Chapter 28: The Four Headed Ones

Chapter 28: The Four Heads

Aether and Nashel exchanged a helpless glance, not knowing what to make of it.

Nashel was the first to react. He picked up the untouched bottle of wine on the table and poured a glass.

"Naturally, Nikola, we'll take good care of you." He pressed the glass into the scholar's hand.

The scholar was beside himself with surprise and delight, taking a small sip and letting out a wistful, dreamy sigh. "An '85 vintage of 'Noon Sun'... My God, how long has it been since I last tasted this..."

Just as he was about to take another sip, the Red-Haired Inquisitor snatched the glass away.

"You'll have to trade information for it." Aether spoke for his companion.

"I, I..." The scholar stammered, seemingly still reluctant to betray his "bosom buddy."

Aether kept egging him on: "I can also put in a good word with the guards to upgrade your conditions. Going forward, you can do lighter labor and move to a more comfortable cell."

"By the way, do you like reading, Nikola?" Nashel said with a grin. "I brought a few books from the Holy City—just some chivalric romance novels for light reading, but it's been a long time since you've read anything, hasn't it?"

His longing practically dripped from his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

"Deal! I'm in! I'm in!"

Nashel returned the glass to him. This time, Nikola didn't bother making a show of tasting it—he downed it in one gulp.

"Then it's settled." Aether made a shooing gesture.

Nashel opened the door and had the guard escort Nikola back to his cell, also telling the guard to move Nikola to more spacious quarters. The guard, not understanding why, muttered, "Why are we giving special treatment to a prisoner?" but didn't dare defy the Inquisitor's orders.

It's not like the guards were stuck at Cape Prison for life—when they got transferred back to the Holy City, who knew where they'd end up? Who knows, maybe even the Tribunal? It never hurt to get on an Inquisitor's good side.

Nashel closed the door and turned to look at his companion.

"Heh heh, for all his talk of kindred spirits, he still sold them out for gain. Friendship sure goes down the drain fast—I'm talking about their friendship, not ours."

Aether snorted: "If you've got time to give lectures on friendship, come help me go through these files!"

"Oh man, I'm so dizzy—gotta go sleep! For sure tomorrow!"

"...So much for our friendship?!"

***

Another bleak, hopeless morning. Lyman was roused by a guard at the crack of dawn (a new guard today, since Deputy Captain Edton had been promoted and no longer handled petty stuff like escorting prisoners), and he made his way to the prison cafeteria, bathed in the cold morning breeze.

Lyman took his wooden bowl, joined the long line, meekly accepted the thin soup and black bread, then found a spot in the corner of the yard and squatted down. He nibbled at the black bread and quietly slipped the rest into his pocket, planning to save it for Dandelion. Now that Sylen was feeding him, he'd turned his nose up at these "prison luxury meals."

The scholar sauntered over. He walked with a spring in his step, his face glowing—a world of difference from the listless prisoners around him.

"Lyman, come here!" He furtively waved Lyman over while keeping a watchful eye on the guards' movements. Once he saw the guards were all huddled together chatting, he relaxed and turned to Lyman.

"What's the good news?" Lyman asked.

"The guard just agreed to let Eric go to the infirmary regularly to get his bandages changed." The scholar was all smiles. "Captain Prew's dead, so he's finally in the clear."

"That's great."

"Let's go, let's go—off to the infirmary to see Eric." The scholar eagerly pulled Lyman along.

His enthusiasm was so over-the-top it felt fake—was he planning to use the trip to the infirmary as a chance to say something?

The two arrived at the infirmary. Eric was sitting on the bed by the window, waiting for the doctor to change his bandages. He was swathed in bandages from head to toe, like a mummy. Hearing the door open, he turned his head.

"Lyman! Nikola!" The boy's voice was hoarse but full of hope.

"We came to see you!" The scholar strode over to the bed in two or three steps. "You're looking much better!"

"I've actually been mostly healed for a while now. I'll be able to join labor soon and won't be a burden to you anymore..."

The scholar chatted with Eric for a while, then the boy suddenly spoke: "Nikola, could you step outside for a moment? I have something I want to say to Lyman alone."

"Oh! Then hurry up—we can't stay here too long!" The scholar said, getting up and leaving.

Only Eric and Lyman remained in the infirmary. The boy took a breath and whispered: "Captain Prew... he died in a hunting accident, is that true?"

"Yes, a bear killed him. Seems it was the mother of the cub he hunted last time." Lyman shrugged. "But it's a good thing—you never have to fear him again."

"...Did you do it?"

Lyman shot a sharp glance at the boy. Eric didn't dare meet his eyes and quickly lowered his head.

"I-I just have a feeling. Captain Prew was a skilled hunter—there's no way he'd die so easily. Someone must have been pulling strings behind the scenes. I thought about it, and I always felt... you must be a very capable person, but you don't want others to know. I've seen people like you before, around my uncle—he said they were lying low..."

Eric stammered for a long time, then raised his bandaged hand to wipe his eyes, letting out a sniffle.

"I'm sorry, Lyman. I said something stupid. If you don't want others to find out, then I definitely shouldn't have said it. Just pretend I was talking out of my ass..."

Lyman bent down and ruffled the boy's messy hair: "Of course I'm just an ordinary person. If I really had that much skill, would I still be stuck in prison?"

Eric broke into a smile through his tears: "R-right..."

"Once this whole mess blows over, I'll take you to see the stables—I've made quite a few animal friends there."

With that, Lyman walked toward the infirmary door.

"Lyman!" Eric called out behind him. "Thank you! Really, truly thank you!"

A faint, barely perceptible smile crossed Lyman's face as he pushed the door open.

The scholar was crouching in the herb garden outside the door, tormenting a plant. He stood up and gave Lyman a mysterious wink.

I knew it, Lyman thought. The scholar had asked him to come to the infirmary not just to visit the patient, but to find a private moment to say something.

The scholar deliberately spoke in a loud voice about Eric's situation, then gestured for Lyman to lean in and whispered: "I have something to tell you—don't tell anyone!"

"...Is it about that theory of cosmic motion?"

"Of course something like that should be shouted from the rooftops! Why would I keep it secret?" The scholar said oddly. "That's not what I'm talking about. Last night, the Inquisitor summoned me. Guess what they asked me to do?"

"Uh, criticize your heretical nonsense and burn your books?"

"No!" The scholar looked mysterious. "They asked me to spy on you!"

Lyman jolted, all drowsiness completely gone.

The scholar continued: "They promised me all sorts of benefits to be a spy by your side."

He recounted everything that had happened the night before in detail.

So the Inquisitors still hadn't dropped their suspicions of him. The fact that they'd resorted to having him watched meant they only had doubts, not solid evidence. At least the scholar had come to warn him.

Wait, why would the scholar be telling him this?

"You're just telling me all this?" Lyman found it hard to believe.

The scholar said, dead serious. "You're my soulmate! In this prison, you're the only one willing to listen to my theories. How could I ever sell you out!"

"Then why not just tell the Inquisitor to shove it?"

"Can't do that. They're paying way too much." The scholar gazed into the distance with a wistful look. "So I came up with a win-win: you give me a bit of intel every day, and I'll report it to the Inquisitor, then mooch off their rewards."

He flashed a thumbs-up. "Don't worry, I'll cut you in!"

Lyman flashed a thumbs-up too. "You're a genius, my man!"

"Alright, spill the beans!"

Lyman thought for a moment. "But we work together all day, and at night I crash the second I hit the pillow. I really got nothing to report. Can you just tell 'em 'nothing happened today'?"

"Then the Inquisitor will think I'm dead weight and can me! How about you just wing it?"

If the scholar got the boot, it wouldn't do Lyman any favors either. The Inquisitor would just swap him out for a new spy. And that new spy might not be so eager to tip him off.

Lyman furrowed his brow, racking his brain. The lie he cooked up couldn't be too boring, or the Inquisitor would figure he's useless, but it also couldn't be too wild, or it'd make the Inquisitor even more suspicious of him. B.S.ing was truly an art form.

The two returned to the square. The prison gates creaked open slowly, and with a blare of a horn, a group of guards came galloping out.

"They're heading back to the forest today," the scholar whispered. "Looks like they're hunting for something."

Lyman knew damn well what they were hunting for, and he also knew they'd never find the damn thing.

Breakfast was just about over. The prisoners got up one by one, clustering into their assigned groups, waiting for the guards to march them off to work.

Just then, a deputy captain of the guard strode into the square, sweeping the prisoners with a look of pure contempt, and barked, "Listen up, you cockroaches! His Honor the Inquisitor, sickened by your moral rot, has decided to personally scrub your filthy souls clean. Starting this week, Cape Prison is bringing back the weekly worship tradition. And you're all gonna be there!"

A murmur rippled across the square. Some grumbled "what a pain," while others looked thrilled, like the boss just announced a day off tomorrow.

"Shut it!" the guard barked. "We're going too! We're holding a memorial mass for Captain Prew that day! You rats, unless you're on your deathbed, no excuses!"

Lyman elbowed the scholar. "What's this worship thing?"

The scholar gave him a pitying look. "What rock have you been living under, you heathen? Never set foot in a church?"

"I—of course I know about weekly worship," Lyman said quickly, "but do we gotta do it in the joint too?"

"Prisoners are people too. 'Course we gotta have our religious life." The scholar's look grew even more pitying. "Only by going to worship regularly can we get closer to the great God of Dawn and wash our souls clean. Prisoners are here to reform under the God of Dawn's watch, not shipped off to hell."

Wait, prisoners here aren't living in a hell on earth? Well, ain't that something.

Lyman asked, "If worship's so important, why'd they stop doing it?"

The scholar patted his shoulder. "You're new, you wouldn't know. In the past, everyone attended worship weekly, and there was even a small chapel in the prison. But since the current Warden took office, that fine tradition was cut off. Because only senior members of the Holy Order with preaching credentials can conduct religious ceremonies, and the only one in all of Cape Prison with that qualification is the Warden. The current Warden's a bit lazy, so..."

"Did the guard just say the Inquisitor will personally lead the worship?"

"I guess the Senior Inquisitor also has preaching credentials. I'm not too sure—Eric knows more about church hierarchy."

He continued, "Recently, too much has happened in the prison. It's fitting to hold some ceremonies to calm people's hearts. Maybe it's because everyone wasn't devout enough that the gods punished Cape Prison." He quickly traced a sun symbol on his chest. "And interrupting worship was already against the rules. If word got to the Holy City and someone made an issue of it, the Warden's future would be tough. Restoring worship now at least salvages some of that."

The scholar lowered his voice, looking both mysterious and eager. "More importantly, worship day means rest! Of course, I'm not trying to slack off—I genuinely want to worship the great God of Dawn..."

"You?" Lyman eyed him suspiciously. "Aren't you scornful of the church's theories?"

"I'm only against the church's 'geocentric theory,' not denying the great God of Dawn. On the contrary, I want to spread His truth and root out falsehoods! If He knew what I've done, He'd surely send angels to welcome me into heaven!" The scholar's eyes blazed with fervor. "By the way, Lyman, I have a brilliant idea!"

Lyman's body tensed. The scholar's tone gave him an ominous feeling. Usually, when someone says "I have a brilliant idea," the idea is anything but.

"Uh, what do you want to do?"

"At this worship ceremony, I'm going to expose the church's theoretical errors on the spot! I'll announce my great discovery to everyone!"

That's a death wish, buddy! Can't wait to join the barbecue party at the stake? Lyman screamed internally.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he advised sincerely. "It'll definitely anger the Inquisitor. Then how will you spy for them?"

The scholar looked at him with a touched expression.

"I didn't expect you to care so much about me, Lyman, but my mind is made up. To spread the truth, any cost is acceptable!"

—Who cares about you! I care about myself!

Lyman wanted to persuade him further, but a guard walked over.

"Hey, you lot," he pointed at the scholar and a few other prisoners, "come with me to the chapel! It's been unused for a long time—it needs a thorough cleaning today!"

Lyman already had his stable work, so he wasn't pulled away for other duties.

The scholar gave Lyman a solemn look, then strode off with the guard with the bold steps of a martyr heading to his fate.

Lyman shook his head, thinking the Inquisitors would soon lose an incompetent spy. To keep the scholar alive, should he do something? Knock him out before the worship starts?

With a heavy heart, he limped toward the stable, deliberately appearing weaker than he actually was.

The stable hand spotted him and called out cheerfully, "Prisoner 1154, you're back to work already? You're a lucky one!"

The animals also greeted Lyman in unison.

"Welcome back, Lyman!"

"Apples! Apples! Ten apples!"

A black-and-white hound dashed out of the stable, circling Lyman's feet, its tail wagging like it had an electric motor. Lyman patted its neck and feigned surprise. "Oh, Fan Xing? You're back?"

The stable hand chuckled. "Found by the search team yesterday. Thank the God of Dawn—at least they're safe!"

"They've been through a lot. They need something good to eat to calm down." Lyman pointed at the barrel of apples. The horses' eyes lit up simultaneously, their front hooves pawing the ground excitedly.

"Ah, right, we should comfort the kids." The stable hand made a gesture of agreement.

Since Lyman was "still injured" and couldn't do heavy work, the stable hand had him feed the animals while he shoveled manure.

Lyman took apples from the barrel and handed them out one by one to the horses. Seeing the stable hand was far away, he quietly asked Fan Xing, "The search team didn't find anything unusual, did they?"

"They're busy looking for that dagger, so they shouldn't suspect anything else," Fan Xing said. "The ravens are leading them on a merry chase. They deliberately fly around with shiny things to mislead the guards, and when they get close, they drop droppings on their heads—they're thoroughly enjoying themselves."

Red Lightning stretched its neck and cut into their conversation. "The Lord of the Forest isn't too pleased, but let them be. Humans will soon give up and retreat—they always do."

Lyman nodded. This was about what he expected. The guards probably didn't expect to find the Blade of Revelation in a sea of trees anyway—they were just going through the motions to satisfy their superiors. With such a meager monthly wage, why risk their lives?

He fed the apples to the packhorses involved in the plan and added plenty of oats to the feed troughs.

Around noon, Lyman set down his work and got ready to head to lunch. Thanks to his sweet gig in the stables, he got one extra meal a day compared to the other inmates. Though it was still black bread hard as stone, it was a perk plenty of others could only dream of.

Just then, four prisoners strode toward the stables, looking menacing, kicking up dust behind them.

Lyman hadn't been at Cape Prison long enough to know all the heavy hitters, but he could tell just by looking: these four big dudes in barely any clothes were definitely bad news! With those creepy stares and sleazy grins... Could they be the legendary rare species of the prison ecosystem—the cellblock bullies?!

In an instant, Lyman's mind flashed back to scenes from American TV shows he'd watched in his past life: prison gangs staking out turf like warlords, Black inmates in one crew, Latinos in another, white supremacists in a third. If a new fish didn't quickly pick a side, they'd get bullied hard, or worse, end up as some gang boss's plaything...

Ah, so that was it—he'd shown up at Cape Prison without paying his respects to the local shot-callers. Were these four bruisers here to give him a "friendly lesson" in prison etiquette?

Lyman looked around; not a single guard was in sight. Most had been pulled for the search party, so only a handful were left on duty. The only guards were in the distant watchtowers, peering down, but they probably couldn't even hear a scream...

"Red Lightning, if anything goes down, you've got my back!" Lyman whispered to the chestnut steed. "Red Lightning, you hear me? Red Lightning?"

Red Lightning: "..."

The horse said nothing, just kept chomping on oats.

"Fan Xing? Fan Xing?" Lyman turned to the hound.

The dog was crouched by the water bucket, suddenly acting like water was the most fascinating thing in the world.

Before he knew it, the four bruisers had walked into the stables. The leader stood nearly two meters tall; Lyman had to tilt his head all the way back to see his face. Black tattoos ran from his forehead down his cheeks, and his bulging biceps were bigger than Lyman's head.

"You're Lyman Vichard?" the tattooed muscleman asked in a low voice.

Lyman stepped back, quietly gripping a pitchfork. As a weapon, it might not pack much punch, but it'd be plenty insulting—and it had bonus damage against demon hunters!

"That's me. What do you want?"

The tattooed muscleman exchanged glances with the other three, then said to Lyman, "You took down that frenzied horse earlier—pretty impressive! We saw the whole thing. You've got some guts."

Huh? Compliments first? Since when did prison bullies get so polite?

Got it—this was a classic setup: talk about something else first, then drop the real topic. Next, they'd make their twisted demands!

"Uh, thanks for the kind words, just lucky," Lyman said cautiously, shifting his stance to a better attacking position.

Another bald man grinned: "Luck is a kind of strength too! Look, Captain Prew died in the hunt, but you're still alive—that's some unbeatable luck!"

The other three nodded in agreement.

Lyman forced a laugh: "Not at all. They say those who swim well often drown; frequent hunters are more likely to die hunting..."

"Haha, I never thought you'd have such rare humility these days! I like that about you!"

Who wants to be liked by someone like you?! I'll change, okay?!

Then the tattooed muscleman said, "The four of us came today to make a 'deal' with you."

Here it comes! The backdoor deal was coming!

"That's not appropriate!" Lyman tightened his grip on the pitchfork, muscles tensed, ready to strike at any moment.

The tattooed muscleman said, "No one's more suitable than you here. We'll give you an offer you can't refuse."

Not the classic movie quote!!!

Lyman screamed internally, swinging his pitchfork, aiming straight for the tattooed muscleman's chest!

The tattooed man smirked: "Are you interested in escaping prison?"