Chains of Fate

Troubles with Pettiness

Damn, someone had tattled on him.

He hadn't been working at the prison long, yet he'd already drawn enough attention to have someone file a petty complaint behind his back. Ralph considered himself fairly smooth with others, diligent with his duties, and wasn't one to shy away from the unpleasant tasks. And still, someone couldn't resist trying to smear him. Just as Roderick Evans had once said, these people were nothing but conniving, rotten to the core. They were the kind who wouldn't bat an eye at cutting off a colleague's head if it suited them.

"Uncle Bartlett, you've known me since I was a child, and you know my character better than most. I won't deny I sometimes bring food for the prisoners, but let's be real—everyone does it here. But passing messages outside? Not a chance. From day one, I've remembered everything you taught me. I know better than to break the essential rules. I'd never be so ungrateful as to drag you down with me. This is clearly someone with a vendetta trying to come after you through me!"

Bartlett gave Ralph a long, scrutinizing look. This kid could talk his way through a brick wall, it seemed.

Bartlett remained silent, seemingly weighing Ralph's words for truth, or perhaps considering the implications of this complaint. He reflected on Ralph's behavior since he'd joined the prison staff: Ralph had even brought him a gift with his very first paycheck, he'd been out with the men for drinks, and was already familiar with the music halls. At his age, he was surprisingly thoughtful, genuinely well-meaning—almost naïvely so, compared to the scheming veterans around him.

Finally, Bartlett gave a slow nod. "I believe you're not one to plot from inside. But you were the only survivor from the night of the raid, and that alone has started some whispers. Someone is clearly out to get you. So, for now, lay low and don't try to stand out. If there's anything suspicious, come to me directly."

"Thank you, Uncle Bartlett. I'll remember your advice."

"Good. Keep your head down and do your job. If they insist on wronging you, they'll have to get through me first."

With that, Bartlett patted Ralph on the shoulder and left the mess hall.

Ralph, however, broke into a cold sweat—not because of Bartlett but because he'd suddenly realized that on the night of the Ghost Gate raid, every other guard in the post had died, leaving him as the only survivor. He'd become a target of suspicion, at least for some.

Though the higher-ups had decided to let the matter go, certain people at the prison were clearly unwilling to drop it. They seemed determined to stir up trouble, driven by nothing but malice.

Disgusted, Ralph sought out Blake to explain the situation. Blake furrowed his brow, then slapped his knee and cursed in his native dialect, "That must be Mann! That wretch!"

"Mann? But I never did anything to offend him."

"New kid, you don't know him yet. Mann might come across as carefree and generous, but he's the type who holds grudges and is tighter with his coin than he lets on. Remember that night you helped me win back my money? Mann lost everything down to his underwear. He's probably still sore over it. But he can't take it out on me—I'd kill him before he got close. But you're new, so you're an easy target. I'll have a word with him—he needs to know this isn't how things are done."

"You're sure it's him?"

"Who else?" Blake answered without hesitation.

Ralph was skeptical but let Blake confront Mann on his behalf. He found it hard to believe that Mann would be that petty.

Whatever Blake had said to him, Mann couldn't look Ralph in the eye the next time they met. His guilt was written all over his face.

Ralph: ...

So it really was Mann who tattled! All over a small grudge about helping Blake win back some money. Petty scoundrel. Ralph decided to remember this.

Roderick Evans had been taken away, tortured, and two days later, dragged back into the prison—a trail of blood marked his path. His body was torn and broken, every inch covered in bruises and gashes. The sight was ghastly.

Ralph snuck him a bowl of watery porridge to keep him alive a little longer.

Two days later, the verdict came in for Roderick's case.

He was sentenced to be beheaded, and his family would be exiled to the northwest.

That day, Ralph passed by Cell 60 on his patrol and asked, "How's it going?"

"Still breathing," Roderick answered, leaning against the wall for support.

He managed a grim smile, "Thank you for asking, Ralph."

Ralph didn't know what to say. He was just a guard, and Roderick a prisoner; any hint of concern would come across as hollow.

Clearing his throat, he instead asked, "Weren't you supposed to have someone pulling strings for you outside? You didn't look too worried before; I thought you had things covered. What's your plan now?"

"There is no plan for a man about to die," Roderick replied, shifting his battered body with a wince. "I just worry for my family. I don't know if they'll survive long enough to reach the northwest."

He looked at Ralph, his eyes pleading.

But Ralph averted his gaze and walked away.

He was just a lowly guard, barely able to protect himself. He had no strength left to help others. His relationship with Roderick was purely transactional; there was no bond between them, no debt owed.

After the "final meal," Roderick would be led out to be executed the next morning.

Perhaps out of desperation, or still clinging to a shred of hope, when Ralph passed by his cell again, Roderick dragged his mangled body to the door, his broken bones grinding painfully. He clutched the bars and said, "In the village of Willow Tree, twenty miles outside the city, under the osmanthus tree by the manor. Please ensure my family gets safely out of the city, and everything there will be yours. You wanted to learn advanced martial arts, didn't you? There's a hidden stash of techniques there, and plenty of silver too."

Ralph intended to walk away, pretending not to have heard.

But after two steps, he hesitated and turned back.

Crouching down, he looked Roderick in the eye.

Roderick grinned, a gory, toothless smile—most of his teeth had been removed, leaving his mouth an ominous, blood-blackened cavity.

"Why are you so certain your family won't make it out of the capital? What happened to the people you paid to help you on the outside?" Ralph asked.

Roderick let out a dry, bitter laugh, and grabbed Ralph's sleeve with a trembling hand. "Promise me," he croaked.

Ralph's brows furrowed as understanding dawned on him. He looked back at Roderick, eyes wide with sudden clarity and disbelief. "The ones supposed to help you... they're the ones who betrayed you."

"Just...promise me," Roderick begged once more, his voice weak, then added in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, "Under the osmanthus tree is a rare martial technique, something I came across by chance. I've never cracked its secret—it's said to have killed hundred of people. I'm not lying; I swear."

Ralph held his gaze, then stood up and walked away in silence.

Watching his retreating back, Roderick's face softened into a weary but relieved smile.