The soil of the farm was soft and wet beneath Corleone's boots, each step sinking slightly into the muck. When he lifted his foot, a faint, wet squelch followed—sticky, unpleasant, and cold. He couldn't tell whether the substance clinging to him was simply damp earth or the residue of old blood that had seeped into the ground after so many lives had been ended here.
Fruit trees lined both sides of the path, their branches arching like silent sentinels in the night breeze. But it was not fruit that weighed them down. Dark, heavy shapes swayed gently among the branches—laborers he had once worked beside in Sir Finn's orchard. Now their lifeless bodies dangled like grotesque harvests. Corleone kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to look, refusing even to acknowledge them. He forced himself to appear like a stranger, one who felt no connection and no grief for the tragedy hanging in the trees.
Despite having treated Varg and temporarily proving his usefulness, Corleone's status within the Warriors Brigade hadn't changed. He was still a captive, a disposable man kept alive only because he might be of further use. If Varg woke in the wrong mood, Corleone could very well find himself hanging beside the others before dawn.
Freedom? It didn't exist here. Not for him. Not yet.
A hulking bandit escorted him to the edge of the woods and stopped. Rolger the Noseless—broad-shouldered, hunched, and covered in coarse black hair—looked more fearsome than any of the others. And yet, he was oddly the most polite among them.
"Go on in, Doctor," Rolger grunted, jutting his chin forward.
Corleone had rehearsed his words countless times, preparing arguments, excuses, reasons—yet when he finally asked Rolger for permission to come here, the man had unexpectedly agreed without hesitation. The ease of it unsettled him.
He bowed. "Thank you for bringing me here, my lord."
Rolger waved dismissively but placed a heavy hand on Corleone's shoulder. "Don't mention it. I never refuse a doctor's request. No one knows when they'll need patching up."
Then his lips curled into something that tried to resemble a friendly smile. "Uswicke is just ahead. But I'd wait 'til he's finished enjoying himself. The man hates interruptions."
Corleone returned the nod with calm politeness, then stepped forward into the dim woods alone. He moved lightly, careful to avoid snapping twigs or rustling leaves. After weaving between several apple trees, he emerged into a small clearing illuminated by faint moonlight.
In the center, tied to a thick tree trunk, was a pale mound of flesh—soft, round, and trembling. It took only a moment for Corleone to recognize him. Derek, Sir Finn's only son. Ten to thirteen years of age, though his massive size made him look like a malformed adult. The boy's body had always been unnaturally bloated, his face slack, his eyes dull.
The landlord's simpleton son.
Not far away, Uswicke was fully absorbed in what could only be described as a grotesque game. He wielded a sharpened wooden stick and jabbed it repeatedly into Derek's exposed, greasy flesh. Blood mixed with fat trickled down the boy's sides as muffled screams forced their way past his gag.
There was no blade involved, just punctures—pain for the sake of pain. Uswicke watched the reactions with fascination, delighting in every twist and flinch.
Corleone stepped forward without hesitation.
"As a doctor, Lord Uswicke," he said calmly, "allow me to offer you a professional suggestion."
Uswicke froze mid-stab, blinking as if unsure whether he had heard correctly. In all his experience, no one had ever approached him during his pastime—let alone offered advice on improving it.
"…What did you say?" he muttered, turning toward Corleone.
Corleone gestured toward the scattered wounds. "Your method may be painful, but the blood loss will dull sensation and push him into shock too quickly. He'll pass out before you've had the chance to enjoy the full extent of his suffering."
He stepped a little closer, tone level and clinical. "If you want sustained pain, target dense muscle away from major arteries—here, for example." He touched his own thigh. "Half an inch to an inch deep. Enough to cripple and burn, but not enough to kill."
Then he tapped his upper arm. "This is another area with rich nerve reactions and slow-bleeding wounds."
Uswicke stared at him with growing fascination, as though discovering a secret master of the craft.
Corleone continued, voice calm, steady, horrifyingly professional.
"Destroy nerves too quickly and you lose sensation. Hit an artery, and he dies too soon. Pain must be cultivated, not wasted."
A shiver ran down Uswicke's spine—excitement, admiration, and fear all at once.
"Damn it… Doctor," he breathed, "you're a monster."
Corleone extended his hand. "Please lend me a dagger."
Uswicke handed it over eagerly.
Corleone stepped up to Derek, who stared at him with wide, panicked eyes—the eyes of a frightened animal. Corleone spoke quietly.
"I do not hate you, Derek. Even though you and the steward laughed while you whipped us. Even though you crushed two workers to death by sitting on them, and crippled three more pretending they were horses to ride."
Derek's confusion flickered across his face. He did not remember. Corleone had expected that. Inbreeding had dulled the boy's mind—Sir Finn had married his own cousin, after all.
"I don't hate you," Corleone repeated softly. "What I'm about to do isn't revenge. It is a transaction. Someone must always pay the price."
He plunged the dagger into Derek's thigh with surgical precision. The boy's scream tore through the night—raw, sharp, agonized—yet he remained fully conscious, trembling violently.
Corleone twisted the blade, then withdrew it smoothly, avoiding arteries exactly as he had described.
"See?" he said, turning back toward Uswicke while handing him the bloody dagger. "He will suffer intensely, but he won't die. This is efficiency."
Uswicke's eyes shone with awe—the wide-eyed admiration of a student discovering a master.
"Teach me," he whispered. "Doctor, I must learn this."
Corleone allowed himself a faint smile.
Step one—establish kinship—complete.
"You may call me Vito Corleone, Lord Uswicke," he said warmly. "And yes, I will teach you."
Uswicke leaned forward eagerly—but Corleone shifted the conversation.
"Torturing a foolish fat boy is a small amusement," he said lightly. "Tell me, wouldn't you prefer to apply this precision and control to something greater?"
Uswicke frowned, intrigued. "Greater?"
Corleone leaned in, voice low and compelling.
"To deciding who is worthy to sit forever as Count of Herrenburg."
The clearing fell silent. Even Derek's sobs seemed distant. Uswicke stared—mind racing, ambition stirring, violence searching for a purpose larger than cruelty.
Corleone continued, weaving words like threads tightening into a snare.
"Power belongs not to those with titles, but to those who can decide who bleeds and who kneels. You already command fear. With guidance… you could command destiny."
Uswicke swallowed hard, breathing faster.
Corleone stood calmly, hands clasped behind his back, appearing neither threatening nor submissive—only certain.
"This is not about pain," he said softly. "It is about control."
The bandit's eyes gleamed.
Corleone smiled inw
ardly.
Step two—ignite ambition—successful.
And the path to survival—and profit—had finally begun to open.