Forwin was on the ground. Unconscious from blood loss, the excruciating pain in his chest and shoulder, the whip marks on his body, the bruised wounds on his face, starvation, and the sum of stress that had accumulated, reaching a breaking point—though it doesn't mean this will be the end—in the midst of all the chaos.
Several people were stunned by the unusual event on the quiet Breconi Street. And what was a Thatcher doing there? Forly hadn't planned to pass out, and... well... unconscious, he couldn't think of anything.
Unfortunately, a deus ex machina tried to come and save him. In fact, it even called for reinforcements. One of those very convenient, but not surprising, types. The talking horse, Trigger Heart, noticing his friend's disappearance and knowing he couldn't do much, took off at full speed for Thatcher Manor, without stopping and without looking back—and can horses even turn their heads?—and called for Alfred.
The problem was that he had been fast, too fast, and when he returned, he found no one but a desperate crowd, the Royal Guard taking away the blacksmith's body; in the midst of the chaos, the heads of families and castes fought over the body, so that he could have a dignified burial—many, of course, argued that Mr. Shellstrop would be incapable of doing such a thing, which was quite true.
All Alfred could do was try to search for his missing master. Failing to find him, he could only return to the manor, hoping not to raise suspicion, and that he was safe and hidden... if only he could have known... devastated by yet another piece of news, on top of all the missing members, to shake the depleted family—what family?—Alfred wondered, where could our protagonist be, and what would he do now?
...
Quick, exasperated, and uncontrollable breaths from a breathless body. Forly collapsed on the ground, but his unshakable will got him to his feet again. The crowd gathered in front of the fallen body, and people, too crammed together with curious gazes, clustered there, knocking each other over.
It didn't take long for confusion to set in, and people began to push and pull at clothes, and so, the poor boy's body quickly went unnoticed—so unnoticed that Forly slipped through the throng of people on the ground; and he took the opportunity to grab one of the trampled cloaks from the floor.
Forly crawled out—and he wasn't the only one—and ran to hide. First, he considered hiding in Dunward's bakery, but he felt the precipice of doubt growing ever wider, and he would only be safe with the butler. He knew that the king could not visit Thatcher Manor due to the mystery factor; no one knew where it was.
He had to sneak through dirty corners, pass covered amidst the crowd until the end of the day, when few were around. For one night, he settled in with some homeless people who were staying in an abandoned house at the beginning of Middle Street C, which was frighteningly similar to the Fly from Earth. He slept among rats and filth. On the ground, there was dirt, excrement; in the air, a smell of corpses—not by chance—and the fetid odor that everyone there together promulgated from their bodies.
He looked at that place, that environment. Everything so decrepit and decadent... Was this the kingdom he lived in? He began to question whether he deserved his wealth, or if he truly deserved to live. Slowly, his brain delved deeper, entering the dark and endless sea that is the mind, until he slept, like one adrift.
The next day, a thin—almost skeletal—man with white skin, though compromised by whippings and the action of time from living as such, with a white beard and mustache—the beard so long it reached his waist—wearing only brown, old wool trousers tied to his body with a cord of the same color; the old man, who no longer remembered his own name, recognized the boy in a discreet and vague manner.
"Y-you're one of the rich ones, aren't you, my son?"
"Me? No. No... look at me."
"..."
"How do you know?"
"We older ones feel, we perceive and see things that you do not see..."
"Are you talking about a sixth sense?"
"No." The old man laughed. "I speak of experience, young man... we have seen so many things that we have come to perceive more than we should in order to experience things we have not seen before."
"So you're telling me you've never seen a rich person around here," he chuckled softly.
"Could be..."
They talked for a good while during the morning. But one thing the old man told him before he left made him think.
"How do you, sir, remain so hopeful here in this way?"
"Ah, my boy. I trust not in a better future, or a better people, but that someone one day will rise up and change this... I mean, someone will raise someone up, who will raise someone up, who will raise someone up. Legacy is about that, isn't it?"
"It is..."
"That is why paradise is real, if we have a creator... A new world, different from this one that is already lost, where to die becomes a gift, but to live is a mission."
"..."
Before saying his last goodbye, he promised the man that he would do his best to return there. What he would do was a story that he himself did not yet know.
Forwin continued his journey, running as best he could. He needed to get home today. He found a cart along the way and snuck aboard it until he reached a point on the road, near the Middle-Forest, where he had to go alone.
Of course, he did not pass through the forest. The native giant peoples, now in political conflict with the royal government over the profits from the scholarly centers of study that were created by the natives—first as a home to enhance philosophy, though later, King Deormmund II managed to convince them to form an educational union, which of course, made the nation larger (a point for the king) and smarter than other nations (a point for the natives)—so, passing through there, despite being faster, would not be worth it if it cost him his life.
From there on, it had been the most painful part for him. He walked in toil under the sun, under the light of the moon, for 4 and a half days, circling the desolate and trail-less path, guiding himself mainly at night by the stars and by what he remembered from his few rides with Trigger.
At the end of the fourth day, he stopped in the middle of the road—leaning under a leafy tree with large roots spreading across the ground (the kind that seek a lot of water), its trunk so wide it looked a bit like a foliated mountain with branches—already near the dirt road to his manor, breathless, and starving; although the heat was ceasing, it didn't seem to be getting any better on the other side; as night fell, it grew colder and colder.
His body was suffering from a devastating thermal shock.
He started walking again the next day in the late afternoon, when the orange tinge of the setting sun painted the sky beautifully across every corner of the great horizon; and night finally came. He was entering a state of hypothermia, and when things couldn't get any worse, a drizzle began.
It quickly soaked his body, which was trembling non-stop from the cold. The water at least served in some way, first to quench his dry, thirsty mouth, and then, being so cold, to slightly numb the pains, which were more superficial, and the one on his chest, which he had mistakenly self-inflicted much more deeply than necessary.
As he got closer, and his remaining strength ebbed away, his eyes blurred, and he was almost crawling. And the rain continued, constant.
He arrived in front of the courtyard, and to his surprise, the gate was open. He slowly began to walk—so slowly that each step lasted almost 7 seconds—and with each step he took, he felt he would collapse.
He could vaguely see the door's threshold in the distance; he stretched his hand as far as he could, but there seemed to be a considerable distance for him to touch it. The second he dropped his outstretched arm, his body finally ran out of energy. He plummeted at once, and as he fell to the ground, his vision went from something like fogged glass to a gray veil covering his eyes, and soon, everything went dark—he had hit the ground, unconscious.
...
A fine drizzle flooded the stone courtyard, which was adorned with plants in every corner. Everything was so beautiful and calm, even under the rain.
Two people stood out amidst the 'chaos'.
A well-dressed, tall man with noble features was dragging a young man, even more damaged than himself, by the legs.
"Th-ank y-ou, Alfr-ed..."
That was all Forwin managed to say to his savior before passing out again. Still, he could hear the butler's soothing voice saying something about umbrellas and a:
"You are most welcome, my lord."
...
Eight hours in bed were enough for him to regain consciousness. He opened his eyes, somewhat dazed.
"Where am I?! Where am I!!? Whe-re am I... home."
His eyes darted from side to side. The happiness, the comfort of the bed, and the warmth of his room were so... friendly.
The muffled sound of the rain outside soothed him even more in a way.
He turned his head to the side and noticed that on top of a small, polished, pure wood bench, there was an empty plate full of crumbs, and a letter tucked under the plate. "Alfred fed me while I was sleeping, and didn't open the letter." And he laughed, proud of his companions.
He took a deep breath and carefully turned his body to grab the letter. He remembered well, "Open only in your house." Mr. Shellstrop's words. 'Oh, Mr. Shellstrop, poor man, he died because of me... What an ordeal... What. An. Ordeal.'
He breathed in deeply and exhaled with a certain relief. He could not allow his death to be in vain.
"It's time to find out what's inside."
He slightly lifted the plate and took the letter. The green wax of the seal had a scent similar to green apple. "I've never seen seals with this smell before, what could this be?" To him, it was as if he could chew, taste, feel on the tip of his tongue the sweetness and the sourness of it mixing. The smell was almost palpable.
The exact moment his fingers passed over the seal, the letter opened, he blinked, and it disappeared from his hands.
"Huh?!"
A sound of grinding stone echoed in his mind, as if it were in the room with him.
He was confused and decided to turn onto his back. Maybe he was dreaming, and looking at the ceiling would solve it, he thought... "The ceiling is proof of dreams in the old songs."
Nothing of the sort.
Instead of a ceiling, he saw stone runes with a greenish coloration. And a message in the center:
WELCOME TO THE SYSTEM! (Anonymous Sponsorship)
[Tailor-made for you, Forly]
[ACCEPT] or [REJECT]