How much pain can a human endure?

  Scientists’ claims are unreliable—their so-called “human limits” are constantly shattered by new records, leaving them embarrassed. They once classified pain into twelve main levels and one special grade: Level 12 ranged from a mosquito bite to brutal torture, with childbirth rated as Level 9. There was also a mythical Level 13, for those with heightened sensitivity who perceived even Level 12 pain as excruciatingly worse.

  But was this accurate?

  Another scientist argued that the pain of a blow to the male groin was several times that of childbirth—repeated strikes could even kill. By the Light God, at least childbirth didn’t end in death.

  The young thief didn’t know his pain threshold, but in this moment, he felt it had been shattered. Hutt’s gang members were merciless: after dragging him into the room, they’d strung him up by hooks through his collarbones, whipped him with an iron-thorn lash, forced him to eat excrement, carved flesh from his body, and shoved a splintered wooden rod into his rectum—all for a rumored million-gold manor deed.

  Reason meant nothing to these men; profit was their religion.

  When a brute slammed a fist into his groin, he passed out—only to be burned awake with a branding iron. That’s when he made a “wise” choice: lie.

  Intelligent beings are fundamentally self-serving; every decision, honed by intelligence, serves their own interests—unless cornered.

  The false confession spread rapidly. A gang with no concept of secrecy couldn’t suddenly develop discipline; their leaky organization ensured the news flowed through Alma’s girls and tavern whispers, spreading across the city in hours.

  The other thieves involved went into hiding. As locals and hated figures, they had “three dens” like crafty rabbits, not easily found.

  Pramisburg was a cold, indifferent city, but these days, it buzzed with fever. Everyone knew Baron Arno’s carriage had been stolen, along with a “million-gold deed.” Amid Hutt and the magnates’ rage, every capable hand was dispatched to hunt the “conspirators” who’d supposedly hoarded the deed.

  “Wheat” was a crop, a common food—and a person’s name.

  Among commoners, surnames were a noble privilege, so children received simple, distinctive names. Pramisburg had two “Wheats”: a dying sixty-year-old and a nineteen-year-old thief.

  The young Wheat hid in a cellar beneath a ruined house near the city wall, a secret base he shared with his brother, Barley. They’d dug a tunnel connecting to the cellar across the street, using it for escapes while the other delivered supplies. Now Wheat huddled here, sweating.

  “Brother, you really didn’t take any of that stuff?” Barley filled Wheat’s cup with twenty-copper corn rum, a cheap spirit made from corn and beets, about 35 proof and wildly popular.

  Wheat waited for the cup to overflow, then drained it in one gulp, slamming the hollowed wooden vessel onto the tiny table with a sigh. A stench of sour wine and stomach acid wafted from his mouth, but Barley was used to it, refilling the cup.

  “Don’t mention it. I never saw any deed or bank certificate. If I had, would I still be here? I’d be living it up in the capital.” He grabbed a hunk of roasted meat, chewing furiously as if gnawing away his bad luck. His greasy hand tapped the table, echoing in the cellar. “I’m being hunted! Boss Les wants me, Hutt wants me, even that bitch Alma wants me. Every half-capable thug in Pramisburg is on my tail—what did I do to deserve this?”

  Barley smiled, raising his cup. The brothers clinked and drank again, drowning their sorrows.

  “Forget the deed and certificate,” Barley said, eyes sharp. “What about the change? Was that real?”

  Wheat hesitated, his brain fuzzy from alcohol. He nodded stiffly. “Yes, some gold coins, but not much—less than twenty.”

  Barley’s eyes lit up. “How was it split? Did they cheat you?”

  Wheat slapped his thigh, face reddening, veins bulging on his forehead. “Cheat me? Who do you think I am? They wouldn’t dare!” He smacked his lips. “I got five gold coins. The rest went to the others.”

  Five gold coins—550 to 600 silver coins. By the Light God, a fortune! Barley, who hadn’t drunk much, felt a rush of heat to his head, dizzy with greed. He sipped his wine, mouth dry. “Where’d you hide them? You’re so unbrotherly, not even sharing a bit.”

  Wheat grinned, whispering, “I stashed them. Do you think I’m stupid? Carrying gold around when everyone wants to kill me? Wait till the storm passes, then we’ll live like kings.”

  No matter how Barley pressed, Wheat refused to reveal more, stuffing his face with food and wine until he passed out.

  Barley stared at his drunk brother, eyes flickering with conflict. Finally, he gritted his teeth, jaw aching, and pulled a rope from his waist, approaching Wheat.

  Don’t blame me. If you’d shared even one coin, I’d stand by you. But you’re hoarding a million gold and shutting me out. You chose this.

  When Wheat woke, he was in the cellar of a tavern, converted into a private dungeon. A dozen iron cages held prisoners in squalor, surrounded by stinking sewage and scurrying rats.

  He shot up, realizing where he was: Boss Les’s territory. He rattled the iron bars, screaming, “What did you do to my brother? Swear to the Light, I’ll hunt you as a wraith if you hurt him!”

  ……

  Les’s face contorted with rage as Hutt stormed in. Some fool had leaked the location, drawing the underworld king here.

  Three of the fleeing thieves had already been caught. As Pramisburg’s thief king, Les wasn’t incompetent—finding fellow thieves was his specialty. Truthfully, he’d long coveted Hutt’s power, but his men excelled at stealing, not killing.

  This debacle was huge; everyone knew possessing that deed could rewrite their fate. A million gold and a Golden Ring manor could buy a knighthood through royal donations, elevating them from commoners to nobles with life-and-death power over others.

  Sharing was out of the question—once the deed was found, a bloodbath would follow.

  For now, a fragile peace held.

  “Gate-crashing, Les? You don’t mind, do you?” Hutt smiled, scars twitching, making Les’s heart race.

  Les waved dismissively, forcing a grin. “Of course not! Your presence honors us, Hutt. I’ve been waiting for you to take the lead.” The words carried a subtle jab: You only show up for profit, you shameless bastard.

  Hutt’s grip on Les’s arm tightened, fingers digging into muscle as he smiled like a serpent. “Then I’ll make myself at home. Heard you caught some rats—any confessions yet?”

  Les winced at the pain, all anger draining at Hutt’s icy gaze. Was it his imagination, or did he suddenly seem smaller? He managed a weary smile. “Waiting for you, Hutt. This way, please…”

  Hutt released him, clapping Les’s shoulder before striding to the tavern’s backyard, hands behind his back.