In the past few days, passersby often spotted Debbie sitting on the steps of Anthony's magical store, her small frame slumped in a daze. The innocence of her youthful face occasionally gave way to a look of deep concern as her eyes fixed on the street across, as if waiting for someone to appear.
"Has Martin not returned yet? Poor thing," a woman whispered to her companion, glancing at Debbie with pity. "Where could he have gone?"
"Don't you get it?" the man replied, lowering his voice as they walked past. "I heard he was taken by Busca. With Martin's character, what kind of mage would even want him as an apprentice? It's all too suspicious."
"True. I've heard that Busca's magic shop has been selling scrolls like mad lately. Something's definitely off," the woman murmured, shaking her head. "And poor Debbie, just sitting here like this. It's been three months since Martin disappeared!"
"Three months? That's nothing. If Busca really did something to Martin, the city guard wouldn't lift a finger. They only care about important matters," the man replied, his voice tinged with resignation. "Maybe he'll come back eventually. Word is Busca plans to release the hammer soon."
Their conversation faded into the distance, leaving Debbie alone with her thoughts and the giant sword cradled in her arms. She felt the weight of her worries pressing down on her as she pulled out an old scroll from her pocket. The paper was wrinkled but preserved well, a handwritten letter from Skar that had somehow landed on the counter of the magic shop. Debbie didn't realize it had been sent by Busca; she simply recognized the familiar script, having read it countless times.
Her emotions had transformed since the first time she received it—from anger to doubt, then worry, and now a flicker of hope. How could her clumsy Martin possibly be valued by a mage? The thought seemed absurd. Yet, in this moment of uncertainty, she could do nothing but wait.
"Martin, where are you? Please come back soon," she whispered to the empty street.
---
Meanwhile, Martin was preparing for what lay ahead.
It was nearing noon when Busca and his son, Kerry, stepped out of the city in their carriage, heading toward the Tashan Hills on the outskirts of Stan. The hills were known for their tranquility, devoid of dangerous creatures, and had become a favored spot for those seeking a quiet retreat.
Years prior, Busca had dabbled in hunting and had a hidden warehouse in the hills. Martin had surmised that this was where he was being kept. The only source of fresh air came through small vents, barely large enough for a fist, but he could hear birds singing and see leaves fluttering from the outside. He had assumed he was in a wooded area, though he never expected it would be in the mountains.
The carriage halted at the foot of a hill, and Busca stepped out, scanning the surroundings with a cautious eye before entering the nearby jungle. Kerry followed suit, tethering the reins to a sturdy tree. He had changed significantly over the past three months; the physical wounds from magical experiments had healed, but the fire scars remained, a constant reminder of his failure. Once a proud guard, he now wore the tattered armor of a dismissed city soldier, weighed down by shame and resentment.
Every visit to this hidden place ignited a smoldering anger within him. He clenched the hilt of his sword, vowing that if he ever faced the magician who had humiliated him, he would emerge victorious.
"Boss, you're here!" A voice called from deeper in the jungle. Locke, a worker who assisted Busca, emerged from a small wooden house, a look of eagerness on his face. "How's the kid been doing these past few days?"
"Same as always," Busca replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Just bring me the completed magic scrolls."
Locke nodded and rushed inside, calling for Quinn to fetch the scrolls. The wooden house led to a staircase descending into darkness, where Martin was kept. Quinn, a burly man with a scarred face, lounged outside the warehouse, nursing a bottle of cheap wine. He grunted in annoyance as Locke entered.
"Get the finished scrolls out here!" Quinn barked, his voice echoing off the wooden walls. When silence met his demand, he scowled and kicked the door to the warehouse. "Don't make me come in there!"
The room was stagnant and suffocating, filled with the stale air of confinement. Quinn pushed the door open, his sword drawn, and stepped inside, scanning the dim space for any sign of Martin. The bed and table were untouched, and the faint glow of a magical light barely illuminated the corners.
"Where are you, boy? Stop hiding!" he shouted, his voice tinged with irritation. "I know you're in here!"
His heart raced as he peered beneath the bed and behind the scattered debris. Just as despair began to creep in, he noticed something peculiar: an old, rusty suit of armor that had never drawn his attention before was now standing upright.
Quinn's breath caught in his throat as he realized the armor wasn't just a relic; it was a distraction. Something was amiss, and he was about to discover just how far Martin had come in his quest for freedom.