Splinter - Point Zero

Part 6

There was no point in hiding anymore. My traitorous shoe squeaked so loudly that in the ensuing silence, the sound felt like a cannon shot.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my pounding heart, pushed the slightly open door, and stepped from the dark corridor into the brightly lit hall.

I was dripping. Dirty water from the roofs mixed with street sludge dripped from my rags, forming a dark puddle on the perfectly polished parquet. I stood hunched over, hugging my shoulders with my thin arms, and tried to look as pathetic as possible. However, with my current dimensions and appearance, I didn't have to act—I was already a perfect illustration of the word "wretchedness."

The man in the center of the hall lowered his training rapier, resting its tip on the floor, and crossed his arms over his broad chest. Up close, he looked even larger. Broad shoulders, a thick neck, knotty forearms covered in old, faded scars. His face was rough, as if carved from stone, with a heavy chin and deep wrinkles around his eyes.

But that wasn't what was scary. What was scary was his gaze. There was no anger or irritation in it. Only the cold, calculating interest of a predator studying a mouse that accidentally wandered into its lair, deciding whether to eat it or just crush it.

«Warning. Target's pulse: steady. Breathing: calm. Muscle tone: combat-ready. I recommend fainting, User. It is physiologically justified and might elicit pity. Or at least disgust, which will also increase our chances of survival.»

Thanks, Eva, I'll manage, I snapped mentally, trying to look the man straight in the eyes.

"I'm not a robber, sir," I said hoarsely. My voice traitorously trembled. "I don't even have pockets to carry anything out in."

The man chuckled. The sound was thick and rumbling.

"That's true. You look more like a walking skeleton that they forgot to bury in the plague cemetery. What are you doing here, boy? And how did you get past the lock on the back door?"

"The lock was open," I answered honestly. "And I came in... to hide. From the rain. And from the guards."

The man's eyebrows slowly crept up.

"From the guards? Well, well. Has a new criminal genius appeared in the Lower City? Stole a pie from a peddler?"

"Knocked over a vat of sauerkraut onto a thug with a knife," I corrected, not looking away. "The merchant got offended, called the guards. Had to climb the roofs."

I didn't understand myself why I was speaking so frankly with him. It was probably my adult intuition working: this guy could smell a lie a mile away. Lying to him meant signing my own death warrant. Besides, when he mentioned the guards, a subtle note of contempt slipped into his tone. He clearly didn't favor the local cops.

The man looked at me carefully. His gaze slid over my face, lingered on the bloody knuckles of my right hand (the aftermath of hitting Rusty in the Adam's apple), and went down to my dirty feet.

"On the roofs, you say," he drawled thoughtfully. "In this downpour. With your build."

Suddenly, with an imperceptible movement, his right hand slid to a weapon rack standing nearby. He grabbed a heavy wooden dagger used for training and, without winding up, threw it right at my face with a sharp flick of his wrist.

«THREAT! Calculating trajectory! Vector highlighted! Evasion is not recommended—there is a wall behind you. Catch it!»

Time seemed to slow down. I saw the wooden handle tumbling in the air. A dashed red line flashed before my eyes, showing the projectile's path. My emaciated body moved as if through jelly, but Intelligence '10' and the acquired '5' in Agility did their job.

My hand shot up. My fingers closed on the ribbed wooden handle an inch from my nose. The impact was so strong that my wrist painfully twisted, and the recoil knocked me a step back. My shoulder blades hit the doorframe, but I didn't drop the dagger.

Breathing heavily, I lowered the weapon, feeling my palms burn.

Absolute silence hung in the hall. All you could hear was water dripping from my rags onto the parquet.

«Reflexes: acceptable. Wrist damage: minimal. User, you surprise me. I was already preparing a protocol for stopping a nosebleed.»

The man slowly lowered his hand. Genuine interest flashed in his eyes.

"You're full of surprises, skeleton," he said quietly. "Nine out of ten street rats in your place would have squeezed their eyes shut and taken a piece of wood to the teeth. The tenth would have tried to jump away and broken his neck slipping on the wet floor. But you caught the blade. Weak grip, absolutely no stance, but instincts... good instincts."

He walked up to me at a leisurely pace. I instinctively pressed into the doorframe but didn't lower the dagger.

"Relax, kid. If I wanted to kill you, I would have thrown steel." He held out his hand, palm up. "Give it back. That toy costs more than all your clothes and you put together."

I obediently placed the wooden dagger into his palm.

"What's your name?" he asked, examining me up close. He smelled of expensive tobacco, sweat, and gun oil.

"Splinter," I answered, deciding to stick to the local legend. I didn't know my real name, other than the fragment 'Denis', and it was unlikely to sound appropriate here.

"Splinter," he chuckled. "Well, it fits your looks. I'm Emile Renard. This is my fencing hall. Here I teach noblemen's sons and rich merchants which end to hold a rapier by so they don't stab themselves."

I nodded to show I understood. Emile Renard. The name sounded almost French, which perfectly fit the aesthetic of this strange world stuck in the gallant age.

"You dirtied my parquet, Splinter," Emile noted, nodding at the puddle by my feet.

"I apologize, Mr. Renard. If you have a rag, I'll wipe it up. And then I'll leave."

I took a step toward the dark corridor. I didn't want to go back out onto the street at all. It was cold, raining, with guards and thugs. It was warm and dry here. But imposing on a dangerous man who throws wooden knives was even stupider.

"Halt," Emile commanded, quietly but weightily.

I froze.

"Going out on the street looking like that means dying before morning," the old master stated calmly. "And I actually like you a bit. You don't whine, and you look me straight in the eye. Plus, you have reaction time."

He turned his back to me and walked to the center of the hall, tossing the dagger I had caught onto the weapon rack along the way.

"My previous cleaner turned out to be rare scum. A month ago, he tried to steal the silver guard from a dress rapier. I had to break a couple of his fingers and throw him down the stairs. I've been cleaning the hall myself since then, and it's exhausting, you know. Nobles sweat like pigs, leave a mess behind, and the equipment is heavy."

He turned around and looked at me.

"I need a person. To mop soapy water on the floor, polish the parquet with wax, drag training dummies around, clean rust off blades. The work is dirty and hard. I won't give you money. But you'll get a roof over your head in the back room, an old blanket, and two meals a day. What do you say, Splinter?"

I almost choked with relief. This wasn't even a chance. It was a jackpot. A real, fat jackpot in the survival lottery at the very bottom of this world.

«Offer analysis: the deal is extremely favorable. Heavy physical labor in stable conditions contributes to the steady growth of the 'Strength' and 'Endurance' stats. Having a roof removes the risk of hypothermia. I recommend accepting before he changes his mind and decides to turn us over to the guards anyway.»

"I accept, Mr. Renard," I blurted out, trying not to make my voice sound too joyful. "I know how to work. Don't mind that I'm skinny. I'm resilient."

Emile chuckled, casting a glance over my figure, which looked more like an anatomical guide to starvation.

"Resilient, sure. A breeze could blow you over. Alright, we'll see. Wait here. And don't you dare touch anything. The blades are oiled; if you leave your dirty paw prints on them, I'll whip you with them."

He disappeared behind a door at the far end of the hall.

I stayed standing in place, afraid to move. The warmth of the room slowly began to seep through my wet clothes, and I started shivering violently. The adrenaline crash was washing over me completely.

Ding! Hidden quest completed: "Find a safe haven". 20 experience points gained. Current level: 0 (Exp: 35/100)

I smiled weakly. The System was working. Step by step, I was establishing myself in this reality.

Five minutes later, Emile returned. In one hand he held a stack of some coarse cloth, and in the other—a deep clay bowl, from which thick, intoxicating steam rose.

My stomach let out such a loud growl that the old master stopped and smirked.

"The beast inside you demands sacrifices, Splinter. Here."

He handed me the bowl and a wooden spoon.

I grabbed the dish with both hands. It was stew. A real, thick, hot stew made with meat broth! Large chunks of boiled turnip, carrots, pearl barley, and—oh gods!—actual strands of meat floated in it. Fat amber circles floated on top.

"Eat slowly," Emile warned, tossing the rags onto a nearby bench. "With your starvation, if you wolf it all down at once, you'll throw it right back up."

He didn't need to say that. I remembered the rules of refeeding from my past life, and EVA didn't hesitate to chime in either.

«Warning! High-quality animal protein, complex carbohydrates, and fats detected. Nutritional value: excellent. Consumption mode: strictly dosed. If you swallow this like a duck, I will personally disable your pain filters during stomach cramps.»

I scooped up the first spoonful, blew on it, and carefully put it in my mouth.

The taste was incredible. The hot, rich broth warmed my throat, went down my esophagus, and settled in my stomach with a heavy, pleasant warmth. I closed my eyes, barely holding back tears. At that moment, I realized how close to the edge I had been. This day had exhausted me so much that without this food and warmth, I simply wouldn't have woken up tomorrow.

I ate slowly, savoring every drop, every piece of soft turnip, and strand of tough but oh-so-tasty beef. Emile watched me in silence, sitting on the bench and lighting a long clay pipe. Aromatic tobacco smoke drifted to the ceiling.

"An orphan, then?" he finally asked, blowing a smoke ring.

"Something like that," I replied after chewing. "I don't remember much about my childhood, sir. Woke up on the street a couple of days ago. Head was busted. Who I am, where I'm from—I don't know. All I remember is that everyone here calls me Splinter."

It was the best cover story I could come up with on the fly. A half-truth always sounds more convincing. Amnesia explained my ignorance of local realities and odd behavior, and the busted head (which really did hurt) was a great excuse.

Emile frowned.

"Amnesia? It happens. Street gangs often c***k skulls for a couple of coppers. You're lucky you didn't end up a half-wit. Alright. I don't care about the past. I care about how clean you mop this parquet tomorrow morning."

I finished the stew, scraped the bottom of the bowl clean with the spoon, and looked gratefully at the master.

"Thank you. I'll work it off."

Ding! Status [Extreme Exhaustion] changed to [Exhaustion]. Debuff to physical attributes reduced from -50% to -25%.

A pleasant weakness spread through my body. Muscles that had been taut as strings relaxed. My eyes began to close on their own.

"Good," Emile stood up, took the empty bowl from me. Pointed with the mouthpiece of his pipe at the stack of cloth he had brought earlier. "That's an old shirt, trousers, and a sheep's wool blanket. The clothes will be too big for you, but at least they're dry and clean. We'll burn your rags so as not to breed widow ticks in my hall."

He pointed to an inconspicuous door under the wooden stairs leading to the second floor.

"Your closet is over there. It's a former equipment storage. Not much space, but I tossed a straw mattress in there. Sleep. I'll get you up at dawn. And remember, Splinter: if I catch you stealing..."

"You'll break my fingers and throw me down the stairs, I remember," I finished tiredly but seriously. "Don't worry. I'm not a thief."

Renard snorted, as if acknowledging the truth in my words.

"Good night, Mr. Parquet Mopper."

He turned around and, with heavy, measured steps, walked to the stairs to the second floor, where his own quarters apparently were.

I grabbed the clean clothes and blanket, which smelled of lavender and dry wood, and trudged to the closet under the stairs.

Inside, it was indeed cramped. Just enough space to lay down the mattress stuffed with fresh straw and put a bucket next to it (obviously serving as a chamber pot). But to me, after sleeping in a puddle in the rain, this place looked more luxurious than a presidential suite in a five-star hotel.

I closed the door behind me, finding myself in total darkness. My fingers automatically found the ties on my dirty, wet rags. I pulled them off, shivering from the cool air. I took off the wet pants and oversized shoes, tossing them into the corner in disgust.

My skin burned from the street dirt, but I didn't have water to wash right now. I'd have to endure it until tomorrow.

I pulled on Emile's shirt. It was huge—the hem reached almost to my knees, and I had to roll up the sleeves three times. But the fabric was soft linen and dry. I didn't even bother putting on the pants; I just wrapped myself in the scratchy wool blanket like a cocoon and collapsed onto the straw mattress.

My body hummed with exhaustion.

Eva... I called out, feeling my consciousness drift into darkness. How did we do?

«For your first day in a new body—phenomenally, User. You didn't die of starvation, weren't stabbed, weren't shot by the guards, and didn't fall off a roof and c***k your head. You found a food source, a safe base, and unlocked two skills. If I had hands, I would applaud. Now power down. Your nervous system requires a reboot. I am entering standby mode and will monitor your temperature.»

Thanks, Eva, I muttered mentally.

I lay in the darkness, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. I didn't know my past. I had no idea what kind of cross of five moles was hiding on my right shoulder (which I had now safely hidden under the shirt fabric, not even remembering it). I was at the very bottom of an alien, cruel world.

But now I had a plan, I had a System, and I had a roof over my head.

Splinter closed his eyes and instantly fell into a deep, peaceful, dreamless sleep. Tomorrow, a new life would begin. The life of a floor polisher with prospects.