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Nicholas trudged wearily to his room to sleep.
The stench of blood clung to his clothes—overpowering, suffocating—and his mind was consumed by Jack the Ripper.
But William followed him, pressing him to recount what had happened in the battle.
Nicholas spoke in an exhausted voice:
"I already told you—I want to sleep now.
I'll tell you later, so please don't bother me."
William replied,
"Alright then. Sweet dreams."
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
Afterward, William headed to Victor's room to inform him that his training would begin the next day.
He knocked on the door, and Victor opened it, inviting him inside.
William said,
"I want you to get a good night's rest—you'll start your training bright and early tomorrow morning."
Victor smiled and said,
"Finally… We'll start training tomorrow. Training begins tomorrow."
William looked at him and warned,
"Don't get too excited."
Victor asked why, and William answered,
"Do you think this training is some child's game?
Tomorrow's session will be a matter of life or death."
Victor shook his head and replied,
"That's exactly what makes training exciting."
William simply said,
"Fine."
Then he left, and Victor closed his door, lay down on his bed, and fell asleep.
As for Nicholas…
Nicholas couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned in his bed, trying desperately to drift off, but sleep slipped through his fingers as though he hadn't slept for several nights.
He got up from his bed,
lit a cigarette, took a few drags,
then stubbed it out. He walked over to his wardrobe and pulled out a bottle of wine.
He placed the bottle on the table—its color deep red, like fresh blood—
then slowly poured himself a glass, raised it to his lips, and swallowed it in one gulp.
He stared at the half-empty bottle…
And in its dark surface, he saw a reflection of himself as a young child.
He remembered being born in a small village where people rarely celebrated anything.
When he was little, villagers would look at him with contempt,
and he'd hear them say, "Your cursed family!"
He didn't understand—he was just a small child—living in a poor, cold place, while his mother held him close and prayed for him.
He recalled having no friends.
Always alone, playing in front of the house,
twirling a strand of his copper-colored hair around his tiny finger.
He constantly asked himself,
"Why don't I have friends like all the other children my age?"
He'd watch them with his blue eyes as they played around him, though he could never join them or even approach.
His father was rarely home;
he'd leave before dawn and return late at night—silent, exhausted, scowling.
The villagers feared him.
Not only because he was strong, but because of deeds so horrifying they made people tremble.
When Nicholas turned eleven, hardship struck.
Disease spread through the villages, and hunger swept across the land like wildfire that winter.
At that time, he fell gravely ill—
but he recovered.
His mother seldom smiled back then; in truth, she wasn't happy at all.
She feared his survival might mark the beginning of an even harder path.
Four years later, when he turned fourteen,
he began noticing strange things about how people behaved around him.
They avoided walking near his home, and other children wouldn't come close.
If he tried speaking to them, they'd shout:
"Stay away from us! Don't you dare come near us, you cursed bastard!"
Their mothers would angrily call out,
"Get back home, boys! Don't go near that cursed one!"
His mother rarely took him to the market, and when she did, she gripped his hand tightly—as if afraid someone might snatch him away.
He'd always wonder,
"Why can't I ever play like the others?"
His mother would always tell him it was dangerous,
though he never fully understood what the danger actually was.
Yet, as time passed, he began to notice how the villagers looked down on them and mocked them.
They threw stones at their windows and set fire to their garden before fleeing—
but he never knew why they acted this way.
One day, driven by curiosity, he went out alone.
He walked to the village square and saw a large crowd gathered around a wooden platform.
There were screams and weeping; people drew near, then quickly backed away.
He didn't know why they were so terrified, but he felt the place… heavy.
He saw a man dressed entirely in black, his head covered by a black hood, holding a sharp axe stained with blood.
The crowd parted before him, and some spat on the ground as he passed.
Others glanced at his pain, then lowered their eyes—as if afraid their gaze might defile the earth beneath his feet.
Nicholas strained to see the man's face under the hood. When he finally caught sight of it, he froze instantly, as if struck by lightning.
His heart pounded wildly, as though he'd seen a ghost or a terrifying monster.
What he saw was his father's face—and he immediately turned away, running so his father wouldn't see him.
That evening, when his father returned, Nicholas watched him from a distance, pretending ignorance, his heart racing.
He waited for the right moment—when no one else was nearby—
then asked his father why the people had been screaming, why they were so afraid, and why his father had been there…
His father didn't answer right away.
He sat Nicholas down in front of him and slowly removed his gloves.
Nicholas saw the marks on his hands.
He thought to himself,
"These hands bear old scars—not from farm labor, not from harvesting wheat. These are marks from something else."
Then his father spoke in a low voice:
"Listen well to what you're about to hear. You'll never forget it as long as you live."
He smiled faintly.
His father explained the truth in a somber tone:
He worked for the ruler and his elite judges.
When someone was accused of stealing bread or speaking against the ruler and judges—and the judges grew angry—they wouldn't send the accused to an ordinary prison.
Sometimes, they wanted a confession.
They needed the accused to say, "I did it," even if they'd done nothing wrong.
Then they'd send the prisoner to him—and his job was to make people confess—not through conversation or persuasion—but through pain and fear.
At that moment, Nicholas felt the ground shake beneath him.
He wanted to say this was wrong, but he saw his father's face—far from happy, burdened as if carrying a lifetime of weight—and his father added,
"What's worse?
This isn't work people choose—it's work they flee from.
But the city demands someone to do it—someone to stain their hands with blood, someone who grows accustomed to beheading and torturing people.
"And the judges force certain families into it.
It's horrifying.
They pick poor families who can't afford money—or those who were once slaves.
He told Nicholas his grandfather had held the same role, because he too had been a slave.
Before him, others in their lineage had done the same—as if the bloodline had never broken."
Then Nicholas whispered to himself,
"So this is the curse I heard about when I was little."
His father looked at him and said,
"And you… your turn is coming."
That night, Nicholas struggled to sleep, imagining a life like other children's.
He dreamed of becoming a farmer tending crops, a merchant traveling distant lands, or even just an ordinary man living in peace—
but the villagers' whispers echoed in his mind: "Cursed!"
And he realized a single word was enough to slam every door shut.
Years passed, and he grew older.
His mother tried her best to keep him close and give him moments of happiness—offering him a warm piece of bread, telling him a short story before bed.
But every time he heard his father's footsteps, he remembered this house bore a heavy shadow that never changed.
When Nicholas turned eighteen, his father said,
"It's time to learn."
He didn't say "train" gently—
he spoke as if it were an unavoidable fate.
He took Nicholas to a room far from the house filled with many tools, and didn't ask Nicholas to name them—because he wanted him to learn how they were used.
Then his father said,
"The first thing you'll learn is discipline. After that, I'll give you tasks."
They sounded simple—but they weren't.
He had to scrub the floor.
He cried as he cleaned, fear plain on his face.
After everyone left, he washed the stone with water and vinegar, carrying a bucket larger than his small frame.
He smelled a foul odor—an unbearable stench that wouldn't fade easily.
It wasn't an ordinary smell—it was the reek of rotting flesh, so potent it clung to his clothes.
When he returned home, his mother washed his clothes again and again, but the smell remained.
Whenever he walked through the village, people noticed it, moved away from him, cursed him, and called him "Stinker!"
That night, Nicholas sank into deep depression and stayed awake all night, lost in thoughts of his uncertain fate.
Early the next morning, Nicholas heard his father calling him to go to work.
His father urged him to wash his face quickly so they could leave early.
His mother said softly,
"Wouldn't you like to eat something, dear?"
His father answered,
"No—we'll have breakfast at work."
Then they left quickly.
When they arrived, his father began teaching him about the tools in a dry, detached manner:
"Each tool has a purpose. It's not meant to kill people—but to make them talk."
Nicholas noticed his father repeated this phrase often, as if trying to convince himself as well.
Then his father handed him animal bones and said,
"Learn how much pressure your hand can take. Learn when something breaks."
Nicholas didn't understand everything, but he grasped that his hands must remain steady—and that fear was forbidden.
After one month of this training, his father said,
"You'll watch."
A man was brought into the room—pale-faced, insisting he was innocent, weeping, swearing oaths.
His father paid no attention, and said quietly to Nicholas,
"The law demands a confession. We judge. We carry out."
Nicholas tried to close his eyes, but his father watched him closely—as if testing him too.
The man screamed in agony, and Nicholas felt his ears ache from the sound.
He tried stepping backward.
His father said,
"Stand firm. If you run now, you'll always collapse."
In the end, the man spoke the truth they wanted to hear.
He confessed, naming people whose identities Nicholas couldn't verify—because all he wanted was for the pain to stop.
His father concluded coldly,
"It's over."
Nicholas returned home and sat in a corner, unable to comprehend how the world could ever return to normal after this.
He drowned in tears, lost in thought, unsure who he was or why he had to live a life forced upon him.
He whispered to himself,
"My reality is more terrifying than any nightmare."
Exhausted, he lay down in that corner and sank into a deep sleep.
The next day, he went to work with his father.
As usual, his father said,
"Now, you'll do it."
He placed a simple tool in Nicholas's hand, pointed to another man's mouth, and told Nicholas,
"Start from behind."
Nicholas hesitated. The man stared at him with eyes full of terror, and Nicholas felt his entire body refuse to move.
His father stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder—not a gesture of comfort, but a clear message—
and whispered so only Nicholas could hear,
"Do it. Do it now. If you don't, you'll pay the price."
Then he added something that deepened Nicholas's dread:
"If you disobey the ruler's and judges' orders—if the prisoner dies before confessing—they might burn us alive.
I've heard stories of men in our line of work who ended up burned alive because the judges knew they wouldn't follow commands.
"Strike him. Make him writhe in pain.
If you don't, they'll burn me, you, and your mother.
You can't escape your fate, my son."