The warehouse remained silent.
Seventeen stared into the darkness, his head hanging weakly beneath Myers's arm as the man's voice faded into the enormous room.
There was no answer.
Only the faint echo of their arrival, followed by the occasional creaking of the wooden beams overhead.
Seventeen tried lifting his head.
His neck protested immediately, and he barely managed to raise it a few inches before the effort became too much. Still, he forced his eyes to remain open, searching the shadows between the scattered crates.
Roland...?
He didn't recognize the name.
The warehouse looked abandoned. Most of the floor was empty, and the few crates scattered around the room offered little indication that anyone actually lived or worked here.
Seventeen swallowed.
Is anyone even here?
THUMP.
His eyes shifted toward the sound.
It had come from somewhere ahead.
A moment passed.
THUMP.
Something was moving.
Seventeen strained to listen.
There was another sound accompanying the heavy impacts. Something softer, almost like the scrape of a shoe against the wooden floor.
THUMP.
Scrape.
THUMP.
Scrape.
Footsteps?
Seventeen frowned.
The rhythm was strange. One step sounded ordinary, while the next landed with a heavier, harder impact.
Whatever was approaching was taking its time.
Myers remained still.
He didn't call out again.
Instead, he simply waited, his attention fixed on the darkness ahead.
Then a voice emerged from somewhere beyond the scattered crates.
"Who are you?"
It was deep and rough, carrying easily through the warehouse.
Seventeen's eyes widened slightly.
The voice had come from the shadows, but he still couldn't make out whoever was speaking.
Myers answered immediately.
"It's me."
His tone was different.
Gone was the usual sarcasm and casual amusement. His voice was low and serious, as though he understood that whoever stood before them wasn't someone to joke around with.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then the voice returned.
"Why are there two?"
Myers said nothing.
"You said you were bringing back one."
The footsteps stopped.
Seventeen glanced toward the unconscious green haired boy hanging over Myers's left shoulder.
He's talking about us.
All three of them were still wearing their cloaks, though Seventeen's had become so torn and bloodied that it barely resembled the garment he'd entered the Underring with.
From a distance, he supposed they must have looked rather suspicious.
Two motionless figures hanging from the arms of a cloaked man.
And apparently, whoever was hiding in the darkness wasn't convinced that man was Myers.
"Something came up," Myers answered.
"Something came up?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"Prove it."
Myers sighed.
"Roland, my hands are a little full at the moment."
"Then put them down."
"I'd rather not."
"Then prove it."
Seventeen blinked.
Prove what?
Myers tilted his head slightly.
"Are we really doing this?"
A low grunt came from the darkness.
"Hmph."
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Seventeen watched the shadows, trying to distinguish the figure from the crates and wooden supports surrounding him.
He could hear something moving.
A faint rustle.
Then silence.
What is he doing?
Seventeen forced his head upward another inch.
His vision swam, but he managed to focus on a small patch of darkness between two stacks of crates.
Something moved.
A tiny object emerged from the shadows.
Seventeen blinked.
Huh?
It was small.
Round.
And moving toward them.
The object rose in a gentle arc, briefly catching a thin strip of light from one of the warehouse windows before beginning its descent.
Seventeen watched it.
For a moment, his exhausted mind couldn't understand what he was seeing.
Is that...?
TINK!
The object struck Myers directly on the bucket covering his head.
It bounced off the metal, dropped between his feet, and rolled across the wooden floor.
Seventeen's eyes followed it.
A small gray rock.
He stared.
...A rock?
Myers didn't move.
For several seconds, he remained perfectly still.
Then he slowly lowered his head toward the stone.
"...Really?"
A deep chuckle emerged from the darkness.
"Heh."
The chuckle grew louder.
"Heheheh..."
Then
"BAHAHAHA!"
Laughter echoed throughout the warehouse.
"HAHAHA! IT REALLY IS YOU!"
Myers sighed.
"Glad we cleared that up."
"That damned bucket!"
The heavy footsteps resumed.
THUMP.
Scrape.
THUMP.
Scrape.
A figure finally emerged from behind the crates.
Seventeen's eyes widened.
He was a Beastkin.
A bulldog, judging by the broad muzzle and heavy folds of skin around his face. His body was short and stocky, with thick arms and a barrel like chest beneath a weathered coat. His ears were small, and his lower jaw protruded slightly, giving him a naturally stern expression that seemed completely at odds with the enormous grin spreading across his face.
But what caught Seventeen's attention wasn't his face.
It was his leg.
Or rather, the absence of one.
Where the man's left leg should have been, a pale bone prosthetic extended downward, ending in a hardened peg that struck the wooden floor with every other step.
THUMP.
The bone struck the ground.
Scrape.
His other boot followed.
So that was the strange sound.
Seventeen stared at the prosthetic.
Bone...?
The bulldog continued laughing as he approached.
"After all these years, you're still wearing that ridiculous thing!"
Myers tilted his bucket slightly.
"And after all these years, you're still throwing rocks at people."
"Only the ones who deserve it!"
"Wonderful. Good to know our friendship hasn't changed."
The bulldog grinned, showing a row of thick teeth.
"Come on, Myers! You can't blame me for being careful!"
He gestured toward the two boys hanging from Myers's arms.
"Especially when you show up carrying twice as many brats as you promised!"
Myers looked down at Seventeen.
Then toward the unconscious green haired boy.
"...It's been a long day."
The bulldog snorted.
"Clearly."
He took another step forward, the bone peg striking the floor with a familiar THUMP.
"Well, you miserable bastard."
His grin widened.
"Welcome back."
Myers gave a tired sigh.
"Good to see you too, Roland."
Roland chuckled, but his amusement gradually faded as his eyes moved toward the two figures hanging from Myers's arms.
He leaned slightly to one side, examining the green haired boy draped over Myers's shoulder before shifting his attention toward Seventeen.
His brow furrowed.
"What the hell happened to those two?"
"Long story."
"Looks like it."
Roland stepped closer.
THUMP.
His eyes settled on Seventeen.
For several seconds, he simply stared.
Then he tilted his head.
"Gods above. That one's dead."
"He's not dead, Roland."
"You sure?"
Roland leaned forward, bringing his broad muzzle closer to Seventeen's face.
"Looks pretty damn dead to me."
Seventeen's eyes slowly shifted toward him.
He stared at the bulldog.
Then his mouth opened.
"I'm..."
His voice came out as little more than a dry wheeze.
He swallowed, struggling to draw enough air into his lungs.
"...not dead."
Roland blinked.
For a moment, his expression remained unchanged.
Then his grin returned.
"Hah! Would you look at that!"
He straightened.
"It talks!"
Seventeen tried glaring at him.
His eyelids barely cooperated.
Bastard...
Myers sighed.
"Are you finished?"
"Not quite."
Roland folded his thick arms across his chest.
"Now, about that extra brat."
His eyes moved toward the unconscious green haired boy.
"You told me you were going back for one. Not two."
"Things got complicated."
"Clearly."
Roland glanced toward the entrance.
"How complicated?"
"Enough that I'd rather explain it somewhere other than the middle of your warehouse."
Roland's grin faded.
He looked at the two boys again.
Then toward Myers.
"You weren't followed?"
"No."
"You certain?"
"Roland."
"I'm asking."
"And I'm answering."
Myers adjusted the unconscious boy on his shoulder.
"We lost them."
Roland's ears twitched.
"...Them?"
"The Faith."
For a moment, the bulldog said nothing.
Then he slowly exhaled through his nose.
"Of course."
He rubbed a hand across his muzzle.
"Of course you managed to bring the Faith into this."
"They were already involved."
"That supposed to make me feel better?"
"Not particularly."
Roland stared at him.
Myers stared back.
Then the bulldog shook his head.
"Unbelievable."
His gaze returned to Seventeen.
"So what's so important about this one?"
Myers glanced down.
"He's my student."
Roland froze.
For a moment, the warehouse fell silent again.
"...Your what?"
"My student."
Roland stared at Myers.
Then at Seventeen.
Then back at Myers.
"You're joking."
"No."
"You're actually teaching someone?"
"That's generally what having a student means."
Roland's mouth opened.
Then closed.
He looked down at Seventeen again.
The boy hung limply beneath Myers's arm, his head drooping and his broken hands dangling uselessly toward the floor.
"...That one?"
"That one."
Roland slowly scratched the side of his muzzle.
"Well, I'll be damned."
He looked Seventeen over once more.
Then let out a short laugh.
"Never thought I'd see the day."
Myers said nothing.
Roland shook his head.
"Gods help the poor bastard."
"Are you going to let us in or keep insulting him?"
Roland grinned.
"Can't I do both?"
"Apparently."
Roland laughed again, though this time it was quieter.
Then his eyes moved toward the unconscious boy.
"And him?"
Myers glanced at the green haired figure.
"Someone who got caught up in a fight."
"A fight?"
"With my student."
Roland stared.
He looked at Seventeen.
Then at the unconscious boy.
Then back at Myers.
"You're telling me you brought both sides of a fight into my warehouse?"
"More or less."
Roland slowly lowered his arms.
"...Have you finally lost your damn mind?"
"Possibly."
"That's not reassuring."
"I wasn't trying to reassure you."
Roland let out a long sigh.
For several seconds, he simply looked between the two boys.
Then he shook his head.
"Fine."
He turned toward the far side of the warehouse.
"But that extra one is your responsibility."
"Understood."
"And if he causes trouble-"
"He won't."
"You don't know that."
"He's unconscious."
"He won't stay unconscious forever."
Myers didn't answer.
Roland grunted.
"Come on, then."
He started walking.
THUMP.
Scrape.
THUMP.
Scrape.
Myers followed.
Seventeen watched the bone prosthetic move beneath Roland's coat.
The strange rhythm continued with every step, the hardened end of the peg striking the wooden floor before the bulldog shifted his weight onto his other leg.
Seventeen had never seen anything quite like it.
He wanted to look more closely.
But the effort of keeping his head raised was becoming unbearable.
His neck trembled.
His vision blurred.
And eventually, he allowed his head to hang again.
The two men continued speaking as they crossed the warehouse.
Seventeen could hear their voices, but he wasn't paying much attention.
His body felt heavy.
His mouth was dry.
And the constant pressure against his injured stomach had become a dull, almost unbearable ache.
He wanted Myers to put him down.
Preferably somewhere soft.
Somewhere he wouldn't have to move.
Somewhere he could simply close his eyes.
Roland led them toward a smaller doorway along the far wall.
He opened it and stepped inside.
The room beyond was considerably smaller than the warehouse.
Several old beds stood against the walls, their frames made from dark wood and their mattresses covered with plain sheets. A wooden table occupied the center of the room, surrounded by a few mismatched chairs, while several cabinets and shelves lined the opposite wall.
The air smelled faintly of dust, old fabric, and something medicinal.
Seventeen barely registered any of it.
Myers approached the nearest bed.
"Alright."
He shifted his grip.
Seventeen felt himself being lifted slightly.
Then turned.
The sudden movement sent a sharp pain through his ribs.
"Ghh!"
His body tensed instinctively.
"Easy," Myers muttered.
He carefully lowered Seventeen onto the mattress, supporting his back and shoulders as he eased him down.
Even so, the moment Seventeen's weight settled against the bed, pain spread through his chest and stomach.
His back arched slightly.
A strained gasp escaped his throat.
Then he collapsed against the bedding.
For several seconds, he couldn't move.
He stared at the ceiling, his mouth hanging open as he struggled to breathe through the pain.
The mattress was soft.
At least compared to the stone floor he'd been fighting on.
But somehow, lying down hurt almost as much as being carried.
His body had grown stiff from hanging beneath Myers's arm, and now that the pressure was gone, every injured muscle seemed determined to remind him of its existence.
He tried shifting his shoulders.
A sharp pain shot through his chest.
He stopped.
...Never mind.
His arms lay beside him.
His hands hung loosely over the edge of the mattress, their swollen fingers curled at awkward angles.
He tried moving them.
Nothing.
A faint twitch ran through one finger.
Then pain followed.
Seventeen clenched his jaw.
Right...
He'd almost forgotten how badly he'd damaged them.
Myers looked down at him.
"Don't move."
Seventeen stared at the ceiling.
Wasn't planning on it...
Behind them, Roland watched as Myers approached another bed and carefully lowered the unconscious green haired boy onto it.
The boy's head rolled to one side.
His hair fell across his face.
He didn't stir.
Roland folded his arms.
"That one breathing?"
"Yes."
"Good."
The bulldog glanced toward the doorway.
"Because I'm not explaining a corpse in my warehouse."
Myers straightened.
"Could you get me something to cut these clothes off?"
Roland looked toward Seventeen.
"That bad?"
"I'd rather find out before he starts bleeding through your mattress."
Roland grunted.
He approached one of the cabinets and pulled open a drawer.
After rummaging through its contents, he retrieved a pair of heavy medical shears.
He tossed them toward Myers.
Myers caught them.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet."
Roland nodded toward the bed.
"If he bleeds all over the sheets, you're cleaning them."
"Naturally."
Myers turned back toward Seventeen.
"Alright, kid. I'm going to get these clothes off you."
Seventeen weakly shifted his eyes toward him.
His mouth opened.
"Don't..."
Myers paused.
"Don't what?"
Seventeen swallowed.
"...pull."
Myers looked at the torn cloak.
Then at Seventeen.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he gave a small nod.
"I won't."
He slipped one hand beneath the edge of the cloak, carefully lifting the fabric away from Seventeen's shoulder.
The garment was in terrible condition.
What had once been a heavy, dark cloak now barely resembled one.
Long tears ran through the fabric, leaving strips of cloth hanging loosely from his shoulders and sides. Several sections had been ripped away entirely, while others had become stiff with dried blood, sweat, and dirt.
The lower portion was shredded.
One side had been torn almost completely open.
And much of what remained clung to the clothing beneath it.
Myers examined the damage.
Then opened the shears.
SNIP.
The first cut ran along the edge of the cloak.
He carefully slid the lower blade beneath the fabric, keeping it away from Seventeen's skin before cutting upward.
SNIP.
Another section separated.
Myers worked slowly, cutting through the ruined garment rather than trying to pull it over Seventeen's head or force his injured arms through the sleeves.
Seventeen watched the ceiling.
He could hear the shears opening and closing.
Feel the occasional movement of fabric against his skin.
Every so often, Myers would lift a section that had stuck to his shirt, and Seventeen would tense as the dried blood pulled against the cloth beneath it.
But Myers never yanked.
He simply cut around the damaged areas, freeing the fabric piece by piece.
Eventually, the last section of the cloak came away.
Myers gathered the torn remains and placed them on the floor beside the bed.
Roland glanced at the pile.
"That's a cloak?"
"Used to be."
"Looks like something you dragged out of a gutter."
"Close enough."
Myers returned his attention to Seventeen.
The shirt beneath was hardly in better condition.
The enormous hole torn through its center had widened considerably, leaving much of his chest and stomach exposed. What remained of the fabric was darkened by blood and sweat, with dirt ground into the cloth and traces of vomit dried along the front.
The collar was stretched.
One sleeve had nearly separated from the shoulder.
And several smaller tears ran across the sides.
Myers looked at it for a moment.
Then reached for the shears again.
"Same thing with the shirt."
Seventeen gave the faintest nod.
Myers began cutting along one side, carefully separating the fabric from the bottom upward.
SNIP.
SNIP.
He worked around the torn center, avoiding the areas where blood had dried against Seventeen's skin.
Then he cut through the remaining sleeve.
And the other.
The shirt gradually fell apart beneath the shears, allowing Myers to lift the pieces away without forcing Seventeen to raise his arms.
As the last section came free, Roland's expression changed.
"...What the hell?"
He stepped closer.
For the first time since Myers had entered the warehouse, the bulldog seemed to have forgotten about making jokes.
Seventeen's torso was covered in welts.
Large, swollen bruises spread across his chest, stomach, and sides, some overlapping so heavily that it was difficult to distinguish where one injury ended and another began.
Several had risen into thick, angry looking swellings, their centers darkened by deep purple and red discoloration.
Others had ruptured.
The skin over the swollen areas had split open, leaving jagged tears across his torso where repeated mana enhanced punches had struck the same battered flesh.
Dried blood clung to the edges of the wounds.
In some places, fresh blood had begun seeping through again.
Roland stared.
"Gods above..."
His eyes moved across Seventeen's chest.
Then toward his stomach.
The injuries weren't concentrated in one place.
They were everywhere.
His ribs.
His sides.
The upper portion of his abdomen.
Even the areas that hadn't been directly struck were covered in bruising.
Roland slowly turned toward Myers.
"What the hell did you let this kid fight?"
Myers continued examining the injuries.
"Another kid."
Roland blinked.
"...Another kid?"
"Yes."
The bulldog looked toward the unconscious green haired boy lying on the opposite bed.
"...That one?"
Myers nodded.
Roland stared at the boy.
Then back at Seventeen.
For several seconds, he didn't speak.
"What the hell kind of kids are you finding?"
Myers sighed.
"That's what I'd like to know."
He placed the shears aside and leaned closer to Seventeen.
"Can you breathe deeply?"
Seventeen stared at him.
He tried.
His chest expanded slightly.
Then pain shot through his ribs.
"Ghh!"
He immediately stopped.
Myers nodded.
"Alright. Don't force it."
He gently pressed two fingers against Seventeen's side.
Seventeen flinched.
"That hurt?"
Seventeen slowly turned his eyes toward him.
No. Feels wonderful...
He managed a weak nod.
Myers moved his fingers slightly higher.
Another sharp pain followed.
Seventeen's jaw tightened.
Myers examined the swelling, then shifted toward the opposite side.
Roland watched in silence.
The joking expression had disappeared from his face.
Myers continued checking the injuries, occasionally asking Seventeen to breathe or indicate where the pain was strongest.
Most of the time, Seventeen could only nod.
Sometimes he couldn't even manage that.
His eyes would simply narrow, or his body would tense beneath Myers's hands.
Eventually, Myers moved toward his arms.
He carefully lifted Seventeen's right wrist.
The hand hung loosely beneath it.
The fingers were swollen, several bent at awkward angles, and dark bruising spread across the knuckles and back of the hand.
Myers frowned.
He gently supported the palm.
Seventeen's breath caught.
A sharp tremor ran through his arm.
Myers immediately stopped moving it.
"Both hands?"
Seventeen nodded weakly.
Myers looked toward the other.
It was hardly better.
The knuckles were swollen and misshapen, the skin torn in several places, and the fingers hung with little strength or control.
Roland leaned forward.
"Those broken?"
"Yes."
"Both?"
"Both."
Roland slowly exhaled.
"Gods..."
Myers lowered Seventeen's hand onto the mattress, positioning it carefully so it wouldn't hang over the edge.
Then he did the same with the other.
"Don't try using these."
Seventeen stared at him.
Wasn't exactly planning on punching anyone...
Myers moved toward his head.
He gently brushed aside the hair covering Seventeen's forehead.
Roland leaned closer.
Then stopped.
"...What in the gods' names is that?"
A massive swelling rose from one side of Seventeen's head.
The skin surrounding it was dark and discolored, with dried blood caught in his hair and bruising spreading toward his eye.
The bump was large enough to distort the shape of his forehead.
Myers examined it carefully.
"That's going to be unpleasant."
Roland stared at him.
"Unpleasant?"
Myers glanced up.
"What would you prefer I call it?"
"A damn disaster!"
"Then it's a damn disaster."
Roland shook his head.
"You're unbelievable."
Myers returned his attention to Seventeen.
He carefully checked around the swelling, watching the boy's expression as he touched different areas.
Seventeen winced.
His vision blurred.
For a moment, the ceiling seemed to tilt.
He closed his eyes.
"Easy," Myers said.
Seventeen heard him, but didn't answer.
His head throbbed.
His ribs ached.
His hands felt as though someone had crushed them beneath a stone.
And now that he was lying still, the exhaustion he'd been fighting for so long was beginning to overwhelm him.
He wanted to sleep.
But Myers wasn't finished.
"Stay with me a little longer."
Seventeen opened one eye.
Seriously...?
Myers leaned closer.
"Look at me."
Seventeen slowly shifted his gaze toward the bucket.
For a moment, he stared at his own faint reflection in its metal surface.
His face was almost unrecognizable.
Blood.
Bruising.
Swelling.
Dirt.
His eyes looked sunken and tired.
And the enormous bump on his forehead only made the whole thing worse.
Pathetic...
The thought came automatically.
He looked away.
Myers watched him for a moment.
Then straightened.
"Roland. I need some clean water, cloth, and whatever medical supplies you've got."
Roland nodded.
"Cabinet on the left. I'll get the water."
He turned toward the door.
THUMP.
Scrape.
THUMP.
Scrape.
Seventeen watched him leave.
The strange rhythm of his footsteps gradually faded.
Myers opened the cabinet and began sorting through its contents.
Bandages.
Small containers.
Folded cloth.
A few bottles filled with liquids Seventeen couldn't identify.
He placed several items on the table beside the bed.
Then turned toward the unconscious green haired boy.
For a moment, he examined him from a distance.
The boy hadn't moved.
His breathing was steady, though his face remained pale beneath his green hair.
Myers approached him.
Seventeen watched through half closed eyes.
The boy looked different now.
Without the glow of mana surrounding his body, without the frantic movements and desperate attacks, he seemed almost ordinary.
Just another injured person lying on a bed.
Seventeen remembered the fight.
The punches.
The pain.
The way the boy had kept getting back up.
His fingers twitched weakly against the mattress.
Pain immediately followed.
He stopped.
Damn bastard...
Myers checked the unconscious boy briefly, then returned to Seventeen.
"Well, neither of you is dying right this second."
Seventeen stared at him.
How reassuring...
Myers began cleaning the blood from his torso.
The first touch of damp cloth against one of the ruptured welts made Seventeen tense.
A strained hiss escaped through his teeth.
"Sorry."
Myers continued carefully.
He wiped away the dried blood surrounding the wound, then moved toward another.
The water gradually darkened.
Several times, he had to stop and replace the cloth.
Seventeen tried keeping his eyes open.
But his eyelids were growing heavier.
The room seemed strangely warm.
The mattress beneath him was soft.
And although the cleaning hurt, the pain was no longer accompanied by the constant jolting and violent movement of the tunnels.
For the first time in what felt like hours, he wasn't being chased.
He wasn't fighting.
He wasn't being carried.
He was simply lying down.
A distant sound reached him.
Footsteps.
THUMP.
Scrape.
THUMP.
Scrape.
Roland returned carrying a basin of water and several folded towels.
He placed them on the table.
"Here."
Myers nodded.
"Thanks."
Roland glanced at Seventeen.
"How's the corpse?"
"Still alive."
"Stubborn little thing."
Seventeen slowly opened his eyes.
He looked toward Roland.
"...Still..."
His throat tightened.
He swallowed.
"...hear you."
Roland blinked.
Then burst into laughter.
"BAHAHAHA!"
He slapped his thigh.
"Good! Means you're not dead yet!"
Myers sighed.
"Roland."
"What?"
"You're not helping."
"I'm keeping his spirits up!"
"You're making him waste what little breath he has left."
Roland grinned.
"Well, he shouldn't keep answering me, then."
Seventeen closed his eyes.
I hate this guy...
Roland chuckled.
Then his attention shifted toward the other bed.
His expression grew more serious.
"Now, what about that one?"
Myers continued cleaning Seventeen's injuries.
"What about him?"
"You planning on letting him wake up and wander around my warehouse?"
"No."
"Good. Because I wasn't planning on letting him either."
Roland folded his arms.
"Who is he?"
"Don't know."
Roland stared.
"...You don't know?"
"Not his name."
"Where he's from?"
"No."
"Who he works for?"
"That's what I intend to find out."
Roland raised an eyebrow.
Myers glanced toward the unconscious boy.
"He was following someone under my care. Apparently, he recognized her and was planning to report her whereabouts."
"Report her?"
"That's what Seventeen believes."
Roland looked toward the battered boy lying on the bed.
"And who's he supposed to be reporting to?"
Myers shook his head.
"Don't know. That's what I want to ask him."
Roland slowly rubbed his forehead.
"So you brought an unconscious stranger into my warehouse because you want to interrogate him?"
"More or less."
"Wonderful."
Roland glanced toward the green haired boy.
"And what happens when he wakes up?"
"We find out who he was reporting to."
"And if he doesn't want to talk?"
Myers paused.
Then continued cleaning Seventeen's injuries.
"We'll deal with that when it happens."
Roland studied him for a moment.
Then nodded toward the other bed.
"Fine. But he stays restrained until we know what we're dealing with."
Myers nodded.
"Agreed."
Roland exhaled.
"Gods, you really know how to bring trouble wherever you go."
Myers sighed.
"Believe me, Roland. I'm well aware."
Roland glanced toward the unconscious boy again.
Then toward the doorway.
"You really brought the Faith down on yourselves?"
Myers stopped cleaning for a moment.
"Not intentionally."
"That's not what I asked."
Myers sighed.
"The boy used mana in the underground."
Roland's expression darkened.
"...How much?"
"Enough."
"Enough to trigger the runes?"
"Several times."
Roland muttered something under his breath.
Then shook his head.
"Idiots."
Myers resumed working.
"The market scattered. We lost the acolytes before coming here."
"You sure they didn't follow you?"
"Yes."
Roland studied him for a moment.
Then he exhaled.
"Alright. I'll take your word for it."
Myers nodded and continued cleaning Seventeen's injuries.
The room fell quiet again, interrupted only by the occasional movement of cloth and the faint creaking of the bed.
Then a voice came from the doorway.
"Myers?"
Seventeen's eyes shifted toward the sound.
Two long ears appeared beyond the doorframe.
Morgan stepped inside.
Rheo followed closely behind her.
For a moment, Morgan simply looked at the room.
Her eyes moved toward Myers.
Then Roland.
Then the two beds.
When she noticed Seventeen, she stopped.
Her ears lifted slightly.
"So you made it."
Seventeen stared at her.
He managed a weak nod.
Morgan's shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.
"Good."
Her eyes moved over his exposed injuries.
The swollen welts.
The bloodied bandages.
The broken hands resting beside him.
Her expression tightened.
"...You look awful."
Seventeen slowly closed his eyes.
Thanks...
Morgan glanced toward Myers.
"Is he going to be alright?"
"He'll live."
"Alright."
She nodded.
For a moment, she remained near the doorway, looking at Seventeen.
Then her attention shifted toward the other bed.
Her ears stiffened.
"...Him?"
Myers followed her gaze.
"Yes."
Morgan stared at the unconscious green haired boy.
Her expression changed.
"That's the one?"
Myers nodded.
"The one Seventeen chased."
Morgan's eyes narrowed.
For several seconds, she didn't speak.
Then she looked toward Roland.
"Why is he here?"
Roland crossed his arms.
"Excellent question."
Myers sighed.
"Because I want to know who he was reporting to."
Morgan looked back at the green haired boy.
Her ears remained upright.
"You think he'll tell you?"
"We'll find out."
"And what happens when he wakes up?"
Roland grunted.
"He won't be wandering around freely. I'll make sure of that."
Morgan considered his words.
Then nodded.
"Good."
Her gaze returned to Seventeen.
For a moment, she seemed as though she might say something.
But she didn't.
Instead, she stepped aside, allowing Rheo to move farther into the room.
The younger rabbit Beastkin had been standing quietly behind her.
Now he looked toward Seventeen.
His ears slowly lowered.
"He..."
Rheo swallowed.
"He really got hurt."
Morgan glanced down at him.
"Yeah."
Rheo took a hesitant step forward.
His eyes moved across Seventeen's chest.
Then toward his hands.
He stared at the swollen fingers resting on the mattress.
For a moment, his expression became difficult to read.
Then he looked away.
Seventeen watched him through half closed eyes.
What's with that look...?
He was too tired to ask.
Rheo remained beside his sister, his hands held close to his body.
Morgan placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Come on."
Rheo looked up.
"But..."
"He needs rest."
Rheo glanced toward Seventeen again.
Then nodded.
"...Okay."
Morgan looked toward Myers.
"Let us know if you need anything."
Myers nodded.
"Will do."
She gave Seventeen one last glance.
Then turned toward the doorway.
Rheo followed.
The door closed quietly behind them.
Seventeen watched it for a moment.
Then allowed his eyes to drift back toward the ceiling.
He hadn't expected much from either of them.
They barely knew each other.
Still, seeing them standing there, unharmed, confirmed that Myers hadn't been lying.
They really had gotten out.
That was enough.
Myers continued working.
He cleaned the remaining wounds, covered the worst of the ruptured welts, and began securing Seventeen's injured hands so they wouldn't move unnecessarily.
Seventeen barely followed what he was doing.
The occasional pressure against his skin made him flinch.
Sometimes a sharp pain would force his eyes open.
But each time, it became harder to keep them that way.
Roland stood nearby, watching.
After a while, he spoke.
"So."
Myers didn't look up.
"So?"
"You really took a student."
"Apparently."
Roland scratched his muzzle.
"Still can't believe it."
"Then don't."
Roland chuckled.
His eyes moved toward Seventeen.
"What's his name, anyway?"
"Seventeen."
Roland blinked.
"...Seventeen?"
"Yes."
"That's his name?"
Myers paused.
"Actually, I don't know."
Roland raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"Seventeen was just the number they gave him in the Pits. I've been calling him that ever since."
Roland looked toward the boy lying on the bed.
"Seriously?"
Myers shrugged.
"Never got around to asking."
Roland stared at him.
"You took the kid as your student, and you don't even know his name?"
"Well, when you put it like that..."
Roland shook his head.
"Unbelievable."
He stepped closer to the bed, his bone peg striking the wooden floor.
THUMP.
"Hey, kid."
Seventeen slowly opened his eyes.
Roland leaned forward.
"What's your actual name?"
Seventeen stared at him.
For a moment, he didn't answer.
His mind felt sluggish, and the question took longer than it should have to register.
My name...?
He tried thinking.
But nothing came.
He couldn't remember what anyone had called him before the Pits. No matter how hard he searched, there was nothing he could grasp.
His lips parted.
"I..."
He swallowed, his throat painfully dry.
"...don't remember."
Roland's expression changed.
The grin that had been lingering across his face slowly disappeared.
"...You don't remember?"
Seventeen gave a faint shake of his head.
"No..."
His eyelids began to droop again.
Roland stared at him for a moment.
Then he slowly straightened.
"Poor kid..."
He glanced toward Myers.
"Doesn't even remember his own name."
Myers looked down at Seventeen.
"Yeah."
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Then Roland let out a quiet sigh.
"Well, Seventeen it is, then."
Myers nodded.
"Seventeen it is."
Roland folded his arms.
"And you decided to teach him?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Myers paused.
For a moment, he didn't answer.
Then he continued securing the bandage around Seventeen's hand.
"Because I wanted to."
Roland raised an eyebrow.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
The bulldog stared at him.
Then slowly shook his head.
"You're getting stranger with age."
"And you're getting louder."
"Always been loud."
"Unfortunately."
Roland chuckled.
His eyes returned to Seventeen.
The boy was barely conscious now, his breathing shallow as he lay motionless against the mattress.
"Well, you've certainly got your work cut out for you."
Myers glanced toward Seventeen.
"Tell me about it."
Roland grinned.
"Though judging by the state of him, I'd say your first lesson should be teaching him how not to get beaten half to death."
Myers sighed.
"I'll be sure to put that at the top of the list."
Seventeen heard them.
Barely.
The words drifted through his exhausted mind, difficult to separate from the dull throbbing in his head.
...Bastards.
He wanted to say something.
But his mouth felt too dry.
His tongue was heavy.
And even the thought of forming words seemed exhausting.
So he remained silent.
Myers finished securing the bandages.
He gently lowered Seventeen's hand onto the mattress.
"There."
Seventeen felt the pressure disappear.
For a moment, he expected another examination.
Another question.
Another painful movement.
But none came.
Myers pulled a blanket over the lower half of his body, taking care not to disturb his injured hands.
"Get some rest."
Seventeen stared at the ceiling.
His eyelids were already beginning to close.
Myers remained beside the bed for another moment.
Then he turned toward Roland.
"We need to talk."
Roland glanced at Seventeen.
"About?"
"A few things."
The bulldog studied him.
Then nodded.
"Alright."
He turned toward the doorway.
THUMP.
Scrape.
THUMP.
Scrape.
Myers followed.
Their voices grew quieter as they moved toward the far side of the room.
Seventeen could still hear them speaking.
Something about the Faith.
The underground.
The other boy.
But the words were becoming difficult to understand.
He stared at the ceiling.
His hands lay motionless beside him.
His chest hurt.
His head throbbed.
And every breath seemed to remind him of another injury.
He wanted to move.
Just enough to find a more comfortable position.
But even that seemed like too much effort.
His eyelids grew heavier.
He tried keeping them open.
Failed.
Opened them again.
The room had become quieter.
Or perhaps he simply couldn't hear it as clearly anymore.
Somewhere nearby, Roland laughed.
Myers said something in response.
Seventeen couldn't make out the words.
His eyes slowly closed.
This time, he didn't bother opening them again.