Year 1450, month 11, and day 20 of the Eonmark Reckoning.

  It has been ten days since I left—or more accurately, fled—the city of Velshara. I am currently inside an inn, but there is no peace to be found within these four walls. I can’t even rest, let alone close my eyes, because of the gathering commotion just outside my door. Normally, I would do my best to ignore other people’s business, but the reality of my situation has become unavoidable: this is about me. They know exactly who I am, and they are planning to capture me.

  This nightmare started ten days ago when I made the impulsive decision to kick that nobleman’s son in the face and kill his two lackeys. In my mind, it was entirely their fault, but in this world, the distinction between a nobleman and a commoner is absolute. A noble is always right, and a commoner like me is a fugitive the moment he resists.

  The first day of my flight wasn't too difficult. I still had some provisions left from Velshara and managed to find a secluded cave to rest in. But my supplies were dangerously low. On the second day, I rationed myself to a single meal. By the morning of the third day, I had consumed my last scrap of food for breakfast. Hunger forced me out of the shadows. I managed to find an exit from the forest at noon and reached a small village by evening. I rested there briefly, but as the sun rose the next morning, I saw the posters. Bounty flyers with my likeness were being distributed through the streets.

  The city lord had clearly decided to put significant effort into my capture. I didn't know how far they would go or how many towns they would reach, but I knew I had to stay away from that village. Since then, I’ve moved through several towns and villages, and each time, I found the same cold reception. Even though I had plenty of gold and silver in my inventory, accessing basic provisions became an ordeal. It was hard to find a safe place to lay my head. In every inn, I would catch people giving me evasive, suspicious glances, forcing me to leave before I was recognized. In taverns, I often had to abandon my meal half-finished because the atmosphere would suddenly turn hostile.

  Currently, I am in a village situated to the north of Velshara. My plan was to reach the outer range of the city's influence, hoping to find a place where the Lord's reach was thinner. I hadn't seen any bounty posters here, and for the first few hours, I didn't notice any unusual glances. Weary and bone-tired from ten days of running, I made the mistake of deciding to stay the night. It turned out to be the biggest mistake I’ve made since this whole ordeal began. Now, I have to find a way out before the circle closes.

  If I try to leave the inn through the front door, I will walk straight into their hands. I’m currently on the second floor, which would be a difficult escape for a normal person, but my circumstances are different. I have higher base stats and the cumulative bonuses from multiple jobs. I opened the window slowly, the wood groaning slightly in the quiet air, and peered outside. I could see a few figures gathered further down the street, but the area directly beneath my window looked tranquil.

  I accessed my system and reallocated the points I had previously put into my experience skills. I boosted my physical stats to a base of 10. When combined with my job bonuses, my physical power reached a level that made the height of the second story seem trivial. I climbed out as sneakily as possible, my fingers gripping the stone ledge, and lowered myself down. I landed softly in the dirt. Dawn was still minutes away, and the world was bathed in that heavy, pre-dawn grey. I had to move while the shadows were still on my side.

  I crouched low, trying to make as little noise as possible to avoid alerting the crowd gathered near the front of the inn. Once I was a safe distance from the building, I began to pick up speed. But the moment I thought I was clear, a shout went up behind me. They had realized I was gone.

  The commotion behind me grew louder, and as I increased my pace, I realized my movement was drawing eyes from all directions.

  What is this? Are all the villagers of this village after me?

  The realization was sickening. It wasn't just a few guards; it felt like a coordinated witch hunt. Every time I tried to change direction to slip into an alley or behind a house, I found another group of villagers waiting for me. They weren't soldiers, and on their own, they weren't much of a threat, but their numbers allowed them to keep me pinned in a shrinking perimeter. I decided I couldn't afford to be delicate anymore. I had to break through.

  I charged the first group in front of me—three men brandishing pitchforks and clubs. My stats were now significantly higher than they had been during the bandit ambush on the mountain road. These men were amateurs; most of them were likely swinging a weapon for the first time in their lives. I butchered them in a matter of seconds. I felt a momentary pang of guilt as I cut down men who weren't meant for battle, but I pushed it aside. They were hunting me for coin. There was no turning back.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I thought the path was clear, but as I moved past the fallen men, two more appeared. They were easier to dispatch, but the delay allowed other groups to close the distance. Not wanting to be surrounded, I dashed toward the closest group, aiming to finish them before the others could arrive. I defeated several small groups this way. Normally, a mob would be harder to manage, but the sight of their neighbors dying in front of them filled their hearts with a terror they had never known.

  Then, the main group from the inn arrived. About ten men, with more running to join them from the outskirts. I was now half-surrounded, my back against a stone wall. The first light of dawn was beginning to bleed into the sky, illuminating the expressions on their faces. The newcomers looked shocked to see nearly ten of their fellow villagers lying in the dirt, covered in blood. The ones who had been trying to hold me back were trembling; they looked like they were on the verge of deserting. However, the arrival of the larger group seemed to bolster their morale just enough to keep them from fleeing.

  For me, the situation was becoming desperate. There were simply too many of them. I looked for a weak point, but every group was positioned to intercept me if I tried to move. They believed I was trapped, and that confidence was making them bolder. Realizing that words and intimidation had failed, my feelings started to grow dull. A cold, mechanical clarity took over. I locked my eyes on the weakest-looking group and prepared to charge with everything I had. It was either them or me. I decided I would take as many of these bastards as I could before they brought me down.

  What happened next is a blur of shouting and screaming. It was a massacre. They fought back desperately at first, their numbers allowing them to land several shallow hits. With every injury I received, their hope of winning grew, and they began to cheer. But with every member of their group that fell, that hope was tempered by a rising tide of fright. At some point, the smarter ones began to run. But the final blow to their resolve was my healing skill.

  I could hear them shouting to rally each other, their voices high and frantic in the morning air.

  “He is already injured!” “We just have to push a bit more!” “The bounty is more than the sum of everyone’s one-year earnings!” “He is exhausted! He will die if we hit him one or two more times!”

  Some of them were shouting in a language I didn't recognize, their words lost on me, but their intent was clear.

  “He can’t heal himself anyway—”

  The moment the words left their lips, I used my healing skill. The golden light flared, closing my wounds in an instant. Since their morale was hanging by a single thread, the sight of me standing there, fully restored, was the breaking point. The mob disintegrated. They turned and fled in every direction, tripping over themselves to get away from the "monster."

  But I was already in a frenzy. I didn't stop. I chased them through the streets and into the fields, killing as many as I could catch.

  “P-please, don’t kill me!”

  “I will do e-everything, j-just forgive me!”

  “No... I don’t want to die!”

  They cried and begged, their faces twisted with the same terror I had seen on the bandits' faces, but this felt different.

  “P-please, I had to do this!”

  “It was the l-lord’s order!”

  “I have a l-little child, please don’t kill me!”

  Some tried to offer excuses, others tried to bargain.

  “I h-have some money I saved, I will give you t-that if you—”

  “I-I have a young daughter. I-I will give her to you. You can make her e-even your s-slave—”

  I killed them all. It wasn't that I rejected their pleas; I simply didn't hear them. I was moving in a trance, unaware of the weight of my own actions. By the time I stopped, at least half of them had managed to escape into the woods or into their homes, but the ground around me was littered with corpses.

  This was a village, and as the sun finally rose over the horizon, the sounds of the battle were replaced by something far worse. I could hear women and children crying from inside the houses. Some were mourning the men I had just killed; others were simply paralyzed with fear. I stood in the center of the road, the silence of the morning feeling like a physical weight.

  “Huh, man. What a shitty situation,” I said, tilting my head back to look at the sky.

  My whole body was covered in blood—some of it mine, but most of it belonged to the people of this village. Looking back at what I had done, the realization was unavoidable: I was the bad guy here. I didn't regret killing those who had attacked me first, but what I did after they started to run was unforgivable. They were not soldiers, and I had hunted them down and killed them in front of their families.

  In their eyes, I wasn't a traveler or a swordsman. I was a demon. That realization filled me with a heavy, cold sensation—a mixture of guilt and a strange, hollow resignation. I don't know the name for it, but I know that I am responsible for every life that ended on this road today.

  [Editted]