“Now tell me, Sir.Rodrik, why the branch director of the inquisition, me, if I must remind you two nut-brains, must waste his precious time documenting random rabble,” he said, his head tilted behind him.

The guard stood flustered, lost at what his response should be. “I-I’m not sure, Inquisitor, sir.”

“Hypothesize.”

“W-wh-”

“Synthesize a contemplation via the extrapolation of present conceivable prospects,” the inquisitor said, sneering.

“Uh-”

“Guess.”

“W-”

“Idiots--we're looking for someone, obviously. They'll be using a high tier Disguise skill, and you need me to break through it. Next meatbag!”

Even though forty years had passed from a time where consciousness was not even fully his, Nilbog would never forget the man who ruined his life. He was the same, with little difference beyond the hair which now grew to shoulder length. The demeaning manner in which he treated others remained the same, and might have been exasperated since Nilbog had laid his eyes on him.

He needed to get closer. He had no weapon, but a single punch. He can do that. Anything to see that offensive face surprised, or even better, humiliated to be struck by a worthless level 20.

“Move up, one by one,” the guard at the side said. The scribe next to the Inquisitor sunk the tip of his feather into the ink, searching the documents upon the table from under heavy glasses.

The Inquisitor, for the first time, glanced at them. They were lined in front of him, with their hands behind their backs. “First one is Warrior. Mediocre. Level 29. First to die, probably, not only because you're weak, but because you happen to serve no novel purpose. Second is a fat Rogue. Level 26. Nasty disease The only reason he hasn’t fucked his daughter is because she’s uglier than him. Third is fine, throw him wherever. Level 38. Fourth...this is a child? Oh, I see how it is. How Unfortunate it is to be you.”

Inquisitive Eyes Resisted.

“Ah, high level for a kid. 20. You don't look bright, so I'm sure you've killed a lot of things. You might be something if you don't die."

Two punches--that's all Nilbog could throw before he would be crushed. The Inquisitor stood a few feet from Nilbog, his chin in clear view. His hands were behind his back.

It was the perfect opportunity. All Nilbog had to do was do it.

It was all he had to do.

"Now, finally for the fifth--something not completely atrocious. We have a rare class over here. Tacticalonics. A rough, leading class. Level 46. Brand and bring in the next group.”

The four men and Nilbog were all nudged forward. The scribe had been writing non-stop.

Alongside the three guards, they moved in a tight line to the next building.

He couldn't do it. His arms wouldn't move. It wasn't fear--it was just emptiness. A fathomless pit grew in his heart with each step he took from the one chance he had to take revenge, and it was gone.

Numbly, Nilbog followed along. They were still in the Second District, but were in a more desolate area where the military force generally resided. All the buildings were squarish in size, made of bricks, and reached a towering five floors size. There were armories, smitheries, tanneries, libraries, herbalists, showers, hospitals, and anything else a soldier needed.

They moved at a slower pace through the hard dirt. Becoming branded was not a painless process. They could hear the cries of the prisoners in front of them, and once they entered the building, could smell the stench of burned flesh.

Five other prisoners were attached to slabs with a leather strap, as the doctor held a device much similar to a poker to the prisoner's faces. The device had a bronze handle with a glowing red rectangle on the end.

It was a Blood Crystal, and was considered one of the most useful crystals. Out of all other known Crystals, Blood Crystals were the only ones known to have a natural affinity with organic material. It could be crushed and siphoned to boost healing, but could be used for other treacherous purposes.

One by one, each with their own sizzle and unique scream, a number in a glowing red was embedded into their cheeks. The doctor called out their numbers as she finished with each of them. The red crystal changed number by command.

The men were then hauled to their feet and dragged off by their guards. The doctor, a middle-aged woman, turned to face the new batch. Dressed in black, hunched, and with dark eyes under her half opened eyes, the doctor seemed worse off than the prisoners. "Pick a seat," she began, her voice hoarse. "Pick any seat, my dears. Get saddled and comfy, class is in session" she said, laughing. Her voice was dull and lifeless.

Once the prisoners laid their backs on the tables, the doctor dipped the device in one of the cauldrons lined up alongside the long wall. More fumes filled the room as the remains of the crystal fell off from the device. She then fetched one of the crystals from a bin next to it.

They fit into the palms of her hand. She turned around, showing it to them. “Other than being used for healing, Blood Crystals have a couple of useful uses. Each one has a core. But for these ones," she said, tossing it up and down, "The core is gone."

"But as some of you know, once you break the core of a Blood Crystal, the energy held within each tiny molecule is released, causing the crystal to shatter. Now, imagine this: what would happen if we found a way to remove the core, but without cutting one of its nerves, which will signal its self-destruction? ” she said, as she tossed the crystal into a different cauldron. Under the boiling, blackish liquid, the crystal melted.

“In the right, certified hands, the breaking of the core could signal a frequency that could travel hundreds of miles away. Now, what would happen if the out layer of the crystal,” she said, as she dipped the device into the reddish, molten-like liquid, “Was in a person’s veins? What would happen if someone breaks the core?” She asked, the wrinkles on her face raised in a smile. When her question was met with solemn silence, the doctor frowned. “That’s not good, class. You need to speak up to earn participation credit,” she said, and then brought the device out. Under her gaze, the molten liquid moved and stuck to the rectangular metal end.

The doctor was just not right in the head--but then again, but what doctor was ever right in the head? The way she moved and spoke was morbid.

“It will hurt. The Blood Crystal will boost your regeneration, for a decent bit. About 300-500%, depending on your affinity. It is a Blood Crystal, after all. Take this as a slightly more practical way of swallowing an expensive healing potion."

The guards prodded the prisoners to lay on their backs, and then locked their limbs and heads in with the strap. One by one, as the next batch arrived, the doctor tightly pressed the device to the prisoner's cheeks, calling out the numbers over their screams.

Nilbog fidgeted. The stench of burnt flesh was growing, and it was making his stomach curl. His cheeks itched, conscious of what is going to happen. Pain was the friend of the poor but being branded would be a first.

It was an appropriate punishment, a part of him thought. That's what you get. That's how cowards live.

“663. 664. 665. oh my, a lucky number for you! 666, you have a special future ahead of you. Now, for 667. O’ Guards, can you come over here? You see this child, with his thin limbs and all? Yes, you’ll need to hold him down. The straps won't reach. Tightly."

His arms shook as the guard's hands wrapped around his, pushing it against the stone plates. As the doctor neared, he could smell the warm breeze coming out of the poker. "Happy thoughts," she said as she pressed the metal against his cheeks.

He screamed. It was only his cheeks being burnt but his entire body convulsed as the pain clouded his mind. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He wasn't even sure if he was screaming, or if it was a silent cry.

He might have fainted, he wasn't sure, but the next time he could hear anything but his own squealing, it was the doctor's voice.

"Pick any seat, my dears. Get saddled and comfy, class is in session" she said, laughing in the same, odd rhythm.