The Blood Alchemist

Several hundred yards away from the town gates, Messovia’s largest and most popular tavern was opening for the day. At mid-morning, the tavern wasn’t expecting that much of visitors. Except for a handful of patrons who stayed during the night and a couple of early drinkers, it was all but empty. Sitting in the corner of the tavern was a man draped in cloak of multiple fabrics consisting of canvas, wool, and a kind of leather that looked like it was made from a reptile’s skin. Put together, the cloak looked as if it was originally taken from separate coats and assembled in a hurry. Because of the dismal quality of his cloak, his inner clothing was more visible. Sporting a leather jerkin, vambraces, and gloves, black canvas trousers, and heavy boots, his appearance would remind any townsfolk in Messovia of a mercenary or an adventurer. Add to that the assemblage of potion bottles, rolled maps, and various weapons safely tucked into his belt, and he looked out of place. Fortunately for the owner, the regular patrons who liked to start fights against newcomers, especially those who stuck out like a sore thumb, were still too drunk to come into his tavern. It wasn’t unusual for those kind of people to pass by Messovia. After all, it was a seaside town. While it’s not exactly a large and popular port, it was a thriving fishing village. If not for the absurd taxes the nobles imposed on Messovia, it would have been far richer than it was now. But having most of its produce taken directly to Konigstadt without enough compensation, fisherfolk only had enough to scrape by. Hence, the only people who could make a decent living in Messovia were merchants who sell products sent back by big cities like Konigstadt, and of course, tavern owners and innkeepers. The tavern owner clearly couldn’t help but give the patron a side glance, a look that betrayed distrust and worry, yet unable to say anything. The man arrived in the early hours of the day, even before the headless messenger stumbled into the gates of Messovia, bearing the bad news that would shake the whole continent in a few days time. Unlike the rest of the townsfolk and the visiting drunkards, though, he was one of the few who didn’t bother to look at the commotion outside. For hours, he had drank there quietly, ordering an assortment of drinks. He even purchased the most expensive one in the house. It was as if he was trying to taste them all. That in itself was already unusual, but not as unusual as seeing a rugged man rifling through the pages of an ancient leather-bound book. Ever since he arrived, he was absorbed in that book. He never even paid attention when the drunks scrambled outside after hearing the housewives clashing their pans to wake up the townspeople, announcing the arrival of the soldier He stayed put, and ordered another drink. Then another. Then another. The tavern owner clearly showed resentment of being unable to witness the grim scene at the town gates firsthand by slamming the bottles in front of him. But the man only gave him another pouch of silver coins without a word. That seemed to improve the tavern owner’s mood a little bit, but not his suspicion. The man didn’t care. As long as he would give him whatever drink he requested and leave him in peace, then everything was good. There was no need to resort into anything. After all, he was still trying to adjust to his new life as a free man after a decade of wrongful imprisonment. And the last thing he needed was to draw suspicion. As such, he closed the book and headed towards the counter. Behind it was the bar owner, drying the glasses with towels, and looking at him rather apprehensively. He gave him his friendliest smile. *** Thane knew his long silvery hair could draw curious looks as northern folks were rarely seen in the southern territories, but there was nothing he could do about it. If he was an old man, there was no need to be bothered about it but he was merely in his thirtieth summer. The long, tortuous years he had spent in prison turned his hair into silver, and it would probably take him as long to regrew it into its original black color. As such, he decided what kind of identity to adapt the moment he set foot in the Black Rocks a few days ago. “That was all that you have, yes?” Thane asked the tavern owner as he sat in the stool directly in front of him. “The liquor?” said the tavern owner apprehensively, a sturdily-built middle aged man with a cut on his upper lip. “Yes. We gave you all of the regulars and specials that we have—sir.” He added the last word slowly. Thane assumed he was either being sarcastic or genuinely unsure of how to address him. Well, he couldn’t blame him. After all, he grabbed whatever clothes he could from the merchant’s house that he passed by earlier. To avoid being recognized as the thief, he tore some of the clothes and hastily reassembled it before wearing them. The only possessions he actually owned was the bag which contained weapons, potion bottles, and other objects he brought with him from prison. Then, at the bottom was a heap of gold and silver coins that he took during the commotion in the citadel. Of course, he needed to change his prison clothes right away. It wouldn’t take long before the news of the mass breakout would spread throughout the southern territories. If an imperial soldier would recognize him as one of the escaped convicts, he would have a hard time getting away. There was no need to get into a skirmish with them. That can wait. Thane nodded and leaned back a little, eyeing the tavern owner up and

The news reached the taverns before it did the palace. By early morning, the drunks who, up until that moment, were lying spread eagled across the floor, tables, and bar counters, were woken up by the sound of clashing pans. A lone soldier from the Imperial Army was seen at sunrise riding briskly towards the town of Messovia, a good hundred miles away from the capital city of Teutonia. An Imperial Army soldier was a rare sight in a backwater town, even if it was close to port, especially one who had been riding on his own without a backup. Unfortunately, Imperial Army soldiers were known to be cravens who were only as good as their status and numbers. Alone, they make a good punching bag. As such, early risers in the town of Messovia immediately gathered around the town’s gates. The early risers woke up the regular risers, and the regular risers woke up the late risers. Including the overnight residents of taverns. Everyone who was awake, voluntarily or begrudgingly, waited at the gates with apprehension as the soldier came closer. The crowd was eerily silent. Yet, as the horse and its rider came up closer, waves of gasps and yelps filled the morning air. The Imperial Army soldier whom they were so eager to test if he was the usual arrogant, craven bastard they could turn into a punching bag, was headless. As soon as it reached a few feet away from the gates, the body which was clearly hoisted and tied onto the horse, dropped to the ground. Some people started screaming, while others began to run as if the headless soldier would suddenly stand up and attack them. But of course, the corpse remained immovable. It was a grim sight, and the children who waited with their parents in the gates were immediately thrusted into the back. However, some still managed to squeeze their way through the crowd of adults, especially street urchins who didn’t have anyone to stop them. “Out of the way. Out of the way, you!” a pot-bellied man with an absurdly big mustache pushed the onlookers aside. He wore a faded red coat and emblazoned on his chest was the sigil of Teutonia. When a street urchin refused to move, he pushed him aside, pointing a finger on his dirty face. “Get back to the ol’ woman. That hag has been looking for ye since yesterday. Her cow’s gone, and it’s all thanks to you!” The boy spat in his direction, and then ran away when he saw him raise his mace. “I’ll deal with ya later!” he yelled after him. The constable shook his head and turned his attention towards the crowd, now closing in the headless corpse. His stomach clenched. As the constable of a town known for its numerous taverns, Erden had almost seen it all. Bloody brawls and duels that end in death were commonplace. Most of the time, however, he dealt with drunkards and crooks who were slashed, stabbed, or shot to death, but never beheaded. Still, it wasn’t an easy job. He couldn’t count the times he had to transport a body from the taverns and inns to the rocky cliff, where their bodies would be dropped to the cold, raging waters below. As a poor town far removed from crowded cities with huge population like Konigstadt, Messovia just didn’t have the money to pay for grave diggers and delegate plots of lands to turn into cemeteries. It had always been this way, despite being under the jurisdiction of the most powerful nation in the continent. So, if anyone came to Messovia looking for a drunkard family member, he would immediately tell them what could have possibly happened to them. When he was a young lad, a reeve and an apprentice to the former constable, Erden found this practice heartless and unforgiving. But when he soon saw how frequent violence and death were in towns like Messovia, he realized that things like this were sometimes unavoidable. Well, in his defense, as soon as Erden became the chief constable, he tried to keep the bodies in a shed for seven days before dumping them to the sea, so the bereaved could still have the opportunity to claim their family member. No sooner than he did, a group of corpse eating wraiths stormed into the shed during the middle of the night and feasted on the carcasses. Sure enough, when he returned the next morning, the remains of the body which now only constituted of severed hands and feet, weren’t a pretty sight. Erden thought it would be better to bury them at sea than letting them be the food of the wraiths. Who knows what those wraiths would want next. So, when that little act of mercy didn’t work, Erden thought of the next best way to give grieving families closure: sketch the faces of the newly deceased and keep them in the constable’s office. That way, if anyone came looking for a missing family member days or weeks after, they would have a way of knowing whether the person they were looking for really died. It wasn’t much of a consolation, but at least, Erden thought he tried his best in this forsaken town. Now, he would normally ask one of his reeves, Karl, to sketch the faces for him. But, as luck—or rather, misfortune—would have it, this one in front of him doesn’t have a face. “Should we draw the body instead?” Karl said beside him. Erden turned to him and looked at the gangly young man like he would at a dead bug under his shoe. He shook his head and moved towards the corpse. “Just—keep notes.” Kneeling down, he started inspecting the dead body. Of the many corpses he handled during his time as a constable, this was the most badly mangled body he had ever seen—even more mangled than that of poor Ansas who was thrown off from the church tower.