"I said—have you decided to come with us?" the man with the large scar across his face repeated. His voice was firmer now, edged with rising irritation.
"Ehmmm… Of course!" I answered immediately, flashing a half-hearted smile that definitely didn't reach my eyes.
I looked straight at them, still completely clueless about what had just happened—or why. My logic was pretty simple:
If they ask a question, agree.
Why?
Well, firstly, they literally knocked the door down with brute force. And judging by my not-so-bulky frame, I wasn't going to win any fights today.
Secondly, I had no idea what led to this—no memory of any agreement that might've been made before tmy moment.
And lastly, they outnumbered me three to one. None of them looked like the patient, chatty type, either, and if I started asking questions or putting up a fight, I was pretty sure they'd skip the small talk and just deal with me violently.
'Fuck… what did my predecessor do?'
The leader—scar-face—shook my head to the left, signaling to the bulky guy beside him to move forward.
That guy was even taller than the leader. He wore brown pants and a dark green tunic, but it was his body that stood out. His posture was twisted, his neck hunched over in an unnatural curve; his eyes had that vacant, glassy "dead man walking" look, and his whole presence radiated something… off.
He walked toward me, each step casting a longer shadow over me. Slung across his shoulder was a large brown leather bag—too big for it to be a regular satchel—and he started rummaging through it.
After a few moments, he pulled out three vials. One that was a murky yellow, the second that was of bright red, and the third completely which was both clear and empty. Without saying a word, he poured the first two into the empty one and gave it a quick shake, leaving some in the other remaining.
The result? A weird, purple-colored liquid that definitely didn't look safe. He stretched out his large palm, offering the mixed substance to me.
"Drink it."
I stared at the bottle in his hand, then looked up at the scar-faced leader, trying to muster my most pitiful, pleading expression.
"Can I… not take it?" I asked, voice tight, eyes begging for any sign of sympathy.
"Drink it," He repeated again without shaking or budging his direct gaze at me.
"Why?" I retorted, voice cracking just a bit. That vial contained something I didn't want to take—didn't even want near my lips—and I didn't trust them to care one bit if I died or passed out from it.
"Drink it."
The word landed like a hammer—final, immovable, and I didn't want to annoy them further.
My hand trembled as I took hold of the vial. The glass felt colder than I felt it should've, and the liquid shimmered faintly like it had a pulse of its own. Not bubbling, not swirling—just… still.
I looked around. No one flinched. No one offered a "nod of encouragement," "no cryptic hint", no "you'll be okay."
"If I drink and I die," I muttered, barely above a whisper, "is that just... it? You all just keep walking like it didn't matter?"
Scar-Face didn't even blink. "It matters. That's why you have to drink it."
That wasn't comforting. Not in the slightest.
Without asking anything, I quickly emptied the bottle in one gulp, just wanting it over with. The liquid was a little bitter, but not cheek-slappingly so. What caught me off guard was the texture—thick, almost jelly-like. It slithered down my throat with an unnatural warmth, like it was alive and too eager to be inside me.
And then it hit.
A strange rush—like a jolt of electricity in my veins, but without the pain. It coursed through me, igniting every inch of my body. My legs buckled for a second, not from weakness, but from a sudden overload of energy. My pulse quickened. My breath came easier. My fingers stopped trembling.
And then the real magic happened.
My face, still tender and bruised from whatever had happened before to my predecessor, started to tingle. That low ache faded, replaced by a soothing heat that spread across my skin like the invisible hands of a masseur were mending me.
I pulled at my shirt instinctively, revealing the sutured gash that had split across my chest. I blinked, and it was gone.
Not just healed. Gone.
Not a scar. Not a scratch. Nothing.
It was like it had never been there at all.
I stared down at my flawless skin, then back up at Scar-Face.
"What the hell was that?" I asked, breathless. He gave the faintest nod—more to himself than to me. "Proof."
Though surprised, I didn't have the luxury to dwell on whatever godly thing I had just swallowed. Before I could process it, one of the men jerked his head toward the door. A silent command.
I was quickly herded forward, flanked on both sides like a prisoner—or maybe something worse. I followed without a word.
The hallway outside the main door was quite narrow, the air stale with the scent of dust and iron at first, before the freshness from the bathroom hit. We moved fast, boots thudding against cracked stone floors. They didn't speak. Neither did I.
My mind was racing, though.
'What was that stuff?'
'What did they mean by "proof"?'
And what exactly had I agreed to?
As we passed a shattered mirror on the wall, I caught a glimpse of myself—clear-eyed, healed, and somehow… sharper. Like something inside me had clicked into place…
After walking for what felt like a long time through silent, winding corridors, we finally emerged outside—into the shadow of a structure that stopped me in my tracks.
The building stood in stark contrast to my worn-out clay house—I would prefer to call it a hut— like a memory from my former world. It was grand, majestic even, crafted entirely from fine white marble. The surface gleamed faintly under the pale sky, almost glowing, as it had become evening; The stone itself seemed alive with purpose, the architecture reminded me of smaller Byzantine temples I'd seen in books, with the entrance having domes, archways, and intricate carvings of strange beasts and saints I didn't recognize.
But what truly caught my eye were the inscriptions.
On either side of the massive entrance were vertical lines of text—elegant and symmetrical—like some forgotten calligraphy. And above the archway, etched in larger, more prominent script, was a single bold header. The lettering had that distinct angular curve I'd only ever seen in old Chinese temples—formal, beautiful, and absolutely unreadable to me.
I stared at it for a moment, trying to make sense of the language, but it was no use. I didn't recognize any of it. So, I let it go.
We didn't even go through the front.
Instead, the men guided me around the side, through a narrow path wrapped in ivy and stone, until we reached a backdoor carved with more symbols I couldn't understand. Inside, the air shifted—cooler, quieter. Each footstep echoed, like the building itself was listening.
They led me down a marbled hallway and stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. The frame was decorated with gilded lines and two silver animal heads—wolves, maybe—facing each other. More writing adorned the surface in neat, etched lines. Again, unreadable. But even without understanding the words, I could tell from the way the others slowed, the way their eyes avoided the door, that this room belonged to someone important.