The pain in his side was excrutiating. It was all Dade could do to stand up straight without risking bending over and howling. But he had to keep listening to this young shrine maiden's prattling for a little longer.

  Blah blah blah, strange boy. Blah blah blah, dragon hunter. A "cornucopian tribute" for a future harvest, whatever that meant. The throbbing in his side was speaking louder than she was. If he had been younger and more foolish, he might have been crying from the wound's plea for attention. But he kept his smile on and his ears open for anything that might be more than fluff used to pad out her request.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead, especially chilly in the sharply cold weather. He focused on it, something to distract him from the fact that he wanted nothing more than to fall on his back and shiver in agony.

  "His name is Oreali," she clapped her hands together to conclude the summary he hadn't listened to beyond bullet points. "He's a son of the Ram!"

  "Aren't we all." Dade said with a dry tone. He had no interest in sparing the idealism of the clergy- unless it was helping him get paid. Maybe he could have been nicer to her, but he was desperately looking for an excuse to leave and drown his sorrows for a moment before beginning his assignment as a keeper of a runaway noble brat.

  The devotee furrowed her brow, gauging that he hadn't been totally attentive. Brushing her ankle-length skirt momentarily smooth, the local nun exhaled calmly, closing and opening her eyes. She was expecting this, it seemed. "I'm being serious, buyblade."

  "I'm sure you are," he grumbled. His sweating only got stronger and more obvious. Why was this conversation still not over already?

  "Serious as in he is an actual demigod," she clarified, but he still didn't buy it. She knew this white-haired kid was a demigod... Because he had pale hair and purple eyes, was that it? Charlatans could get quite a lot done with a box of chalk makeup in places like this, Dade was sure.

  Still, money was money. It could be handed to him by a mad beggar about to dive into the river for all he cared.

  "All right," he shrugged. He needed a potion to finally make the pain stop- the priestess of a remote, minor village like this couldn't possibly be competent enough for a powerful healing spell, so asking her for help would keep him on his back for weeks- and lose him this job. He'd need to make an excuse to double back to the town next closest- there was a merchant there that would sell a sufficiently strong cure-all from one of the great cities. "Where's the kid? I need to get additional supplies if I'm going to be looking after a kid. He looks thirteen, yeah?"

  Thirteen. Old enough to get past most awkward instruction from parents to children, thank the gods. He would rather take a thousand routines of surgery than swaddle an infant or change a diaper.

  "Based on what he told me, he's older- at least twice as old as that. Like I told you, he's a demigod." The nun was getting increasingly irritated.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Dade wanted to protest himself, but the twinge in his side spiked again, and he decided against it. "Sure," he conceded. Maybe he could bribe the kid with a sweet to keep him occupied while he got his healing. "S-So where is he?" It was becoming more and more unbearable, and soon his foot tapped out of reflex. The pain was beginning to show- he couldn't hide it any more. Even the nun was starting to realize what was happening- her eyes widening with concern.

  He gritted his teeth, trying to stagger towards the nearest wall to lean on, but he hit the ground before he realized what was happening. His body, having been denied rest, was now refusing to function until its demands were satiated. As Dade stretched himself out, the shrine maiden called for help- a request blurred by his mind. This was bad- he was going to lose this job, be subject to novice-quality chiurgery, and be in this dot-on-a-map village's debt for years! But it was so painful that he could barely even worry about that any more. All he could do was wait for it to stop.

  Suddenly, it did. Out of nowhere, the pain swept away from the wound. It was one he had taken from his former friend- his blood brother.

  The man who had abandoned him to die.

  Dade's eyes were filled with sweat and tears, which the mercenary quickly brushed away, trying to hide which were which. After all, this might be a psychopomp, and the last impression he wanted to make on the underworld was that he was weak. The land of the dead was a place where the weak were trod upon- endlessly and forever. He would not escape one torture only to face another.

  At first, he thought the face looking at him was that of a woman's- it was far too soft to be a killer like him, that was sure. However, the 'boy' stood in order to look over Dade from above, and despite a cherubic, plush look of concern, he was little shorter than some of the farmhands or jugglers the city hosted. Purple eyes indeed, white hair cleaner than sheep wool, the natural tan of a worker despite not looking to have a day's worth of labor on his hands. His robes were not of the local land- they seemed like one continuous cloth, summoned by magic and probably cleaned likewise. His wear, a light gray, fully concealing and baggy, made him seem a sorcerer. Perhaps not a demigod, then? A priest-king of the natural order? The tyrannical head of a chaotic cult? Still otherwise, one among the crowd of treacherous astrologers that searched the stars for ultimate power?

  As Dade caught his breath and realized that he was where he had fallen in the land of the living, he stood up himself, looking down only slightly at his new charge. This must be Oreali. And the nun must not be able to count, because he looked closer to sixteen or seventeen- far too tall! The face must have done it- Dade found him difficult to look at. The one who had healed had too much innocence in his bearing to be seen as anything more than a child, whatever his age was.

  Oreali inspected Dade likewise and further, grabbing at his clothing and checking where the wound had been.

  Dade was a rough man with brown hair, white in places from exhaustion and stress rather than natural color. He was wearing beaten, overly worn boots and an outdated soldier's uniform from an army that no longer existed. This hasty and faded blue surcoat-of-sorts did him the favor of covering up cheap, worn under-armor he still held onto from his previous group. The wound, which had been made by punching through the latter, had been hidden by the former. Oreali patted the spot that had hidden a shallow, slowly bleeding wound softly, not asking for the right to verify his work. Dade was stunned, but too shocked and still ill at ease to protest. There was no pain, and he didn't feel as though he were missing anything. The wound was healed.

  Satisfied, the strange boy let go, allowed the mercenary to check himself, and then said, quite calmly, "I'm sorry, sir. I smelled blood." After a moment to let him react, he bowed to Dade at the waist, leaving the mercenary stunned.