"The Continent of Sorrow? …Intriguing. Quite the name. So, what Era is it now? The Second? It shouldn't be."
"The Third, the year 1180, January, the depth of winter."
"Hmm… I've got it. Boy, you better mark this day well, for in the times to come, you'll understand just how crucial it truly was for you."
The ragged boy simply watched The Blood Pupil, hearing it speaking silently.
When he finished, the boy suddenly asked,
"Hallelujah, how can I remove you?"
Hallelujah glared at the boy, sneering coldly,
"What, does it hurt already? Remember this, every time you draw more of my power, you'll feel this pain again. Unless you cut off your own arm, these chains binding you will never loosen."
Hearing this, the boy fell silent, a hint of regret in his expression.
The Blood Pupil huffed, his crimson eyes slowly closing to a line, vanishing as quickly as he had appeared. The blood within the handle hole seemed to be absorbed by the sword, imprinting itself within. The red glow in the tent faded, and at last, slept.
However, once the Blood Pupil closed, the boy looked at the sword, behind his expressionless face, he sighed and felt sorrow.
A sword that couldn't be removed…meant it could not be sold for some much-needed coins…
…
The night's blizzard passed, leaving Senag with a rare sunny morning. The slightly frozen river reflected with spots of gold, and the streets were blanketed in white.
Under the bridge, a sliver of sunlight broke through, thin yet painting the tent with a warm hue. With the growing sound of carriages overhead, the tent stirred.
The boy's head emerged… No matter how warm and safe outside, his alert eyes always scanned his surroundings carefully. Even a rat peeks carefully before stepping out, to avoid becoming prey to hawks or snakes at first hint of sunlight.
Lifting the tent flap, the boy stepped out. He had held her tight all through the night.
The chill of the morning wind cut through the bridge, a different kind of cold from the storm. The boy trembled, hugging the wrapped baby closer, and bowing his head, observing.
Her cheeks with a fever color, gleaming with dew in the morning light. Her faint breaths continued. He touched her forehead… still burning with fever.
The boy gathered fresh snow into a kettle to boil, but this meant he had no wood left to fix the tent or defend the next blizzard.
He bit into his stale bread, swallowing with saliva. Once his hunger eased slightly, he tore the bread into pieces, melting it in the kettle, and carefully fed the soggy food to the infant.
"Uh… Waaah…"
The sweet scent of food filled the air, and the little baby girl slightly opened her mouth, sucking on the beggar boy's finger.
Maybe because she was very hungry, her sucking was strong. Her tiny hands gripped his finger with all the strength she had, not letting go.
The beggar boy fed her bit by bit. This breakfast took up a lot of his time. For an hour, he just repeated the action of dipping his finger in food and feeding the baby girl.
But that wasn't the end of it.
Suddenly, the beggar boy's hand stopped. At the same time, the baby in his arms began to shiver lightly. Then, as if she had solved a problem, she relaxed, breathed, and fell back into a deep sleep…
The warmth of the liquid seeped through the wrap to the boy's hand. The liquid traveled along the chain and into the wound on his unhealed right arm, causing a mild sting. The morning chill turned the warm liquid cold.
The beggar boy silently watched the baby girl in his arms, his face expressionless, his eyes cold and indifferent. He had encountered a "problem," and this "problem" was sure to take up much of his "work" time, adding a lot of unpaid labor.
The cold wind stole away the warmth of the liquid. Buried in the cold swaddle, the baby girl's face began to look uncomfortable. At last, she opened her mouth and used the only weapon a baby had—crying—to express her discomfort.
"Human child, according to you, what should be done?" the voice mockingly said, seeming to take great interest in watching what the beggar boy would do next.
"…Her own matters. she should handle it herself."
The beggar boy looked coldly at the crying baby girl in his arms—
"Your parents are dead, in this world, nobody will come to clean you."
With that, the beggar boy walked back to the tent, tossed the crying baby girl onto a pile of straw, and left the tent…
…
The morning was almost over. The noon sun hung high, radiating a rare warmth. People on the street were wrapped in thick cotton clothes, walking in snow with their wide, thick, warm shoes; even on a sunny winter day, it was still bitterly cold.
Next to the bridge, a simple frame made from branches had been raised at some unknown time. Hanging from it, fluttering in the wind, was the baby girl's swaddle, cleaned with snow, waiting to dry in the wind.
Under the bridge, the beggar boy's upper body was bare. He shook with his lips turning purple and his arms hugging himself tightly.
After throwing some dirty straw into the river, he crawled into the tent and looked at the baby girl lying in the pile of straw, covered with his blanket.
"Boy, your actions are somewhat confusing to me."
The beggar boy took off his torn coat, turned it inside out, and carefully wrapped the baby girl in the old, but clean and warm coat. After folding the clothes, he picked up the baby girl again and wrapped her up with the blanket.
"She could be swapped for some money."
The beggar boy stepped out of the tent, feeling the piercing cold of winter on his skin.
"If she's dirty and stinky, the coins I get will be less."
After saying this, the beggar boy trembled once more and stepped into the midday winter day.
In a chaotic border town, what's never in short supply?
The red-light district(brothel zone). It's because of the grim and dirty atmosphere that such traditions survive like cockroaches in filthy places, their heaven.
In the northeast corner of Senag, the place is known for STDs, drug addicts, robbers, and killers. Even snow can't hide the chaos and filth spreading here.
Rich folks never come here. They can afford classier women, not those without beauty or grace, who wait like chunks of fat for someone to use them.
But there's one thing all people admit and agree with – this is where the poor vent their desires and where crime deals happen a lot.
A little beggar was squating in an alley, a desperate rat peeking from a dark corner. When he was sure the noon streets were empty, he walked out, head down, carrying a baby girl through the district.
"Where you going?" a evil voice mocked in his head.
"To trade her for money," the beggar replied directly.
"Ha, interesting. Look, she's watching you," The sword mocked.
The beggar looked down, and staring at the blanket. The baby girl was awake, her eyes like emeralds, scared but staring intently at the beggar's face.
His steps slowed. He looked at the infant too, her rosy face, long lashes, white lips, and the sweet smell of her breath…
His hands trembled. He turned away, from those innocent eyes. She shouldn't look at him like that, depend on him. Soon, those emerald eyes would be bartered for coins, and she'd be left in a brothel to fend for herself.
"Uh… Wah…" the baby babbled, seeming happy and a little better.
The beggar quickened his pace to stop certain felling, heading for his destination.
…
Pink Lady, the biggest pub in the red-light district, sells cheap booze and women, with a vulgar name. It's where bad guys gather, and gangsters and thieves fight.
At noon, Pink Lady was still closed. The beggar glanced at the front, then went around to the back, where trash was thrown out. He knocked on the door.
…
The peephole slid open, and a tricky, mean face peeked out.
"Who is it?"
"Me."
The man looked down, smiled weirdly seeing the beggar, then closed the peephole. Two minutes later, the door opened.
...