required dedication, perseverance, and a willingness to learn from his mistakes.
The Harmonious Nexus Path provided him with a unique connection to the mystical forces that permeated the world, a wellspring of untapped potential waiting to be harnessed.
Given the circumstances, running away was not just a choice, but a necessity dictated by instinct and survival.
The situation demanded it; to stay would be to invite further danger and suspicion. It was, in every sense, the natural response to the peril he found himself in.