BANG!
Probably no one heard that…
…I hope.
The gunshot echoed way too loudly for my liking. But with the music blasting and the laughter everywhere, maybe it would pass.
The padlock exploded into pieces, and the impact made my hand shake—I wasn't sure if it was the recoil of the gun or the absurd hunger and pain I was feeling.
I pushed the cage door carefully, afraid it would make too much noise. Nothing. Just a low creak. Thank gods.
I slipped out from under the cloth covering the cage and immediately stepped away, keeping my head down. Cold air hit my face, but any sense of relief died the moment I remembered where I was:
In the middle of a tribe of lunatics—and smelling like I'd spent days inside a trash bag.
I kept my distance from the cage, scanning for something I could use as a disguise. That's when I saw it: between two tents, an improvised clothesline swayed with old rags and filthy clothes.
Perfect.
I approached slowly, trying not to draw attention. I pulled out the knife and cut a piece of one of the fabrics—quick, sloppy, silent.
The smell almost made me step back.
It was like someone had wiped their ass with it, left it in the sun, then repeated the process three times.
Still, it would work as a mask.
My clothes were another problem. Even torn and dirty, they were still luxury clothes—definitely not the kind of outfit bandits wore.
I sighed, annoyed.
"Great… now I have to look poor."
I grabbed a brown hoodie and a pair of pants from the line. The fabric was rough, heavy, and foul-smelling—the kind of clothes no one would question in a place like this.
Combined with the cloth tied around my head, I looked like a weirdo… but considering everyone here was a weirdo, no one would suspect a thing.
I just had to be careful not to be seen by Raven.
If she caught me out of the cage, I'd probably get beaten again…
…and I'd already had more than enough of that.
I stood still for a moment, adjusting to the new look and the feeling of being, at least, camouflaged. The hoodie was uncomfortable, but it made me look normal among those dirty, careless people.
Grrr… Grrrr… gruuuuulll
I closed my eyes as pain twisted my stomach.
Of course. As if this whole thing wasn't humiliating enough.
I needed food. It had been days since I'd had a proper meal.
Keeping my head down, I started walking through the camp, blending into the chaos. Improvised tents, crackling fires, people laughing too loudly, drinking too much. No one looked twice—here, no one was important enough to deserve attention.
I passed near a fire surrounded by bottles when I heard:
"The boss said the kid was rich," one of them complained.
"Rich?" another replied. "I searched his backpack. Only thirty Lien and some Dust. The rest was just junk."
"He's got some clothes… might as well use them as firewood."
He tossed my shirt into the fire.
That bastard.
That piece of clothing was worth more than his life. Imported fabric. Handmade stitching.
And it was my favorite.
I took a slow breath and forced my face to relax. No staring. No drawing attention.
What I was about to do was risky—but why not?
I turned around as if I were just wandering, following the chaotic flow of the camp. Loud laughter, overlapping voices, the smell of cheap alcohol mixed with smoke. They were too distracted—exactly what I needed.
The backpack was thrown near a barrel, half-open, treated like trash after they'd taken what they thought was "useful." Two guys stood with their backs turned, arguing. A third laughed, almost falling over from how drunk he was.
I walked past them without looking directly, slowing just enough. In one quick motion, I pulled the backpack by its strap and shoved it under the hoodie, pressing it against my body.
The weight told me there was still something inside.
My heart raced—but my face stayed blank.
I kept walking. One step. Two. Three.
No one shouted.
No one turned around.
Only when I slipped between two tents did I stop for a second, opening the backpack just enough to check.
The bottle was still there.
The thirty Lien were gone. The Wind Dust too.
Of course.
At least the powder ammunition was still intact, along with some of my clothes.
Well… time to disappear and head back to the nice, dark forest—
"♫♪♪ I'M A BANDIT, I'LL ROB YOUR HOUSE AND THEN BURN IT DOWN ♫♪♪"
"♫♪♪ LAA LAA LAAA ♫♪♪"
Diabolical.
I needed to get out of here.
I walked a few more meters through the camp until I spotted the gate. Big, improvised, made of scrap and wood. Two guards slouched in the towers, drinking and laughing at nothing.
The forest began right beyond it.
Perfect. That was my exit.
I just had to pass without drawing attention to myself.
My stomach disagreed.
Grrr… gruuuuulll
I closed my eyes for a second.
Of course. Right now.
A strong smell of food came from one of the fires. Meat. Fat. Something hot.
I sighed.
A little food won't kill anyone, right?
What kills people is not eating.
I turned away from the gate and followed the smell.
Just a little food, then I'd leave.
That is a great plan, Whitley. You are so smart.
.---.---.---. Third person.---.---.---.
The laughter slowly faded, as if someone had turned down an invisible dial. Some cups lowered. One of the bandits stopped singing mid-word.
She emerged between the tents without announcing herself.
Her tanned skin reflected the firelight faintly, and her dark eyes scanned everyone with sharp precision. Short hair moved lightly with each step, and the dark coat she wore seemed to absorb the light around her, making her presence even heavier.
Everyone knew who she was.
Vernal. Raven's favored.
She walked calmly, but each step carried weight.
Someone nudged the man beside him.
"Hey… It's her. The witch…"
The music died completely.
Vernal stopped near the fire, observing the group as if counting heads. Her gaze passed over familiar faces, empty bottles, and bodies sprawled on the ground.
Then it stopped.
On the boy leaning against a barrel, a mug in hand, body tilted wrong.
She tilted her head, studying the dirty cloth on his face, the oversized hoodie, the way he occupied space.
Something didn't add up.
Vernal took a step forward.
"Who's the kid?"
Before Whitley could speak, one of the bandits shrugged.
"Showed up earlier."
"Started drinking with us," another laughed. "Must be one of ours."
"If he wasn't, he'd be dead already," a third added.
Whitley raised his mug with difficulty, nearly spilling it.
"Cheers…" he mumbled, voice slurred.
Vernal studied him—the filthy cloth, the worn clothes, the loose posture of someone well past their limit.
"Enough music," she said. "The White Fang arrives early."
"Is it night already? Didn't notice."
A few laughs escaped, easing the tension for a moment.
Vernal shot them a cold look. Silence fell instantly.
She nodded toward Whitley.
"And that one—throw him somewhere to sleep. I don't want anyone collapsing drunk when they arrive."
"Relax," one of them said. "We'll take care of him."
Two bandits grabbed Whitley by the arms. He didn't protest—just laughed, stumbling on his own feet.
"Good night…" he murmured as they dragged him away.
Vernal turned and walked off.
The music returned, quieter.
And Whitley was thrown into the darkness, the taste of alcohol still burning in his throat.
.---.---.---.
Two bandits dragged Whitley away from the fire, laughing to themselves. His feet scraped the ground, kicking up dust, his head hanging loose, swaying side to side.
"Turn him that way," one muttered. "If he throws up, I don't want it on me."
"Relax," the other replied, pulling harder.
They passed the tents, leaving the muffled music and laughter behind. The path ended at an improvised warehouse made of old wood and bent metal plates, isolated from the rest of the camp.
One of them kicked the door open.
The air inside was thick, smelling of dust and rust. Weapons stacked to the ceiling, barrels marked with symbols, sacks tossed everywhere. Dust and weapons were stored with no care at all.
"Drop him there," one said.
Whitley was thrown to the floor. His body landed on one of the sacks, drawing a muffled sound and a barely audible groan.
One of the bandits stared for a moment.
"Strange… don't remember him."
"You don't remember anyone when you're drunk," the other replied, already walking away. "Sleep tight, kid."
The door closed with a dry creak.
Surrounded by Dust crates and poorly stored danger, Whitley sank into a heavy sleep—while a headache began forming long before he would wake up.