The golden-haired youth was surrounded by several Mercenaries, panting heavily. His back was pressed against a stall selling crude pottery, leaving him with no escape.
He looked to be about eighteen or nineteen, with a slender, almost lanky build.
Bright blond hair, damp with sweat, was plastered to his forehead. His brilliant blue eyes held no pleas, but instead burned with defiant anger.
His clothes were simple but clean, making him seem out of place in the rugged surroundings.
"Run! Why'd you stop running, you little whelp!"
The lead Mercenary was a burly man with a fleshy face and a scruffy, unkempt beard.
He cracked his knuckles, spittle flying from his lips and nearly hitting the young man's face.
"You've got a death wish, messing with us from Blood Fang!"
"I didn't trick you!"
The golden-haired youth straightened his spine. His voice trembled with emotion, but it was exceptionally clear.
