Jack felt the wounds in his stomach healing. Hallucinations from the poison… He knew healing wasn’t within the Viscount’s talents and the Gods never listen to nobodies like him. Accepting that his torment was almost at an end, Jack forced a weak, bloody smile through clenched teeth.

  Just a little longer and my pitiful life will be over. Despite his failure, Jack felt a weight lift from his weary soul at the thought of no longer enduring the torment of grief, of unfinished vengeance, of a wound that had never closed.

  He prayed to be reunited with his murdered family in the Asphodel Fields, the part of the Underworld where ordinary souls found rest. He could hope the Gods would grant him this small mercy.

  Greaves loosened the iron grip around Jack’s throat, allowing him to breathe. Jack’s head lolled to one side as he gulped air, easing the burn in his lungs. The Viscount leaned in, his voice calm but laced with menace. “Who sent you?” he asked in a soft voice. “Speak while you still can.”

  The noble was so close Jack could smell his breath. Urgh, garlic. The fat swine had eaten garlic at a brothel. But… no alcohol? The thought disturbed him more than it should. Confused, Jack frowned, he knew Greaves to be a heavy drinker, the man over indulged in everything.

  What does it matter? I’m dead. He forced a defiant smirk as blood dribbled from his lips. The thought was almost funny. He wanted to laugh, but instead, tears dripped down his cheeks. He had failed his family… again.

  It had been twenty long years since Greaves, then a Baron, had murdered them. Since Jack had crawled from the fire with half his face seared off and the rest of his life stolen. The Baron’s greasy ascent through the aristocracy had deepened Jack’s hatred.

  It wasn’t fair; it never had been. That fat face, those stupid jowls, and that wispy blond hair with a hint of grey would be the last thing he saw before the Gods, Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus judged his soul. The Viscount’s smug grin and ridiculous top hat, just like all the other pompous nobles wore, would be burned into his mind for all eternity as he wandered the Underworld a failure.

  He wanted to punch, kick, bite… anything to hurt the bastard who killed his family. He seethed with rage and vengeance. All he could do was hang there like a limp, pathetic failure, gasping for breath.

  Jack felt his anger rise. I fucking hate him! All he wanted now was to remember his family’s happy faces. But even those memories had faded, blurred by time and trauma. Life was cruel and indifferent to vengeance and grief.

  The pain still flared sharp whenever he thought of his family. Raw and gaping, like an open wound, untouched by time, and as fresh as it had been on the day of their murders. The smell of burning flesh was always there, seared deep in his nasal cavity, like a brand on his soul.

  The memories had turned into curses. Relived each night in his vivid nightmares and each day in his thoughts. Every joyful memory was tainted by fire, by screams, and corrupted by the orange glow of a home-turned-pyre. His mother and father… His younger sister… And his little brother, just old enough to start school, all blackened and charred.

  The ruthless Baron had slaughtered them all to protect a forbidden grimoire, one filled with blood magic spells. A book only Jack and his father had known about. The secret would’ve been safe with only their deaths, but Greaves had killed them all. If only we’d…

  His pitiful thoughts were disrupted by a fresh wave of agony tearing through him as the dagger slid back into his gut.

  “Who sent you?” Greaves asked with impatience. “Was it Viscount Daelrath?” the noble’s tone sharp with suspicion, “Or the scheming drow, perhaps?” he shook his head at his own question.

  Jack gritted his teeth at the pain. I won’t answer.

  There was genuine confusion from Greaves now. “You clearly know them. How else would scarred scum have one of their blades and wield it so badly?” Greaves’ voice was tinged with disdain.

  Jack remained silent.

  Greaves’ voice rose in fury, “Answer me!” The Viscount tightened the grip around Jack’s neck again, crushing his windpipe until it felt aflame.

  Jack choked, half-conscious, with his eyes rolling. The scent of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. A cruel reminder of his family… burning… screaming… No! Not that… no… The world narrowed into fire and grief, for a moment he was back in his burning home trying to save his family.

  He blacked out for a moment as the poison took its toll on his body and mind. His extremities were already numb, and the hallucinations were worsening. He could see faint tongues of flame flickering between the Viscount’s fingers like he was a Fire Mage playing with a low-level cantrip.

  As one final act of defiance, he spat blood at the man who had killed his family over a damned book. If only my blood was poisonous. It wasn’t, and most of his spittle splattered short, staining the hem of the Viscount’s elegant crimson waistcoat.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Filthy dog!” Greaves roared, driving the dagger into Jack’s belly half-a-dozen times with savage force.

  The pain was like burning coals in his gut, spreading fire through his insides. The poison dulled the agony, yet it was still overwhelming. He groaned but refused to speak, stubborn even in death. I won’t speak. I won’t…

  His silence enraged Greaves further. The Viscount’s face flushed an angry red as he slammed Jack’s head against the alley wall. “Who! Sent! You!” he spat, each word punctuated by another brutal blow.

  Stars danced across Jack’s vision. His body and mind were failing, his life drifting away. His thoughts blurred into a haze of garlic breath, dull pain, and the grotesque scent of well-cooked meat. It reminded him of roast venison, one of his mother’s best dishes.

  What colour were her eyes again? Jack’s mind was slipping away. Blue? No, those are my eyes. Confusion muddled his thoughts. Green…? Hazel? The memory twisted just beyond reach. He could still see his mom’s warm smile, gentle and constant, but the exact hue of her kind eyes eluded him.

  The loss stung more than any dagger. Mom… I’m so sorry, Mom. Then, for a fleeting moment, her face returned to him in perfect clarity, and with a choked breath, he croaked, “Green.”

  Greaves froze, the blade halted mid-twist. He eased his grip around Jack’s throat, confusion clouding his features.

  Jack’s body gulped a few precious breaths of air, clinging to the last shreds of life.

  “Green? Green who?” the Viscount demanded. “Who is Green?” He shook Jack like a broken rag doll as though that would shake the answers loose.

  Jack remained silent.

  “Why did he send you?” Greaves asked in a confused tone. “Is he part of Viscount Daelrath’s circle, or one of those damn greedy gnomes?”

  Jack didn’t hear him. In a haze of confusion, his thoughts had already drifted to his father. The stoic but kind parent who’d taught him how to ink a page, who beamed with pride at every scribbled flourish. He had been so proud when Jack advanced from Novice to Apprentice Scribe in just three years; most took five.

  He could see his dad seated at his desk in a crisp dark grey suit and bowler hat; his father had always been a figure of dignity. Would he be proud of me now?

  Since the fire, since the murder of his family, he’d made little progress as a scribe. Revenge had consumed him, and cheap ale had done the rest. His precious craft, relegated to a means to an end, earn coin to buy a drow blade and poison.

  No. He wouldn’t be proud, his heart sinking further. I’m not proud of myself. I could’ve been a Journeyman. Maybe an Expert Scribe, like Dad… But he’d thrown it all away for revenge… for vengeance.

  The thought of his father’s disappointment broke Jack’s heart further, adding to the weight of two decades of longing and regret. He was grateful, at least, that he hadn’t hallucinated his father’s disapproving gaze.

  As the poison dulled his pain, his mind wandered to his younger sister; mischievous, relentless, and hilarious. He’d missed her stupid antics, like the time she put itching powder in his underwear, knowing he had his first date with Jasmin that evening.

  I so miss beautiful Jasmin. A faint smile crossed his blood-soaked lips. He remembered the beautiful girl who would later become his fiancee for a few short happy months before tragedy struck and knocked them off their bright path. Before his entire world fell apart.

  In his delirium, he could see the twenty-year-old brunette standing before him like they were on their first date again. She was laughing at him while he scratched his groin as they tried to watch a play together. They were forced to leave due to Jasmin’s loud laughter and Jack’s lewd behaviour.

  “W-what was the play about?” Jack asked her aloud, her laughter echoing in his ears even as she vanished like smoke. At least she’d had a good life without me ruining it.

  After his family’s death, Jasmin had been left behind, believing Jack had perished in the fire. Last he checked, she was married with several children and living a good life. “That should have been my life,” he croaked while thinking about his ruined face and scarred body. A cruel reminder of all he had lost. No woman wanted him now.

  The hallucinations came thick and fast, as though he were flipping through a deck of tarot cards, memories of his family in their happiest days. His mother chopping herbs, his father tying fishing lines, his sister dancing barefoot in the courtyard, his little brother’s first words…

  “Mom… Dad… I miss you,” Jack murmured, as more fleeting images of his mother holding his new baby brother and his father gifting him a pocket watch on his first day working at the Royal Library.

  Memories of a good life flashed before his eyes. The sting of their loss was as raw as ever. He felt the regret of not spending more time with them when he could. The hurt cutting as deep as the pain from his wounds.

  The Viscount stabbed him again.

  Jack felt a twinge of pain, the poison protecting him from the worst of it now.

  “What are you prattling on about?” Greaves demanded, shaking Jack by the neck. The smell of burning flesh grew stronger. “Tell me who Green is, and I’ll end this now. Why do you suffer for those who sent you to your death?”

  Jack’s senses began to fade. He could no longer hear Greaves’ voice. His breathing turned shallow, laboured breaths gurgling and crackling in his throat. His eyes rolled back, revealing their whites, as he sank deeper into the poison-induced hallucinations.

  The Viscount paused his savage assault and mused, “Why is he dying so fast?” Shaking his head in confusion and disappointment as he recognised the death rattle, he muttered, “Why are peasants always so damn weak?”

  Jack felt no pain now. His thoughts drifted to his little brother, who, before the age of five, had declared, “I’m going to be the bestest and bravest knight ever and slay all the dragons.”

  His heart warmed at that memory; it had been one of the few good ones in a long time. “There are no dragons,” Jack teased, recalling the sight of his younger brother swinging the little wooden sword he’d played with in their family home’s courtyard.

  In the memory, his brother looked back at him, proud, fearless, and hopeful. “There are dragons in my books, Daddy reads. I’m gonna slay ‘em all! You’ll see… I’m the greatest hero ever. Mommy and Daddy says so.”

  The boy had struck a heroic pose, wooden sword in hand, ready to battle an ancient dragon.

  Jack managed a bloody smile at the hallucination of his brother as he imagined his body healing from the grievous wounds. “I’m sure you wi…”

  There was no more pain, hallucinations, or Viscount Greaves.

  He saw an ornate door covered in intricate runes.

  The door opened and there was a bright light.

  The last thing he heard was a female voice. “You’re not finished yet, Jack.”

  Jack was dead.

  Blood Mage Assassin where Jack began his journey as a level 49 Apprentice Scribe.

  Max-Level Paladin of the Fallen Gods.