Sheath gasped, still shaken. "Thank you, sir... for saving my life. But why did you?"
Kliner glanced over his shoulder, expression unreadable. "We need you. And you don't need to thank me."
Sheath blinked, confused. "Then... where are we going?"
Kliner didn't hesitate. "My home."
"What? You—" Sheath started, but Kliner cut him off sharply.
"Shut up. We'll talk later."
Silence fell between them, heavy with tension and questions left unspoken.
They landed outside a grand estate nestled among shadowed hills. The structure was unlike anything Sheath had seen—towering stone walls, polished glass windows, and a looming gate guarded by silent, armored sentinels. It looked more like a fortress than a home.
As they stepped onto the cobbled path, Sheath's eyes widened in disbelief. "Whoa… This is your house?"
Kliner gave a curt nod, his face unreadable.
Before Sheath could ask more, a man emerged from the doorway. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp, hawk-like face and an air of unquestionable authority. It was Armin.
"Well done, Kliner," Armin said, voice steady and cold. "I can always count on you."
Kliner merely nodded in response.
Then Armin turned to the guards flanking the entrance. "Cuff him."
Sheath blinked. "Wait—what?"
Before he could react, the guards seized his arms, locking thick metal restraints around his wrists.
"What are you doing?! Let me go!" Sheath shouted, struggling against their grip. "Why are you cuffing me?!"
Kliner placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, kid," he said quietly.
With no further explanation, the guards dragged Sheath inside. The lavish interior of the house felt like a cruel contrast to what was happening. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above his head. Ornate paintings lined the walls. And yet, Sheath was pulled through it all like a criminal, resistance futile.
They forced him into a cold stone room and strapped him to a chair in the center. His heart pounded in confusion and fear. "Let me go! What are you doing with me?!"
Armin stepped forward without a word and slammed a punch into Sheath's face.
Pain exploded across Sheath's cheek. Blood sprayed from his lip.
"Shut up, brat!" Armin snarled. "You don't have the right to speak!"
Another punch. Then another. The beating was relentless. Armin's fists crashed into Sheath's face, his ribs, his stomach. Blood ran freely from his nose. His vision blurred. Still, the assault didn't stop.
Then, with a guttural growl, Armin grabbed Sheath by the hair and yanked his head up. He delivered a brutal kick to Sheath's chest, cracking wood and bone alike. The chair splintered beneath him.
Sheath hit the floor with a cry of pain.
"You're weak!" Armin spat, driving his heel into Sheath's stomach. Sheath gasped, curling in on himself. Armin raised a dagger and held it to Sheath's eye.
"Do what I say," he hissed, "or I'll kill you."
Sheath's eyes, though swollen and bloodied, held defiance. "No," he rasped. Then with what little strength he had, he kicked out, landing a hit to Armin's leg.
Armin staggered back a step, more in surprise than pain. A snarl twisted his face.
"You won't listen unless I show you what real pain is," he growled.
He grabbed Sheath by the neck, lifting him effortlessly into the air. Sheath choked, feet dangling, air escaping his lungs. Then Armin hurled him across the room.
Sheath slammed into the wall and crumpled to the floor.
"How weak," Armin muttered, stalking forward.
He kicked Sheath's head with terrifying force, the impact bouncing his skull off the cold stone. Then he stomped down again, crushing Sheath's face against the floor.
Groaning, Sheath tried to lift himself, but Armin hoisted him up, turned him upside down, and drove a vicious kick into his face before hurling him to the ground again.
Still, Sheath looked up, blood staining his teeth, and said hoarsely, "I won't listen to you… No matter what you do to me!"
Armin's expression contorted into rage. "Is that so?" he barked.
He stomped on Sheath's back, pressing his heel harder and harder until Sheath screamed. But still, Sheath didn't give in.
Armin stepped back, then aimed another crushing kick at Sheath's legs. "I have to admit," he muttered, panting slightly, "you've got balls of steel."
He kicked again, this time with less fury and more frustration. Then, grabbing Sheath by the collar, he lifted him like a ragdoll and slammed his forehead into Sheath's, sending fresh waves of pain through them both.
At that moment, the door burst open.
"Kliner?" Armin growled, eyes narrowing.
Kliner stepped into the room, taking in the scene—the broken chair, the blood-smeared floor, the crumpled body of Sheath barely conscious.
"That's enough," Kliner said firmly.
Armin turned toward him, breathing heavily. "He won't talk. He needs to be broken."
Kliner walked forward, calm but stern. "You're going to kill him before you get anything out of him. I'll handle it from here."
Armin scoffed. "Kids don't listen to words, Kliner. You know that."
"And yet," Kliner said, kneeling beside Sheath and checking his pulse, "if you push too hard, you'll silence him forever. That's not the mission, is it?"
Armin frowned but didn't answer.
"He's tougher than he looks," Kliner continued. "You've made your point. Now let me make mine."
For a moment, the room was thick with unspoken tension. Then Armin exhaled sharply, his rage cooling just enough.
"Fine," he said. "He's yours for now. But if he still won't listen…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Armin turned and strode out of the room, leaving Kliner alone with the battered boy.
Kliner looked down at Sheath, whose bloodied eyes barely remained open. "Hang in there," he whispered. "You're not done yet."
Kliner sat beside Sheath, his expression calm despite the bruises and blood covering the young man's face. He spoke softly, his voice steady. "Armin is an arrogant fool, I won't argue that. But he's also dangerous—and believe it or not, he's been holding back. You're lucky he didn't do worse."
Sheath winced, barely able to sit up. Pain throbbed in every inch of his body, but it was the humiliation that hurt more. "For what he's done to me," Sheath muttered through clenched teeth, "I'll never listen to him. Ever."
Kliner nodded slowly. "I get it. You have every right to be angry. But right now, let's focus on getting you patched up. Come on—I'll take care of your wounds."
Reluctantly, Sheath gave a faint nod. "Fine."
Kliner helped him up gently and led him to a quiet room down the hall—his own quarters. It was warm and modest, a stark contrast to the brutality Sheath had just endured. He lowered Sheath onto a soft chair and began cleaning the blood from his face and arms, wrapping the deeper cuts with practiced hands.
"I don't think you should be walking anywhere," Kliner said after a few minutes, examining his back. "Your spine took a nasty hit. You need rest."
Sheath shook his head, stubborn as ever. "No thanks. I'm not lying down."
Kliner gave a faint smirk. "You sure about that?"
Before Sheath could answer, Kliner pulled a small syringe from his coat and, with a swift motion, injected it into Sheath's arm.
"What the—" Sheath began, but his voice trailed off as the sedative kicked in. His body went limp.
Kliner caught him before he could fall, gently lifting him and placing him on the bed. He adjusted the pillow beneath Sheath's head and pulled a blanket over him.
"I hope you get some real sleep this time," Kliner murmured, almost as if speaking to himself. Then he turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
As he stepped into the hallway, Armin was already waiting.
"What are you doing with him?" Armin asked, arms crossed, voice sharp with suspicion.
Kliner didn't break stride. "I put him to sleep. He needs it."
Armin raised an eyebrow. "Why the hell would you bother? Let him suffer. He's stubborn, and he's useless unless we break him."
Kliner met his gaze, unshaken. "That's exactly why we shouldn't rush. First, we take care of them. Show them a little mercy, even if it's fake. Let their guard down. Then we can manipulate them however we want."
Armin grunted. "You're playing a dangerous game."
Kliner gave a small smile. "So are you."
He turned away, disappearing into the dim corridor, leaving Armin alone with his doubts—and a quiet sense that Kliner's game might be more complicated than anyone realized.
Sheath stirred awake after three hours of deep, dreamless sleep. His body still ached faintly, but the overwhelming exhaustion had passed. As his vision cleared, he saw Kliner standing beside him, holding a steaming cup of tea. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of Kliner's lips.
"You said you didn't need sleep," Kliner said dryly. "Then you passed out like a sack of rocks. Anyway, here—drink this."
Sheath sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn't say anything at first. He simply took the cup and drank. The tea was warm and surprisingly calming, a strange contrast to the tension that still lingered in his chest.
After finishing the last sip, Sheath looked up. "What do we do now, Kliner?"
Kliner shrugged, walking over to the window and glancing out. "I don't know. We could go out back and kick a ball around or something."
Sheath blinked. "Football?"
"Sure. Why not?"
A grin crept across Sheath's face—his first in what felt like days. "Yes. Let's play."
The two of them headed to the backyard, where the sun had begun to dip toward the horizon, casting long golden shadows across the grass. For a while, they simply played. Kliner passed the ball lazily at first, then faster as Sheath's energy returned. They chased each other across the yard, laughing, tackling, and forgetting—for a few moments—the weight of everything else.
But eventually, the fun gave way to fatigue once more.
Sheath slowed to a stop, panting. "Can we stop now? I'm tired—and hungry."
Kliner wiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded. "Alright, let's go grab something to eat."
He led Sheath back into the house and into a warmly lit dining room, where a modest meal was already laid out on the table—bread, stew, and some roasted vegetables. As Sheath dug into the food, Kliner gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
"I'll be back in a minute," he said casually before stepping out of the room.
Once in the hallway, Kliner pulled out a small communicator and activated it. A soft beep echoed before a voice responded on the other end.
"Armin here."
Kliner spoke in a low voice, glancing back toward the dining room to make sure Sheath couldn't hear. "Hey, everything's going as planned. He's starting to trust me. It didn't take much. A little kindness, some tea, and a game of football."
There was a pause before Armin replied, his voice cold and distant. "Good. If he begins to listen to us, we'll have complete control. I want him loyal—obedient."
"He's not stupid, Armin," Kliner warned quietly. "We can't force anything. But if we keep this up, he'll come around."
Armin scoffed. "Whatever. Just keep playing the friendly card. I'll start acting like I care too. If all goes well, he'll be my mercenary before the week is out."
Kliner ended the call with a tap and slipped the communicator back into his pocket. He paused, took a deep breath, then returned to the dining room with a cheerful smile.
Sheath looked up mid-bite. "Everything okay?"
Kliner nodded. "Yep. All good."
Sheath gave him a brief nod and returned to his meal. He didn't notice the subtle shift in Kliner's expression—or the faint calculation behind his smile.