Chương 3: Chapter 001 A Lesson In Dying Slowly

The saying 'The quill is mightier than the sword' might inspire naïve writers, but a forty-one-year-old Apprentice Scribe with a damaged arm, a ruined eye, and half-scorched lungs should've known better. I'm fucking pathetic! Jack's mind screamed. Jack gasped as searing pain radiated from his gut. He felt his own poisoned dagger being twisted and ripped free. His eyes trembled from the pain as he clenched his teeth so tight they creaked. Just a scratch would've been enough to kill th e murd ering basta …

His pitiful thoughts were cut short as the blade plunged back into his gut. Jack convulsed, breath hitching in shallow, rapid gasps. He gritted his teeth to stifle the cries of agony that threatened to escape. I should've died in the fire. White globs of thick spittle spat from his tight lips as the unbearable pain forced muffled grunts from his throat. His killer, Viscount Greaves, was savouring every moment of his torment.

After the Viscount disarmed him with almost supernatural precision, the old noble had severed the tendons and muscles in both arms. The counterattack had been so swift, Jack hadn't even registered the movement before he was bleeding, crippled, and helpless. Now, Jack's arms hung useless at his sides. Greaves' thick left hand remained locked around his neck while the noble's right hand wielded the drow dagger coated in poison. It was the same dagger that Jack planned to kill Greaves with just a few minutes earlier.

In his weakening state, all he could manage were feeble, futile kicks against the Viscount's flabby stomach. There was no hope. The poison from his own blade would kill him within a quarter-hour. How is he so strong? He's just a library administrator. Jack felt his body rise a couple of inches as Greaves readjusted his grip around his neck. Not a warrior. Not a… not this? For twenty years, he had dreamed of killing the bastard who had murdered his family.

But as a weak Apprentice Scribe with no fighting skills, his failed assassination attempt had yielded nothing noteworthy. Not even a ruffle in the Viscount's wispy blond hair. He was a lamb biting at a lion. And now the lion had torn out his throat and was grinning at him with a bloody maw. The noble was an overweight sixty-year-old man draped in a fine woollen suit and top hat, its silk band stained with arrogance. But none of that mattered now.

Jack's fate was sealed; he was awaiting the next available appointment with Thanatos, the God of Death.

"Impressive weapon," Viscount Greaves said as he examined the assassin's dagger. The blade steamed, reeking of blood and shit.

"How did a peasant get their filthy hands on a drow blade?" Still holding Jack aloft with one hand, Greaves wiped the blade clean on the sleeve of Jack's cheap leather armour, slicing a fresh gash into his forearm. The dull glow from the aether lantern the Viscount had dropped during the attack made the weapon appear even deadlier; its rare runes glowing in the light. Jack winced at the fresh cut and vowed, I won't… I won't give him the satisfaction.

Trying to block out the pain, his thoughts turned to the years wasted on scrounging for coin in backrooms and filthy taverns. His days spent inscribing spell scrolls under a haze of despair and depression. His evenings, a fog of cheap ale to drown out the cruel nightmares that burnt him most nights. All to save enough for the two things that might make justice possible. A drow-forged dagger, enchanted with powerful runes to pierce armour and pass through most magical protections.

And a powerful poison, so deadly that it was banned in most kingdoms. Ten years of coin and twenty years of hate, all poured into a single point of enchanted steel dripping in vengeance. Jack had placed all his hopes in the assassin's blade and poison; he had believed it would give him an easy time killing a fat, lazy noble. A noble whose role was administering the Ancient Texts Department of the Royal Library. The same noble who was currently wielding his dagger!

Despite his cheap armour, he had convinced himself he'd over-prepared. He'd been mistaken; the drow blade had only drawn Jack's blood, and with it, his life. Jack's strength ebbed away as blood loss and poison took their toll. The world swam in and out of focus, his consciousness slipping away only to be dragged back by searing pain. All he longed for was to fade into oblivion and escape the humiliation and red-hot agony. The Viscount drove the dagger into his shoulder and twisted it with deliberate malice.

"Try to stay alert. You have questions to answer before you die,"he commanded, his tone as cold as his smile was sadistic." Clearly, you don't have the assassin class. I'd be dead now if you were a true assassin." Amused by the failure of this middle-aged pretender, he scoffed, "So, who sent you to your pointless death?" His frown conveyed genuine insult at being confronted by such a poor imitation of an assassin. Despite the question, the Viscount did not loosen the grip on Jack's neck.

Amid the haze of pain, Jack's thoughts stumbled for any hope of killing Greaves. In desperation, he rifled through his scribe skills for anything that could help him.

[Class Screen-Internal View] Class: Apprentice Scribe (49) Compatibility: 5% Novice Primary Skills —Copy Text (5) —Translate Text (5) —Draughtsmanship (6) —Bind Book (5) —Restoration (4) Novice Secondary Skills —Calligraphy (5) —Layout (4) —Emboss Text (4) —Cartography (4) —Cataloguing (5) —Wax Sealing (3) —Ink Preparation (3) —Parchment Preparation (3) —Watermarking (3) —Contracts (3) —Margin Notation (5) —Ink Weatherproofing (3) —Micro-Script (4) —Leather Working (3) —Illuminated Script (2) —Gold Leaf (2) Apprentice Primary Skills —Perfect Recall (5) —Create Cypher/Decipher (4) —Inscribe Spell (5) —Scribe's Ear (3) —Glyph of Obfuscation (5) Apprentice Secondary Skills —Living Margins (2) —Lexomancy (3) —Seal of Silence (3) —Explosive Ink (2) —Echo Writing (2) —Dream Journaling (3) —Astral Notation (2) All useless, non-combat skills.

Fuck. I'm so injured, my compatibility has dropped so low. His Compatibility score had never been this low before. Greaves twisted the drow blade in Jack's gut.

"Stay with me," the old noble said in a quiet, almost friendly voice.

"Can't have you falling asleep halfway through the show, now, can we?" Jack whimpered as the razor-edged blade twisted once more, sending fire through his intestines. He tried to remain silent, to grit his teeth and deny his killer the pleasure, but the agony was too much. A pitiful moan escaped. Clenching his jaw, a single thought rose above the pain. I won't speak. But he groaned again when the blade cut deeper. It felt like his organs were being shredded and boiled.

His insides no longer belonged to him; they belonged to fire and steel. Greaves smiled; the bastard smiled. There was a sick glow in Greaves' eyes as he studied Jack's suffering, as though he were admiring a beautiful piece of art. One drawn in pain and torment.

"Pathetic," the Viscount whispered.

"Not even a hint of being Fate-touched." Jack had stalked Greaves for almost three months, watching his every move from afar before deciding this was the perfect location to enact his long-awaited revenge; the place where the murderer would die. Every Thursday night, like clockwork, the Viscount would pass through this narrow, shadowy alley on the way back from visiting an elven brothel. It was one of the few times he didn't keep his two personal beastkin guards close at hand.

Jack had spent over a dozen hours in this alley, planning his revenge. It was dark, narrow, and twisting, with only one way in and one way out; a perfect location for an assassination attempt on a non-combatant administrator. Even the newly installed aether-powered street lanterns failed to cut through its gloom. The plan was simple. Hide in the shadows, wait for Greaves to pass, and repeatedly stab the murdering mongrel in the back with the poisoned blade.

If the frenzied dagger attack didn't kill him, the poison would in under fifteen minutes. One way or another, the Viscount would die like the backstabbing dog he was in life. Jack would avenge his family's murder, and maybe, just maybe, the cruel nightmares would at last end.

"Still not ready to talk." Greaves waved the drow blade before Jack's face again.

"At least tell me who sent me this fine gift," he said with a smirk.

"It must be worth over 500 gold! I'll be sure to thank them in person." Jack groaned, his body trembling with the effort of enduring the pain, but he gave no answer. Salty and bitter sweat streamed down his pain-contorted and burn-scarred face.

"You don't want to die from a festering stomach wound," Greaves whispered, the words almost tender.

"It means days of unrelenting torment, and I can always patch you up just enough to keep you teetering at death's edge for weeks. Even months." Greaves paused as though considering the sadistic plan.

"Who knows?" he mused.

"Give me what I want, and I might even spare your miserable life." The Viscount leaned closer, eyes raking over Jack's disfigured, burn-scarred face.

"I could pay a Master Healer to fix those ugly burns. Perhaps even restore your damaged eye." Jack instinctively tried to raise his hood to hide the left side of his ruined face. But his arms were limp and useless. You're the bastard who gave me these scars. Hatred burned in him, every fibre of his being loathing Greaves for what he'd done, for what he'd taken. Jack pleaded for divine intervention. I swear by the Gods, if he dies, I'll do anything in return.

It was the same desperate prayer that had echoed in his heart for twenty years, unanswered, and unheeded. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Greaves chuckled.

"Impressive pain resilience for a commoner." A strange pulse fluttered in Jack's abdomen as though the wounds were healing themselves. Hallucinations from the poison. He knew healing wasn't within the Viscount's talents, and the Gods never listen to nobodies like him. Accepting that his torment was almost at an end, he forced a weak, bloody smile through clenched teeth. Just a little longer, and my pitiful life will be over.

Despite his failure, Jack felt a weight lift from his weary soul at the thought of no longer enduring the torment of grief, of unfinished vengeance, of a wound that had never closed. He prayed to be reunited with his murdered family in the Asphodel Fields, the part of the Underworld where ordinary souls found rest. He could only hope the Gods would grant him this small mercy. Greaves finally loosened the iron grip around Jack's throat, allowing him to breathe.

Jack's head lolled to one side as he gulped air, easing the burning in his lungs. The Viscount leaned in, his voice calm but laced with menace.

"Now, who sent you?" he asked in a soft voice.

"Speak while you still can." The noble was so close that Jack could smell his breath. Urgh, garlic. The fat swine had eaten garlic at a brothel. But no alcohol? The thought disturbed him more than it should. Confused, he frowned. He knew Greaves to be a heavy drinker; the man overindulged in everything. What does it matter? I'm already dead. He forced a defiant smirk as blood dribbled from his lips. The thought was almost funny. He wanted to laugh, but instead, tears dripped down his cheeks.

He had failed his family. Again. It had been twenty long years since Greaves, then a Baron, had murdered them. Since Jack had crawled from the fire with half his face seared off and the rest of his life stolen. The Baron's greasy ascent through the aristocracy had deepened Jack's hatred. It was not fair; it never had been. That fat face, those stupid jowls, and that wispy blond hair touched with grey would be the last thing he saw before Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus rendered judgement on his soul.

The Viscount's smug grin and ridiculous top hat, like those worn by every other pompous noble, would be burned into his mind for all eternity as he wandered the Underworld, a failure. He wanted to punch, kick, bite, do anything to hurt the bastard who killed his family. He seethed with rage and vengeance. All he could do was hang there like a limp, pathetic failure, gasping for breath while he waited to die. Jack felt his anger rise. I fucking hate you. He tried to remember his family's happy faces.

But even those memories had faded, blurred by time and trauma. Life was cruel and indifferent to vengeance and grief. The pain still flared whenever he thought of his family. Raw and gaping, like an open wound, untouched by time, and as fresh as it had been on the day of their murders. The smell of burning flesh was always there, seared deep in his nasal cavity, like a brand on his soul. The guilt of being the only survivor turned good memories into curses.

Every joyful memory was tainted by fire, by screams, and corrupted by the orange glow of a home-turned-pyre. His mother, father, his younger sister, and his little brother, just old enough to start school, were all blackened and charred. The ruthless Baron had slaughtered them all to protect a forbidden grimoire, one filled with blood magic spells. A book that only Jack and his father knew about. The secret would've been safe with only their deaths, but Greaves had killed them all. If only we'd…

His pitiful thoughts were disrupted by a fresh wave of agony tearing through him as the dagger slid back into his gut.

"Who sent you?" Greaves asked with impatience.

"Was it Viscount Daelrath?" the noble's tone sharp with suspicion.

"Or the scheming drow, perhaps?" he shook his head at his own question. Jack gritted his teeth at the pain. I won't answer. Greaves' voice rose in fury, "Answer me!" The Viscount tightened the grip around Jack's neck again, crushing his windpipe until it felt aflame. Jack choked, half-conscious, with his eyes rolling. The scent of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. A cruel reminder of his family, burning, screaming… No. Not that, no.

The world narrowed into fire and grief, and for a moment, he was back in his burning home trying to save his family. His face melting from the heat, the stench of his burning hair, as he tried to force open the burning door where his screaming mother, sister, and brother… He blacked out for a moment as the poison took its toll on his body and mind. His extremities were already numb, and the hallucinations were worsening.

As he came too, he could see faint tongues of flame flickering between the Viscount's fingers like he was a Novice Fire Mage playing with a low-level cantrip. As one final act of defiance, he spat blood at the man who had killed his family over a damned book. If only my blood w ere poisonous. It wasn't, and most of his spittle splattered short, staining the hem of the Viscount's elegant crimson waistcoat.

"Filthy dog!" Greaves roared, driving the dagger into Jack's belly half a dozen times with savage force. The pain was like burning coals in his gut, spreading fire through his insides. The poison dulled the agony, yet it was still overwhelming. He groaned but refused to speak, stubborn even in death. I won't speak. I won't. His silence enraged Greaves further. The Viscount's face flushed an angry red as he slammed Jack's head against the alley wall.

"Who! Sent! You!" he spat, each word punctuated by another brutal blow. Jack felt his body healing again. That's not possible, he thought through the pain. Only a Master Healer or a divine miracle could save him now. Stars danced across Jack's vision. Despite feeling a healing sensation, his body and mind were failing, his life drifting away. His thoughts blurred into a haze of garlic breath, dull pain, and the grotesque scent of well-cooked meat. It reminded him of roast venison, one of his mother's best dishes.

What colour were Mom's eyes again? Jack's mind was slipping away. Blue? No, those are my eyes. Confusion muddled his thoughts. Green? Hazel? The memory twisted just beyond reach. He could still see his mom's warm smile, gentle and constant, but the exact hue of her kind eyes eluded him. The loss stung more than any dagger. Mom. I'm so sorry, Mom. Then, for a fleeting moment, her face returned to him in perfect clarity, and with a choked breath, he croaked, "Green." Greaves froze; the blade halted mid-twist.

He eased his grip around Jack's throat, confusion clouding his features. Jack's body gulped a few precious breaths of air, clinging to the last shreds of life.

"Green? Green who?" the Viscount demanded.

"Who is Green?" He shook Jack like a broken rag doll as though that would shake the answers loose. Jack remained silent. The healing sensation surfaced again. It's not real.

"Why did he send you?" Greaves asked in a confused tone.

"Is he part of Viscount Daelrath's circle, or one of those damn greedy gnomes?" In a haze of confusion, Jack's thoughts drifted to his father. The stoic but kind parent who'd taught him how to ink a page, who beamed with pride at every scribbled flourish. He had been so proud when Jack advanced from Novice to Apprentice Scribe in just three years; most took five. He could see his dad seated at his desk in a crisp dark grey suit and bowler hat; his father had always been a figure of dignity.

Would he be proud of me now? Since the fire, since the murder of his family, he'd made little progress as a scribe. Depression, self-loathing, and revenge had consumed him, and cheap ale had done the rest. His precious craft, relegated to a means to an end: earn coin to buy a drow blade and poison. No. He wouldn't be proud. His heart sank further. I'm not proud of myself. I sh ould've been a Journeyman. Maybe an Expert Scribe, like Dad. But he'd thrown it all away for revenge, for vengeance.

The thought of his father's disappointment broke Jack's heart further, adding to the weight of two decades of grief, longing, and regret. He was grateful, at least, that he hadn't hallucinated his father's disapproving gaze.

"Was it one of Viscount Daelrath's circle?" Greaves asked again, his voice more urgent.

"Answer me, and I'll heal your injuries." As the poison dulled Jack's pain, his mind wandered to his younger sister, mischievous, relentless, and hilarious. He'd missed her stupid antics, like the time she put itching powder in his underwear, knowing he had his first date with Jasmin that evening. I so miss beautiful Jasmin. A faint smile crossed his blood-soaked lips.

He remembered the beautiful girl who would later become his fiancée for a few short, happy months before tragedy struck and knocked them off their bright path. Before his entire world fell apart in ash and flames. In his delirium, he could see the twenty-year-old brunette standing before him like they were on their first date again. She was laughing at him while he scratched his groin as they tried to watch a play together. They were forced to leave due to Jasmin's loud laughter and Jack's lewd behaviour.

"W-what was the play about?" Jack asked her aloud, her laughter echoing in his ears even as she vanished like smoke. At least she'd had a good life without me ruining it. After his family's death, Jasmin had been left behind, believing Jack had perished in the fire. Last he checked, she was married, had several children, and was living a good life.

"That should have been my life," he croaked while thinking about his ruined face and scarred body. A cruel reminder of all he had lost. No woman wanted him now. The hallucinations came thick and fast, as though he were flipping through a deck of tarot cards, memories of his family in their happiest days. His mother chopping herbs, his father sketching wildlife during one of his walks, his sister dancing barefoot in the courtyard, and his little brother's first words.

"Mom. Dad. I miss you," Jack murmured, as more fleeting images of his mother holding his new baby brother and his father gifting him a pocket watch on his first day working at the Royal Library. Memories of a good life flashed before his eyes. The sting of their loss was as raw as ever. He regretted not spending more time with them when he could. The hurt cut as deeply as the pain from his wounds. The Viscount stabbed him again. Jack felt a twinge of pain, the poison protecting him from the worst of it now.

His memories jumped to the few months he'd spent trying to learn swordsmanship and archery. He saw himself in the forest, alone—always alone—a cheap bow drawn back as his arms shook from the agonising pain. He tossed the weapon aside in anger and dropped to the forest floor in tears of frustration.

"I-I can't do it," his scarred, broken form muttered through the sobs.

"I can't." It was the day he'd given up on learning to use a sword, spear, or bow. It was after a fruitless year of pain, all for nought. It was the day he'd decided to cut back on ale and save coin to buy an expensive drow blade and poison. Almost ten years spent inscribing spell scrolls just to buy a single drow blade and poison.

"I hate him!" Jack croaked as he remembered the moment Greaves killed his father with a dagger to the heart.

"What are you prattling on about?" Greaves demanded, shaking Jack by the neck. The smell of burning flesh grew stronger.

"Tell me who Green is, and I'll end this now. Why do you suffer for those who sent you to your pointless death?" Jack's senses began to fade. He could no longer hear Greaves' voice. He was experiencing flashes of his life. Tens of thousands of pain-filled hours as he inscribed thousands upon thousands of spell scrolls while he imagined the day he'd plunge the dagger through Greaves' black heart. Ten years of pain all for nothing. His breathing turned shallow, laboured breaths gurgling and crackling in his throat.

His eyes rolled back, revealing their whites, as he sank deeper into the poison-induced hallucinations. The Viscount paused his savage assault and mused, "Why is he dying so fast?" He shook his head in confusion as he dropped Jack to the cobblestones.

"Why are peasants always so damn weak?" He cast a cantrip—a low-level Novice Mage spell an Expert Administrator should not possess—to clean the blood from his gloved hands. Jack felt no pain now. As the healing sensation returned, his thoughts drifted to his little brother, who, before the age of five, had declared, "I'm going to be the bestest and bravest knight ever and slay all the dragons." His heart warmed at that memory; it had been one of the few good ones in a long time.

"There are no dragons," Jack teased, recalling the sight of his younger brother swinging the little wooden sword he'd played with in their family home's courtyard. In the memory, his brother looked back at him, proud, fearless, and hopeful.

"There are dragons in my books, Daddy reads. I'm gonna slay 'em all! You'll see. I'm the greatest hero ever. Mommy and Daddy says so." The boy had struck a heroic pose, wooden sword in hand, ready to battle an ancient dragon. Jack managed a bloody smile at the hallucination of his brother as he imagined his body healing from the grievous wounds.

"I'm sure you will, little Dragon Slay…" There was no more pain, hallucinations, or Viscount Greaves. He saw an ornate door covered in intricate runes. The door opened, revealing a bright light. The last thing he heard was a female voice.

"You're not finished yet, Jack." Jack was dead.