"That's really unlucky. If I can't earn money, how can I cure my grandmother?" Tharvis muttered with a wry smile.
He was still too young to do heavy labor like an adult, and the wages were far too little.
Tharvis needed a lot of money to cure his grandmother completely. The only way was to sell potions, but people saw him as a swindler—even though his potions were real.
With a deep sigh, he hobbled off into the distance. People shunned him as if he were some kind of pest.
Suddenly, a boy's voice called out from behind him.
"Wait a minute!"
Startled, Tharvis turned around and saw a boy in a gray cloak, his head hidden under a hood.
His brows furrowed slightly as he asked, "Do you need something from me, kid?"
Merlin rolled his eyes. Judging from his posture, Tharvis couldn't be more than eleven years old. Yet this boy had the nerve to call him "kid," which left him a little displeased.
