Chapter 17: Old man
"Please, I need this. I'm hungry," a frail voice pleaded.
Curiosity piqued, I rose to my feet and walked toward the source of the disturbance. As I approached a secluded corner of the yard, hidden from most of the others, I saw two young men circling an elderly, fragile man. The old man clutched his meager rations tightly, his face etched with desperation.
"You're going to die on the battlefield on the first day anyway," one of the young men sneered. "Might as well hand over your food now."
The other man laughed cruelly. "Yeah, old man, you won't need it where you're going."
The sight of this scene stirred a deep anger within me, reminding me of Stroud's earlier mockery and my own helplessness. The two bullies looked rough and dirty, their bodies not overly muscular but intimidating enough. They were taking advantage of someone weaker, just as Stroud had done to me.
The old man protested weakly, "Please, I just want to eat."
The bullies ignored him and tried to snatch his rations forcefully.
'These bastards…..'
I couldn't stand it. I saw Stroud's smug face in theirs and knew I had to act. The fact that these stupid fuckers were doing such a thing made me mad. I felt the pain on my cheek and the humiliation I felt. It made me feel the need to take my anger out of someone.
But I also knew that taking on both of them head-on was a losing battle. At least many things could happen, and there was no reason to take such a risk.
Then, an idea struck me. I remembered how Brann had handled the attackers in the living quarters, using surprise and strategy. I picked up a small, jagged stone from the ground and approached the bullies silently from behind.
–THUD!
With a swift motion, I brought the stone down hard on the head of the one in the middle. He yelped in pain, staggering forward and releasing his grip on the old man's rations. The other bully turned to face me, rage contorting his features.
Before he could react, I spat in his face and bolted, running as fast as my legs could carry me. "Get back here, you little shit!" he yelled, giving chase.
The first bully, now partially recovered, joined in the pursuit. The adrenaline surged through me, dulling the pain in my body. I ran, weaving between the makeshift tents and training equipment, the sound of their footsteps pounding behind me.
I didn't look back. My focus was entirely on escaping. The terrain was rough, but I used it to my advantage, ducking under low-hanging branches and leaping over obstacles. My pursuers were relentless, but their anger clouded their judgment, making them slower and less coordinated.
As I rounded a corner, I spotted Sergeant Brann standing nearby, overseeing some trainees. With a final burst of speed, I sprinted toward him, the bullies hot on my heels.
"Help! They're trying to kill me!" I shouted, hoping to draw Brann's attention.
Brann's sharp eyes snapped to me and then to the bullies chasing me. His expression darkened, and he stepped forward, placing himself between me and my pursuers.
"Enough!" Brann's voice boomed, stopping the bullies in their tracks. "What is going on here?"
The bullies skidded to a halt, their faces pale with fear. "He... he attacked us!" one of them stammered, pointing at me.
But I already knew what to do. Since I was a child, Stroud had put me forward as a target. Thus, it wouldn't be weird if someone were to try to take what I had. I took a deep breath and spoke up, my voice steady despite the tension.
"No, I didn't. They were trying to take my rations, and I just wanted to defend myself," I said, pointing to the torn and ruptured pieces of potato and bread they held. "When I couldn't defend myself, I spat on their faces and ran. They chased me because of that."
Brann's gaze shifted to the bullies, who were holding the damaged food. The evidence was clear. The half-eaten and torn rations were a testament to their actions. Brann's expression darkened further, his anger palpable.
"You two," Brann growled, his voice low and menacing. "You think you can steal from others and get away with it?"
The bullies stammered, trying to come up with excuses, but Brann cut them off. "For the next week, you will both give one of your rations to him as punishment. If I hear of any more trouble from either of you, the consequences will be much worse."
The bullies' faces fell, and they nodded reluctantly. "Yes, Sergeant," they muttered. But their eyes contained hatred all across the place. It was evident that they hated being played by me, but there was nothing they could do.
Brann turned to me, his expression changing slightly. "This was the second time." He said, his face cold.
"You did well to stand up for yourself, Lucavion. But remember, this place is full of people who will take advantage of any perceived weakness. Stay vigilant."
"Thank you, Sergeant," I replied, genuinely grateful.
Brann nodded. "Now, get your wounds checked at the infirmary. Say to Laila that it was me who sent you there. If she doesn't believe me, tell her it was on my order. She'll understand."
"Understood, Sergeant," I replied, my voice steady.
Brann turned his attention back to the trainees, barking orders to get them moving again. I took a moment to catch my breath before heading towards the infirmary. The bullies glared at me as I walked past, their hatred palpable, but I held my head high. I had won this round, and I wasn't going to let their anger intimidate me.
As I approached the infirmary, the familiar scent of herbs and antiseptics filled the air. I stepped inside, and there was Laila, busy tending to another injured soldier. She looked up as I entered, her expression softening when she saw the state I was in.
"Miss Laila," I said, my voice slightly strained. "Sergeant Brann sent me. He said it was on his order."
Laila nodded, setting aside her current task. "Come here, let me take a look at you."
I moved to the cot, she indicated, sitting down with a wince. The pain in my cheek and ribs was sharper now that the adrenaline was wearing off. Laila examined my injuries with a practiced eye, her hands gentle yet firm.
"You've had a rough start, haven't you?" she said, her voice filled with a mix of sympathy and professionalism.
I nodded, feeling the exhaustion settling in. "It's been... challenging."
She hummed in acknowledgment as she began to work. Her healing magic felt like a soothing balm, easing the pain and closing the wounds. As the warmth spread through me, I felt some of the tension melt away.
"Brann's right, you know," Laila said quietly as she worked. "You need to stay vigilant. This place is harsh, and people will try to take advantage of you. But you have a good heart, Lucavion. Don't lose that."
"...Why did you think so?"
"I know when I see one."
"…..I see…." I just got the words out and then lowered my head to look down.
After a few minutes, she finished her healing and stepped back. "There, you should feel better now. Just try to avoid any more trouble for a while."
I nodded, standing up and testing my newly healed body. The pain was mostly gone, replaced by a dull ache that I could easily ignore. "I'll try my best."
"Good," Laila said with a small smile. "Now, go get some rest. You'll need it for the training ahead."
I thanked her once more and left the infirmary, heading back to the place where we would be training once again.
After all, I knew I would not be able to avoid what would be happening there.
As I returned to the training yard, Stroud was waiting with the other sergeants. His eyes narrowed as he spotted me, but he made no comment. Instead, he barked out his orders.
"Back to those spears! Training resumes now."
We all grabbed our spears and resumed the drills. The rest of the day was a blur of relentless training, broken only by a brief lunch break. We practiced thrusts, parries, and stances until our muscles screamed in protest and our bodies ached from exhaustion.
By evening, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the yard. Finally, Stroud called an end to the training, and we were dismissed to get our evening meals.
I collected my rations along with the extra ones from the bullies as per Brann's order. Despite the exhaustion, the additional food was a small victory that lifted my spirits.
I made my way back to the same quiet spot where I had eaten earlier. As I settled down, I noticed the old man from before sitting nearby with his own meager meal.
I didn't want to bother him, as he was quietly eating his meal, so I started eating mine.
But then, he suddenly turned to look at me.
"Why did you do that?"
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Chapter 18: Old man 2
"Why did you do that?"
The old man's question caught me off guard. I paused mid-bite, my mind racing to understand his meaning. Seeing my confusion, he clarified, his voice gentle yet probing.
"Why did you help me there, young man?"
I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the weight of his gaze. The question seemed simple, but it demanded more than a simple answer. I glanced down at my food, my thoughts drifting back to the scene earlier, to the faces of the bullies and the anger that had surged within me.
Why had I helped him?
"I don't know…" I began, my voice uncertain. "I guess I just couldn't stand to see them bullying you like that."
The old man continued to look at me, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and curiosity. "But why? You didn't have to get involved. You could have walked away like so many others."
His words echoed in my mind, triggering memories of my own struggles, of Stroud's mockery, and the countless times I had felt powerless. I took a deep breath, trying to piece together my feelings.
"Maybe… because I know what it feels like," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "I know what it's like to be picked on, to be seen as weak and helpless. And I just hated it at that time."
The old man nodded slowly, his expression softening. "So, you acted out of empathy, then?"
I thought about it for a moment. Empathy… was that it? Perhaps it was part of it, but there was more. I felt a deep-seated anger, a desire to fight back against the unfairness of it all.
"I think it was more than just empathy," I said, my voice growing stronger. "It was also anger. Anger at seeing someone else suffer the way I have. Anger at those who think they can just take what they want because they're stronger."
The old man's gaze grew thoughtful. "You remind me of someone I once knew," he said quietly. "Someone who also couldn't stand to see injustice."
I looked up at him, curious. "Who was that?"
"A long time ago, I had a friend. He was much like you—brave, passionate, and unwilling to back down in the face of injustice. He stood up for the weak and fought against those who abused their power." The old man's eyes grew distant, lost in memories. "But the world wasn't kind to him. He faced many hardships, and his path was not an easy one."
I listened intently, feeling a strange connection to the story. "What happened to him?"
"He became a great warrior, respected and feared by many. But in the end, his desire to protect others cost him dearly. He made many enemies and lost much along the way. Even the people he thought he was close to turned out to be strangers."
The old man's voice grew softer, tinged with a sadness that mirrored the weight of his words. "He did everything for everyone without distinguishing between family or friends. He treated all people equally and judged them by the same standards. But perhaps because of that, he grew distant from those he was closest to."
I could see the pain in the old man's eyes, the regret that seemed to seep from every word. He continued, "He believed in fairness and justice, but in doing so, he overlooked the unique bonds and responsibilities that come with close relationships. His impartiality, while noble, made him seem cold and detached from those who cared for him. They felt as though he placed the needs of strangers above their own."
I felt a pang of sympathy and a hint of fear. "What happened to him in the end?"
The old man sighed deeply, his gaze distant. "Eventually, he was cast away by those he had sought to protect. They couldn't understand his choices, and in their eyes, he had become a stranger. The very people he thought he was protecting began to see him as an outsider, someone who didn't belong."
I frowned, the old man's story stirring a mix of emotions within me. It felt uncomfortably familiar, echoing the situation I found myself in now—discarded by my family, with no one to believe in me. The weight of their judgment still pressed heavily on my shoulders.
The old man looked at me thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You look young," he said, his voice gentle but probing. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen," I replied quietly, the word feeling heavy on my tongue.
The old man's eyes widened in surprise. "Fourteen? And what are you doing here, in this place?"
I hesitated, the question bringing back the memories of my recent ordeal. The accusation, the trial, the punishment—all of it felt like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. I struggled to find the words to explain.
"If you don't want to answer, that is fine." The old man replied, waving his head. But he did not leave.
"..."
As if he knew I would eventually speak. Slowly, I started forming the words in my head.
"I was... accused of a crime I didn't commit," I said slowly, my voice barely above a whisper. "My family didn't believe me. They sent me here as punishment, to fight on the front lines."
The old man's expression softened with understanding and sympathy. "That's a heavy burden for someone so young," he said quietly. "To be cast aside by your own family, to be thrust into a world of violence and death... it's a harsh fate."
I nodded, the weight of his words pressing down on me. "I don't know why this happened," I admitted. "I've tried to be a good son, to live up to my family's expectations, but it was never enough. And now, I'm here, alone and fighting for my life."
"That is a sad fate," the old man replied, looking at the sky. It was dark, filled with stars. The cold breeze rustled through the trees, adding to the chill of the night.
We sat in silence, the cold air wrapping around us like a shroud. The old man didn't try to soothe me or offer false comfort. Instead, he spoke plainly, his voice carrying the weight of years of experience.
"The world is often unfair," he said. "There are times when it seems like everything is stacked against you when you're left wondering why things happen the way they do. But that's just the way it is. The world isn't always just, and it doesn't always make sense."
I managed a small smile, appreciating his honesty. "Yeah, that's true," I said. "It doesn't make sense, but we still have to keep going."
The old man nodded, his eyes reflecting a shared understanding. "Exactly. We have to keep moving forward, no matter how difficult it gets."
A moment of silence passed before I turned to him with a question that had been on my mind. "How did you end up here?"
The old man's gaze shifted, a distant look in his eyes. "I was just a beggar on the streets, trying to survive," he began. "I didn't have much, just the clothes on my back and the hope of finding something to eat each day. One day, I was so hungry that I stole some food. But sadly, the bread I had stolen was being prepared for the son of the Baron. I did not know it; if I had known, I would have never done such a thing. Eventually, I was caught, and they sent me here as punishment as those breads were now in my stomach."
His story was simple compared to the one about his friend. It was odd and weird, but I somehow wasn't able to find what it was at all.
But still, just because of some bread, he had been sent to this place.
'The life outside the Mansion is definitely different.'
For the first time in my life, I had contact with someone who was not affiliated with my family and was a commoner.
"That's harsh," I said quietly. "Just for trying to survive."
I glanced around at the other trainees, many of whom still eyed me with suspicion and disdain. For the first time, I began to understand their hatred. If I were in their shoes, suffering under the whims of the powerful, I would likely feel the same.
"It's no wonder they hate me," I murmured, more to myself than to the old man.
The old man shrugged, a resigned look on his face. "Life is harsh sometimes. But you do what you have to do to keep going."
I nodded, feeling a sense of solidarity with him. Despite our different backgrounds, we were both here, facing the same struggles and fighting for our lives.
"Thank you, young man," the Old man said with a serene smile.
"Lucavion," I replied, deciding that it would be better to address each other by name.
The old man nodded thoughtfully. "Ah, Lucavion. A fine name."
"And what should I call you?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"Well," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "you don't need to call me anything special. Just call me 'old man.'"
But it seemed this old man had a weird quirk.
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