The worn, peeling Clawartha poster clung to the rotten wooden wall, gripped by a claw logo that looked like dried bloodstains. Leo stared at it, not just reading, but devouring every word. His mind churned like a storm inside his skull.
Healing Drake.
Those two words pulsed, like the sole beacon in an ocean of his despair. Old Man Deri's raspy sigh shattered the silence of the stuffy shack, his voice like two rough stones grinding together.
"You…" he groaned, his breath whistling, "…interested in that filthy claw?" His clouded, turbid eyes, as if veiled in mist, watched Leo from behind piles of newspapers and empty medicine bottles.
Leo turned slowly, as if his neck felt heavy. "I… I need a way, Gramps," his voice was hoarse, raw from hunger and worry. His hand unconsciously stroked the head of Drake, slumped limply in his lap. The little dragon's skin felt cold and dry beneath his fingers. "This guild… they handle creatures. Maybe… maybe they have information. Or medicine." That small hope was almost swallowed by doubt.
*Though I myself don't know what they mean by minor creatures…* whispered his heart, the feeling of being a stranger in this world surging back.
Old Man Deri sneered. The wrinkles on his face, like a map of suffering, folded deeper. "Low-rank guild," he spat, his voice full of contempt. "Nothing more than a bunch of desperados and thugs who happened to get promoted." A dry, hacking cough shook his frail body, bending him forward, a groan of pain escaping his throat. When it subsided, he continued, his voice weaker but still sharp.
"Listen, youngster. In this rotten world… monsters rule the wilderness and the ruins of the past. Cities like Nexus or Etheria here… they survive not because of their people's courage. But because of towering stone walls… and Tamers."
"Tamers?" Leo's eyes flashed briefly, catching the new term. A possibility?
"Beast Tamers," explained Old Man Deri, his breath sounding like a leaking whistle about to snap. "Those who can control monsters. Revered as high as the heavens… yet feared as sharply as a dagger in the dark night." His clouded gaze shifted to Drake, scanning the form of the dying little dragon.
"But Clawartha? Hah! They're just scavengers in that world. Street sweepers. Catch minor creatures, either to slaughter, cage in narrow cells, or… sell their organs to dark alchemists." His gaze was sharp, piercing Leo. "You sure you want to hand your creature over to them? Its strange aura… even dim like dying embers, it's still palpable. Dangerous."
Leo bit his lower lip until it bled. The metallic taste reminded him of reality. "But the System says natural recovery takes 8 months, Gramps!" he exclaimed, his voice half-choked. "Eight months! Drake… Drake won't last that long!" His hand clenched the little dragon's body tightly, as if trying to transfer strength he didn't possess.
"System?" Old Man Deri furrowed his deeply lined brow, then let out a long sigh that turned into a moan. "Ah… so you're one of those bound to an invisible machine." His voice grew lower, almost a whisper, full of warning.
"Be careful, boy. In Etheria, those who have a 'System'… often become prime targets. Or… slaves for the big guilds hungry for power." His trembling finger pointed at the worn Clawartha poster. "They'll skin you for your abilities, or sell you to a higher master."
Slaves? Slavery? The words hit Leo like a blow to the gut. Instinctively, he covered his mouth, his breath catching. Cold sweat beaded on his temples.
He had forgotten.
Forgotten completely that this wasn't his original world anymore, where slavery was just history. He was trapped in a strange world full of mysticism, harshness, and cruelty. The horror made his legs feel weak.
"Clawartha itself has a chaotic hierarchy," Old Man Deri continued, breaking the tense silence. "Their boss, Karno… a cold-blooded former market thug. His members? Mostly Rank F-E, desperate as starving rats but careless as children playing with fire. Their only god is money, gotten by any means, as fast as possible. Healing a dying dragon? Pure daylight fantasy." The old man's gaze was sharp, ensuring Leo understood. "And don't expect mercy. In these slums, boy, everything requires resources. Food. Medicine. Protection from knives in dark alleys. Everything has a price, and the price is always blood, sweat, or lives."
As a terrifying emphasis, a violent cough suddenly wracked Old Man Deri's body. Harder, deeper than before. Before Leo could react, a spray of dark red blood erupted from the old man's mouth, spattering the ragged cloth covering his bed with horrifying splashes. His body shuddered violently, his face, already pale, turning ashen grey.
"See?" he groaned, his voice barely audible, his blood-smeared finger pointing to the nearly empty brown bottle beside him. "Lung potion… gone. Need a new one… from the Fringe Apothecary… east end of the slums." Each word was dragged out with immense effort.
Leo stared at him, then his gaze fell back to Drake in his lap. The little dragon's breath was shallow and irregular. His mind spun wildly. Forget medicine for Drake, he didn't have a single coin even for Old Man Deri's potion. The hunger constantly gnawing at his stomach suddenly felt like a cruel joke. He was trapped. Stranded. Not part of this world, and this world didn't care.
*Truth be told, Leo had no obligation to help the old man. They were just strangers fate had brought together; people in conditions as pitiful as Old Man Deri weren't absent from his own world before. It was just that he had a conscience... A human sympathy.*
"There…" Old Man Deri whispered suddenly, his voice hoarse but cutting through Leo's despair. His clouded eyes narrowed, looking at Leo and Drake with a calculating gaze, mixed with something hard to define—was it a desire to help or self-interest? "…might be one way."
Leo lifted his head, a wild flicker of hope in his eyes. "A way?"
"You have something unique," Old Man Deri continued, pointing at the helpless Drake. "That strange creature. Clawartha… is always recruiting. Minimum requirement is combat ability, they say. But you know…" His voice grew lower, more dangerous.
"In the slums, special skills… can mean anything. Stolen rare goods. Dark intel on rivals. Or…" His eyes fixed sharply on Leo. "…a unique monster that could be a ticket in, or a high-value commodity."
Old Man Deri's tone shifted, skeptical and wary at once. "But heed my warning well, boy. Bringing that dying dragon to Clawartha's den… the risk is as vast as Etheria's sky. Karno, that green-eyed devil… he might see it as a rare treasure, something to flaunt or sell to some dark lord for a sky-high price."
The old man leaned forward slightly, though it triggered a small cough. "Or… he might see it as a threat. Something strange, foreign, with a dangerous aura… that needs to be exterminated immediately, along with its owner." His voice turned cold. "And you? You could become the hero bringing medicine… or the next victim decorating Karno's guild floor."
Leo looked back at Drake. In the dim light seeping through cracks in the wall, the cracked scales of the little dragon glinted faintly, like a star nearly extinguished. Old Man Deri's warnings echoed in his head: the guild's cruel hierarchy, Karno's boundless greed, the ambiguous fate of a System-bearer, and the terrifying value Drake could hold. But urgent need burned in his soul: medicine for the old man who might be his only warning, a slim chance for Drake, and a bite of food to chase away the hunger making his vision swim.
"That Apothecary…" Leo asked, his voice even hoarser than Old Man Deri's, "…is it still open?"
The old man nodded weakly, his head barely moving on the dirty pillow. "Open… until sunset. But…" His trembling hand fumbled behind the piles of musty newspapers. After a moment, he pulled out a small, thick glass bottle containing a dull green powder almost invisible in the dim light. "Take… this."
Leo accepted it carefully. The bottle felt cold and heavy in his sweaty palm, like a lump of ice containing uncertainty.
"Sleeping Mushroom," Old Man Deri explained, his breath labored. "The powder… tasteless. Put it in food… drink… or burn it. Effect is short… enough to stop my cough temporarily… or…" His bleary eyes met Leo's, and for a split second, Leo saw a flash of cunning, the survival instinct of a man who'd lived by jungle law in the primal slums, within them. "…make the greedy apothecary guard… sleep soundly." The flash faded instantly, replaced by a wince of pain.
"The choice… is yours, young man," he whispered, his voice nearly gone. "Gamble with wolves in Clawartha's den… or die slowly in this rotting shack… like me…" His last word was gasped, swallowed by the increasingly difficult hiss of his breath.
Leo gazed at the small bottle. Its coldness seeped into his bones. In one hand, he held the symbol of his new gamble, the poisonous green powder promising salvation and damnation. In the other, Drake's increasingly cold body, the near-death Rank-S dragon, a burden yet his only key. And before his eyes, clinging to the rotten wooden wall, the Clawartha poster with its filthy claw, a toxic glimmer of hope burning low.
He took a deep breath, smelling dust, sickness, and despair in the shack. In the distance, beyond the shack's thin walls, the muffled roar of Etheria City sounded, a city promising salvation that might be false, like the faint last light reflecting on Drake's scales, shining briefly, tempting him, before perhaps extinguishing forever in the darkness of Clawartha's claws or the coldness of death in this shack.
The decision hung, heavy and bloody, in the stale air. The Sleeping Mushroom bottle felt heavier. The first step towards an abyss… or towards salvation? Only time, and Leo's nerve, would tell.