Chapter 4: Desperation Breeds Clarity

The alarm continued to blare, and the pounding on the metal shutter outside grew more urgent as soldiers hammered at the door. Yet, the little beggar did not blame the thick-browed man for betraying him—his forgiveness did not equate to surrender. In this world, victory and defeat came in only two forms: those who survived, no matter how wretchedly, were victors; those who perished, no matter how honorably, were vanquished.

His frail frame seemed even smaller in the enveloping darkness, yet his cold, expressionless eyes darted swiftly around the cramped room. His gaze first landed on a wooden table, where dinner had been laid out—a basket containing four or five different types of bread. Even as the sound of the lock being pried open echoed through the air, the little beggar reached out, snatched the largest baguette, and bit into it without hesitation.

The chill of the hardened wheat spread across his tongue, the rich aroma of bread filling the hollow pit of his stomach. Unlike before, this time he barely chewed before swallowing. The first mouthful went down, then the second, as he surveyed the room more carefully, the half-eaten bread still in his mouth.

The door was merely locked from the inside—it could be opened with ease. But stepping out now would be suicide; the soldiers were waiting. There was one window, but iron bars sealed off any chance of escape—only a rat could slip through. Beyond the bedroom lay a small, makeshift toilet. Its ventilation window was far too high; even standing on the toilet, he would never reach it. Through that tiny window drifted icy snowflakes, a cruel whisper of the world beyond—the world of freedom.

But freedom was barred by cold, unyielding walls.

Another bite of bread. His mouth moved mechanically, but his right hand, unoccupied, moved swiftly through the shadows, feeling along the walls and corners of the room. He worked fast—facing death had honed his instincts to razor sharpness. Outside, the sound of metal scraping against metal told him the lock had been compromised. The shutter creaked open, inch by inch. Time was slipping away.

To be caught meant death.

He knew it well—too well. And that knowledge honed his mind into something chillingly sharp, unnervingly calm. His movements, however, were anything but slow.

Clang!

The shutter jammed midway, something catching in its tracks. The soldiers cursed, kicking at the obstruction in frustration. That delay—those precious seconds—became his lifeline. It was in this fleeting moment that his frantic hands and keen eyes uncovered something.

The walls of the bedroom and the toilet were not the same thickness. The colors of the plaster differed slightly. The toilet walls were riddled with cracks, while the bedroom's remained mostly smooth.

His face remained impassive, but his grip on the bread tightened unconsciously. What did it mean? A difference in color, a disparity in thickness, a wall more prone to breaking…

Crash!

The shutter was finally wrenched open.

And in that instant, the answer struck him.

The toilet was not part of the original structure. The apothecary's owner had likely knocked down part of the bedroom wall and built it himself. That meant the wall would be thinner, weaker. And with those web-like cracks… If he had the right tool, he could tear it down.

Boots struck the ground outside. The first soldiers rushed in, their nerves frayed by the shrieking alarm. In the dim light, one of them stepped on the handle of a discarded dagger, losing his balance and toppling into his comrade, momentarily blocking the entrance.

Inside, the little beggar's eyes flickered over the room one last time. He needed something—anything—to break the wall. A rod, a pole, something sturdy—

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

He scoured every inch, but there was no such object in sight. Outside, the soldiers' curses grew louder. They advanced cautiously toward the bedroom door, swords drawn, ready to strike the moment they stepped inside.

Another bite of bread. His face, carved from ice, would remain unchanged even as they broke through. As he searched, his gaze swept past the apothecary owner's corpse, rigid with the chill of death.

And then—

A flash of insight.

"You inside! You're surrounded! Come out now!"

The soldiers barked their threats, but the beggar was already in motion. Stuffing the remaining half of the bread into his tattered clothes, he overturned the table, yanking the grease-stained tablecloth free. Sprinting into the toilet, he soaked the cloth under running water before dashing back to the corpse and tearing away the woolen blanket beneath it. He spread the damp cloth over the blanket, twisting it tightly into a makeshift rod.

Outside, a soldier signaled his comrades. Bracing themselves, they readied their shoulders to ram the door.

Inside, the beggar moved with eerie precision. He darted to a medical cabinet by the bedside, retrieving a dark amber bottle.

Inside was a liquid that froze upon exposure to air. He had once seen the apothecary use it—pouring a single drop onto herbs, watching as they stiffened as if trapped in an endless winter.

Wrapping his hands in the remaining blanket, he wrenched the bottle open. A biting chill seeped into the room, turning it into a glacial tomb. No time to hesitate—he poured the liquid over the twisted cloth rod.

Instantly, it hardened.

At that moment, the soldiers launched themselves at the door.

It was over.

The beggar had barely grasped the frozen rod when the fragile door shuddered beneath the assault. It wouldn't last against another blow. The moment the soldiers saw him, it would be over. Captured. Tried. Hanged.

He drove the rod into the cracked wall.

He knew the odds, but he refused to surrender.

Was it fate? Was it the will of something greater? As he worked furiously at the wall, something unseen seemed to stir, as if responding to his desperate struggle for survival.

A whisper of frost.

Three perfect, six-sided snowflakes drifted silently through the air—toward the door.

And in the instant before the soldiers' charge met wood—

They landed.

…

Strange things happened often in Signag, a city where greed flourished and cruelty thrived. The soldiers had seen corruption, witnessed unthinkable horrors.

But nothing—nothing—compared to what unfolded before them.

The wooden door, in an instant, transformed into a wall of solid ice.

The three soldiers, charging at full force, slammed into it—and rebounded, dazed and reeling. Their stunned gazes locked onto the crystalline structure, and before they could react, the phenomenon escalated.

The frost spread.

Like living tendrils, ice snaked along the walls, crept across the floor. Moisture in the air crystallized, drifting in delicate six-pointed formations, freezing anything they touched.

The soldiers screamed, but as they turned to flee, they found their boots fused to the frost-laden ground. No amount of struggling could free them.

In moments, the entire apothecary was encased in ice.

The doorway, once open, was now sealed behind a wall of glacial thickness. No sound escaped. No plea was heard. The shrill alarm, too, was silenced.

Once again, silence reclaimed the night.

The beggar heard their screams. He did not care.

Curiosity killed the fool. He had no interest in understanding this unnatural event—his only goal was escape.

The wall had crumbled beneath his efforts. Snow and cold wind rushed through the gap. Dropping the rod, he hunched low, shielding the last of his bread as he slipped through the opening.

Cold.

The outside air was mercilessly frigid. The storm had worsened, snowflakes slicing against his skin like razor-edged knives. He shivered but wasted no time reminiscing about the lost warmth inside.

He ran.

Away from the apothecary. Away from death.

And into the frozen night.