Ashes To The Peak

Chapter 3: The Spy of Blackwater Town.

Zareth's body jagged more and more, trembling violently as uncontrolled, agonizing sputters of white foam began to gather around the corners of his mouth.

The makeshift wooden bed creaked and groaned beneath the unnatural, violent convulsions of his frame, the thin legs scraping harsh lines against the damp floorboards.

The thug stared down at the thrashing youth, his broad face twisting as his relieved smirk slowly vanished, morphing into a murderous, dark snarl.

"Do you want me to tell you to do something already?!" the thug growled, swinging his fierce gaze directly at the trembling physician. "If this kid dies, I swear on my life that you will follow him straight to the grave!"

The physician felt the cold, unyielding weight of absolute certainty behind the thug's words. He knew with dreadful clarity that the violent man would not hesitate to slit his throat on the spot.

Shaking off his panic, the physician sprang into action.

"Hold him down!" the physician shouted frantically. "Hold him down onto the bed! Don't let him thrash!"

The thug lunged forward, slamming his massive, heavy hands onto Zareth’s shoulders and chest, pinning the convulsing young man firmly against the thin mattress.

With nimble, practiced speed, the physician pulled several long, slender silver needles from a velvet pouch tucked inside his sleeve. His fingers moved like a blur.

He carefully aligned the first needle and plunged it deep into the soft hollow just below Zareth’s throat. A second needle was driven directly into the center of his forehead, right between his eyebrows.

Without losing a beat, he placed a third needle into the left side of his chest over his heart, and finally, he pressed the last one deep into his lower abdomen.

The moment the final needle sank into the flesh of his abdomen, a sudden quiet fell over the bed. Zareth’s violent thrashing ceased instantly.

All four needles began to shimmer, casting a faint, rhythmic pulsing of soft green light across the dark room.

The Qi embedded within the silver needles surged through the young man’s tangled meridians, forcibly suppressing the violent clash of soul energies and steadying his wildly thrashing pulse.

Zareth was breathing now, slowly and deeply, yet his eyes remained tightly closed. Even in this subdued, trance-like state, the tears streaming from the corners of his eyes did not stop.

They continued raining down his pale, cold cheeks in a steady, silent stream, pooling beneath his head.

The physician let out a long, shuddering breath of profound relief.

He leaned back on his heels, wiping his brow with a trembling sleeve. His face was glistening with cold sweat, and his entire body felt burning hot despite the freezing rain dripping through the roof.

"So what now?!" the thug demanded, his voice low and impatient as he slowly released his heavy grip on Zareth's shoulders.

"He... he is fine," the physician panted, his chest heaving as he tried to regain his composure. "The young man won't die. His body was simply in an extreme state of shock, why, I cannot fathom. And frankly, for a mere mortal... I don't understand how a corpse came back to life in the first place."

"I don't care about your bloody details!" the thug barked, stepping forward with his snarling face pushed close.

"When will he start working again?! That is the only thing the boss cares about, not whatever garbage you're spouting! This kid cannot even cultivate; at his age, the window for breaking through into the that path has long passed him by!"

He leaned over the physician, spittle flying from his mouth as he roared, "So tell me what I actually want to hear! What now?! What's next?! When will he be able to continue his duties for the gang?!"

"These thugs are completely, utterly clueless," the physician thought to himself, his heart bitter and dark as he looked at the brute.

"I wonder why and how I even got myself involved with these mindless beasts... The second I make enough money from this wretched town, I swear I will run away and never look back."

Suppressing his internal disdain, the physician forced his voice to remain calm and authoritative. "The kid is going to be fine. But as for work? Look at him! This person hasn't left this bed for the past six months!"

"I am entirely certain he cannot even stand, let alone walk. As much as the medicinal pill we fed him provided some basic vital nutrients, real food is absolutely mandatory now. Furthermore, I will need to mix some specialized herbal concoctions for him to drink."

The physician stood up and glanced around the dismal, rotting room for a moment.

"There is no food here, as you can clearly see," the physician said, pointing a finger at the barren, water-stained corners of the shack.

"Since you want the kid to recover fast, you will have to go out and get him some actual nourishment. Do that, and after a month or two of proper rest and medicine, he will be ready for your gang's use once more."

The thug scoffed loudly, crossing his thick arms over his chest.

"Was that so damn hard to say?"

Wearing a bitter, menacing snarl, the thug turned on his heel and moved toward the makeshift wooden door. He tucked both his hands deep into his heavy coat pockets to ward off the chill.

"I'm going to get the goddamn food," the thug growled, casting one final, dark look back over his shoulder. "If I find a cold corpse when I come back here, you will be the one explaining it to the boss with your head!"

With that parting threat, the thug kicked open the door and marched out into the blinding, heavy rain, leaving Zareth alone in the quiet room with the physician.

Left by himself, the physician sighed heavily and began gathering his scattered tools.

Since the makeshift table had been smashed to pieces during the earlier scuffle, he was forced to drop to his knees and use the damp, filthy floorboards to arrange his herbs and pestle.

As he crushed dry leaves against the wet wood, deep in his heart, he cursed his cruel fate.

"I should have never come to Blackwater Town from the very beginning..." the physician muttered under his breath, bitterly cursing the cursed day he ever set foot in this miserable, forgotten slum.

"What... what were those memories? Who is Zareth? Why did I see those memories?"

Deep inside his dark, consciousness, the young man who appeared to be sleeping soundly with needles glowing on his body was actually wide awake.

The sea of tears pouring from his closed eyes was the only outward sign of the storm raging within his mind.

He thought deeper and deeper about the tidal wave of strange, foreign memories that had just flooded his soul.

Zareth Crow.

For as long as this body could remember, he had never really had a family, save for his older sister, Laura Crow, who had passed away roughly two years ago.

She had been the elder of the two, constantly scraping, begging, and fighting in the filthy alleys of the slums to secure daily survival for them both.

Zareth had been sickly and frail throughout his entire life, barely able to perform manual labor. When his sister fell terribly ill two years ago, Zareth had been desperate.

Wanting more than anything for her to recover, he had gone out into the dark underbelly of Blackwater Town to seek help wherever he could find it.

The only entity willing to extend a hand was the ruthless Red Panda Gang.

From the vivid memories of Zareth, a cold bargain had been struck. When the gang members demanding to know what a weak, dying boy had to offer in return for expensive medicine, Zareth had offered the only thing he possessed: his mind.

Zareth had an extraordinary, almost terrifying talent for organizing, retaining, and retrieving hidden information. As a sickly, unassuming child, he could sit in the dirty corners of the town for hours on end without drawing suspicion.

People dismissed him as just another dying beggar. Yet, his sharp ears and keen mind perceived information, whispers, and secret deals better than anyone else in Blackwater Town.

That was the trade. The Red Panda Gang used Zareth as their ultimate silent spy, relying on him to gather critical intelligence across the territory. His information had been flawless every single time.

However... Laura had died anyway.

Despite her death, the gang kept Zareth firmly trapped in their iron grip. They claimed the vast sum of money borrowed for her failed medication was still unpaid, inflating the debt year after year with exorbitant interest.

Zareth had been turned into nothing more than a lifelong slave for the gang, trapped in a cycle of endless exploitation.

"Why am I having the memories of this Zareth as if I was the one who lived this life?" the consciousness pondered in silent horror. "And why is the pain from these memories so excruciating... as if it is directly attached to my very soul?"

He was profoundly confused.

He tried with all his remaining mental strength to piece together the unbelievable phenomenon taking place. How was he here, breathing in this wretched, rotting room? Why did his head throb with two distinct, fully realized lives?

He was experiencing the accumulated tragedy and agony of two whole lifetimes simultaneously. The pain was so overwhelming that the tears leaking from his eyes refused to stop.

As his thoughts drifted away from Zareth Crow and lingered back toward the memories of Belmoth Cross, a sudden, terrifying sensation overtook him.

He felt as though his physical skin was catching fire all over again.

His body broke out into a heavy, drenching sweat, his temperature rising rapidly from the sheer, traumatic weight of those burning thoughts.

"Did someone... did someone actually end up saving me back then?" he wondered desperately within the dark void of his mind. "And how long has it truly been? These people are talking about six months... but to me, it feels as though I was being burned by the Nine Heavenly Karma Flames just seconds ago!"