"If it had been me, not one person in The Faction would have walked out alive."
Kilian gave a bloodthirsty smile. "That's what I did, too."
Not personally. Once he returned to his family, he ran a high fever for three days. By the time he woke, The Faction's hideout had been razed to the ground.
But... that fever had also made him forget many things. So many memories had grown hazy. For instance...
Kilian pressed a hand to his abdomen, where a scar like a centipede remained to this day.
Who had stitched up that wound? On that freezing night, with his slippery intestines spilling out and refusing to stay in... who had it been? Why couldn't he remember?
Even the pain from back then no longer seemed quite so sharp...
Cold sweat beaded on Kilian's forehead. It was as though he had fallen into an unspeakable nightmare, and everything before his eyes lost its sense of distance, receding farther and farther away...
Kilian strained to open his eyes wider, desperate to make out that blurred face—
Just then, Annan's face appeared before him.
"What's wrong?"
Kilian jolted awake, his heart pounding as though he had been roused from sleep.
"I..."
"You don't look well."
His scattered thoughts returned to him, and Kilian let out a long breath. "Whew... A homeless boy struggling to survive in hell doesn't make for a pleasant memory, does it?"
"You're right. But it can also become something invaluable to you."
"Invaluable?"
"You were once at the bottom. You understand the people there. That's your advantage."
"Is... it?"
No one had ever put it that way. Kilian's instinct was to question it... but Annan had no reason to lie to him.
"Given how you look, let's leave it for today. Go back and get