The chain hadn’t moved in months.
Mud wrapped it around his wrist anyway.
He planted his good foot against the wall, leaned back, and pulled until the iron bit into his skin.
"Ngh…!”
For one brief moment, the ring buried deep in the stone groaned.
Rust sifted from the wall.
The chain didn’t move.
He stayed there until the last of his strength drained from his arm. The links slipped from his fingers and struck the stone with a dull clink that echoed through the cave.
“Damn it.”
His voice barely sounded like his own.
Speaking had become difficult over the past week. His throat had dried until even swallowing hurt. His captors always left enough water to keep him alive.
Never enough to recover.
Mud rested against the cold wall, breathing through the ache in his shoulder.
His thumb brushed the nearest link, tracing the rust that had begun to roughen the iron.
‘Not enough.’
Tomorrow he’d scrape at it again.
His eyes followed the same path they had every morning.
The entrance.
Gray daylight filtered through falling rain, too distant to offer warmth.
The wooden bowl.
It lay where he’d dropped it after yesterday’s meal.
The puddle.
Water dripped steadily through a crack in the ceiling, each drop sending slow ripples across its surface. After long enough, the dripping became a clock of its own.
Then the painting.
It swallowed nearly the entire far wall.
At first glance it looked like dried crimson and black smeared across old stone. Only after staring for a while did the figure emerge.
Dark robes dissolving into shadow.
Eyes without pupils.
The face was nearly expressionless.
Or perhaps time had worn it away.
Either way, the figure always seemed to be looking back at him.
Words surrounded it in a language Mud had never learned.
Except for one.
God of Ruin.
Mud thought the words were fitting of his situation.
Finally, his gaze settled on the chain around his wrist.
‘How much time has it been…?’
Months.
Maybe longer.
Time blurred inside the cave.
He had pulled until his palms split open.
Ground the links against rough stone whenever his captors forgot to secure the loose end.
Worked flakes of rust loose with broken pieces of rock.
Nothing changed.
Even if the chain somehow broke…
His eyes lowered.
The blanket covering his legs ended abruptly above his left knee.
For a long moment, he simply looked at it.
Wrinkles formed between his eyebrows from remembering the horrible pain.
Even if the chain broke, it wouldn’t matter anymore.
He shifted his weight, steadying himself with his remaining leg until the dizziness passed.
Rain whispered beyond the entrance.
The puddle answered with another drip.
No footsteps.
Good.
His captors never came without taking something.
Sometimes they took blood.
Sometimes they took another piece of him.
Mud had stopped wondering which it would be.
“…Idiot. You should’ve kept walking.”
He frowned.
The memory of that day replayed in his mind.
The parcel had been wrapped in blue silk.
Mud remembered thinking the cloth alone was worth more than everything he had ever owned.
The warehouse manager still held it when Mud reached out.
“The missing shipment wasn’t your fault.”
Mud waited.
“I know.”
The older man rubbed both hands over his face before finally looking up.
“But the customer doesn’t.”
One of the warehouse workers had stolen the missing shipment before it ever reached Mud. By the time anyone realized what had happened, every ledger already carried his name.
The thief disappeared.
Mud stayed.
The manager finally released the parcel.
“I’ve covered for you twice already.”
Mud tucked it beneath one arm.
“I’ll deliver it.”
“I know you will.”
The man hesitated.
“…Try not to run into any more bad luck.”
Mud almost smiled.
Luck had never been very good at finding him.
The afternoon market stretched across half the district.
Smiths hammered glowing iron beneath open sheds while merchants argued over prices. Steam drifted from food stalls, carrying smells Mud had learned not to follow.
There were fewer children than there should have been.
The ones he saw stayed close to exhausted parents, rarely wandering far from their sides.
Even so, there were enough people.
Enough faces.
Enough noise.
One more boy could still disappear among them.
He settled into the pace he’d learned years ago.
Not fast enough to attract attention.
Not slow enough to invite it.
The parcel rested securely beneath his arm.
Halfway across the square, the horses caught his attention.
Merchant horses were usually patient.
These weren’t.
One kept flicking its ears toward the men holding the reins while the other pawed restlessly at the packed earth, its muscles taut beneath the harness.
Mud’s gaze drifted to the men.
Forgettable clothes.
Forgettable faces.
Almost too forgettable.
One man’s boots were polished.
The other’s hands carried old scars that belonged to a swordsman rather than a merchant.
None of it meant anything by itself.
Only enough to make him look twice.
Mud kept walking.
As he drew alongside the wagon, another muffled thump came from inside.
Barely audible beneath the market.
Keep walking.
The blue parcel slipped from beneath his arm and landed at his feet.
He sighed.
"...Damn."
He crouched to pick it up.
"Hey you."
One of the men stepped toward him.
"What are you doing?"
"I dropped my package."
Mud reached for it.
Then he moved.
He surged upward and slammed his shoulder into the man's chest.
The man stumbled backward with a curse.
Mud was already running.
He rounded the wagon, caught the latch, and tore the rear door open.
The smell hit him first.
Sweat.
Old rope.
Fear.
A child stared back through a loose sack tied over his head. His wrists were bound behind him with coarse rope, and a lock of dark brown hair had slipped free across his forehead.
No older than six.
Mud reached inside, hooked an arm beneath the boy’s shoulders, and pulled him from the wagon. The child stumbled, nearly falling before Mud steadied him.
Then he pointed toward the narrow alley beside the dyer’s shop.
“Run.”
The child just stared at him.
Whether from fear or confusion, Mud couldn’t tell.
He shoved him harder.
“Do you want to die? I said run!”
The child finally moved.
Mud watched the dark brown hair disappear around the corner.
"Little rat!"
The shout came from behind.
Mud spun.
A fist shot toward his face.
He twisted aside.
The punch grazed his cheek.
He turned to run, but a second set of footsteps came from the side.
His stomach dropped.
There had never been only two.
He turned the other way-
When something crashed into the back of his skull.
Light burst across his vision.
The world tilted.
Then darkness swallowed him.
‘What was I thinking?’
Mud replayed the memory over and over again, but regretting did nothing for him.
These were the consequences of playing hero.
Mud let out a slow breath.
Whether the boy escaped no longer mattered. His leg wasn’t coming back, and the chain around his wrist wasn’t about to unlock itself because he regretted a decision.
For a while he listened to the rain.
“…What a miserable life.”
The words surprised him.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d complained out loud.
Complaining had never solved anything.
Hunger didn’t disappear because someone cursed it.
Cold didn’t become warmer.
People didn’t become kinder.
You endured what was in front of you.
That was all.
Still…
The words kept coming.
“I was an orphan.”
His voice scraped against his throat.
“I accepted that.”
Silence.
“I slept under bridges.”
“I got beat.”
“I starved.”
“I got cheated.”
“I worked.”
Each sentence came out flatter than the last.
Not because he didn’t care.
Because after enough years, they stopped feeling like tragedies.
They had simply become facts.
His jaw tightened.
“When something finally started getting better…”
The sentence faded.
Had it?
A dangerous job delivering parcels for the rich.
A shack without a roof that never kept out the rain.
No friends, no family, always alone.
Then came the wagon.
Mud laughed once.
The sound echoed strangely through the cave before disappearing into the rain.
“…What did I do so wrong?”
The question wasn’t aimed at anyone.
Even so, his eyes found the painting.
The silver-haired figure stared back with the same empty expression.
“You already took everything.”
His voice was barely louder than the rain.
“The chain… my leg… my life.”
Silence answered.
“…How much more do you want?”
Only the dripping water replied.
Mud rested his head against the wall.
The cave grew quiet again.
Rain.
Water.
His breathing.
Then—
Footsteps.
Mud’s eyes opened.
Just one person.
He stayed perfectly still.
His captors never came alone.
Long before they reached the cave, he would hear whispers carrying through the tunnel. Someone always began praying before they entered, the others joining in until the words blurred together.
This time…
Nothing.
Mud frowned.
A small figure stepped inside.
The child’s clothes were untouched.
Not merely dry.
Untouched.
There wasn’t a speck of mud on the hem, nor a drop of water clinging to the fabric. He crossed the damp stone without hesitation, his footsteps disappearing beneath the steady dripping from the ceiling.
Mud recognized the dark brown hair immediately.
His eyes narrowed.
For one brief moment, he wondered if his captors had found the child after all.
But how is he here alone? Where are the captors?
That wasn’t possible.
The child stopped a few steps away.
He didn’t look at the chains.
Or the bloodstains.
Or the painting that covered the far wall.
From the moment he entered the cave…
he had looked only at Mud.
“…Why are you here?”
The child answered without hesitation.
“I went home.”
Mud frowned.
“My mother was waiting.”
His voice remained calm, almost conversational.
“She cried when she saw me.”
Mud lowered his eyes.
“I thought you would want to know.”
The child said.
He had wondered.
Whether the boy escaped.
Whether someone had been waiting for him.
Whether any of it had mattered.
The boy smiled.
Then Mud realized something.
“…You’re not him.”
“No. I’m using this face because it was simply familiar to you.”
Mud studied him.
The voice.
The smile.
The way he stood.
Nothing belonged to the frightened child he’d pulled from the wagon.
“…Then what are you?”
“I’ve been called many things… but I don’t think the answer would help you.”
The boy came closer and knelt down in front of Mud.
“It’s time.”
”Am I going to die?”
The child smiled.
He slipped one hand into the sleeve of his robe.
He withdrew something from the wide sleeve.
It was no larger than a marble.
A small ball of light rested quietly in his palm. It glowed softly, bright enough to exist, yet too gentle to drive away the shadows gathered in the cave.
Mud frowned.
“…What is it?”
“Something that belongs to you.”
He opened his hand.
The light drifted silently into the air.
It drifted between them, slow enough that Mud could have reached out and stopped it.
He didn’t.
The light touched the center of his forehead and the memories flooded in.
Snow buried the mouth of a bridge while he curled beneath it, arms wrapped around himself against a cold that no longer cared whether he lived until morning.
Rain.
A city he had never seen.
He stumbled through unfamiliar streets with an empty sack over one shoulder before a wagon struck him from behind.
Darkness. Fire.
Smoke swallowed the sky as beams crashed around him.
Saltwater flooded his lungs. A fever. Bandits. A collapsing mine.
Another.
Another.
Another.
The memories came faster than he could understand.
The same name, but different deaths.
Mud’s breathing became ragged.
His hands flew to his head as though he could force the memories back out.
He couldn’t.
They weren’t invading him.
They were returning.
“…What is this...”
The flood finally slowed.
Then stopped.
Only the rain remained.
Mud stared at the stone beneath him.
It looked exactly the same.
He didn’t.
His breathing came in uneven bursts.
His hands trembled against the cave floor.
At last, he whispered,
“…This wasn’t the only time? I… no… there’s no way… How many times have I died…?”
Mud’s voice trembled.
“Tell me. What did I do to deserve this?!”
The child looked at him with pity.
“The answer will come to you soon.”
The cave dissolved into light, and Mud experienced the most peaceful death out of all his lives.
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