chase
Noxus year 973, West District of Besilico.
Nine-year-old Draven, like a mouse accustomed to surviving in this environment, ran wildly through the maze-like alleyways. His tattered shoes made a "pat-pat" sound on the wet cobblestones. He clutched his newly acquired "spoils" tightly in his arms—two rye loaves of bread so hard they could stun a wild dog.
"Stop right there, you little bastard!"
"Give back what you stole!"
Two boys, taller than him, were hot on his heels, their shouts echoing through the narrow alley. They were the sons of the baker on the corner. Draven had been watching them for days before finally making his move when the baker turned away to scold a stray dog rummaging through the trash. He hadn't expected to be spotted by these two boys so soon after he'd run so far.
Draven, far from being afraid, turned his head as he ran, a defiant smile spreading across his dirty face, and shouted at the top of his lungs:
"It's just two rye breads! Do you think your business can't function without them? Hehehe—Aww!"
He was so caught up in looking back and gloating that he didn't see the road ahead. He bumped into a figure emerging from a low wooden doorway. The person was carrying a large wooden basin filled with wet clothes waiting to dry. The impact was quite forceful; Draven landed hard on his backside, his tailbone throbbing. The person was also knocked off balance, the basin clattering to the ground, spilling murky water everywhere, scattering patched clothes, instantly covering them in mud.
The man who was hit was tall and thin, with a sallow complexion and wearing old clothes whose original color was no longer recognizable. He clutched his lower back, wincing in pain, and immediately began cursing, "You blind little beast! In a hurry to be reincarnated?! My back... ouch... my clothes!"
Draven, ignoring his sore bottom, frantically tried to get up and slip away.
Just then, the two pursuers behind them rushed into the dead-end alley, panting heavily. They only had eyes for Draven fleeing ahead and didn't notice the mess under their feet.
"Smack!"
"Ouch!"
The one in front stepped on a soaking wet piece of coarse cloth, slipped, and fell forward, almost landing face-first in the mud. The one behind couldn't stop in time and also tripped.
The man who was hit was already furious, and seeing this scene only fueled his rage. He naturally assumed that the three reckless young men were in cahoots, specifically there to cause him trouble. All the hard work he'd put into washing clothes all day had been wasted!
"You little brats! You knocked over my clothes and dared to step on them?! You have no parents to teach you anything!" the man roared, grabbing the collar of the last boy who had just caught his breath.
"No...no! Uncle, let go! We were chasing that guy who stole bread..." The boy, who was being grabbed, was both shocked and angry. He struggled desperately to explain, but the man's large, fan-like hand had already slapped him on the back of the head without warning, making a crisp "smack" sound.
"Stealing bread? I think you're all a bunch of petty thieves! You've teamed up to cause trouble!" The man wouldn't listen to any explanation and slapped him again.
Taking advantage of the chaos, Draven didn't even bother to watch the commotion. He clutched the two rye breads that had almost flown away tightly in his arms, crouched low, and ran for his life towards the other end of the alley. He could hear the shouts of another pursuer and the cries of the beaten boy behind him, and he didn't dare slow down at all.
Seeing his companion caught, the other pursuer hesitated for a moment, glanced at Draven who had run far away, stomped his foot, and chased after him anyway.
Draven knew this area like the back of his hand. He rounded a bend piled high with broken baskets and buckets, then skillfully slipped through a low, dilapidated hole in the wall—a secret passage used by the children—and wound his way through the maze of passages until he felt he had left some distance behind. Only then did he dare stop, leaning against a damp, moss-covered wall, panting heavily. Sweat mixed with the mud he had just rubbed against dripped from his chin onto the ground, forming a small, dark stain.
"Heh...heh...you want to woo me, Draven?" He panted smugly, sitting on the ground, figuring he was safe for now.
Draven felt relieved that his rations for the day were finally secured. After resting for a while, he stood up, holding a rye bread in each hand, and swayed as he walked out, humming his own off-key "Draven's Awesome Song," the lyrics of which were nothing more than praising himself for being fast, quick-witted, and a hero.
Just as they stepped out of the quiet alley and onto the slightly wider gravel road, they bumped into two pursuers who thought they had lost their way and were turning back—apparently, the one who had been grabbed by the collar had also broken free. The three of them stared at each other, stunned for a couple of seconds.
The air seemed to freeze. Draven's smug expression froze, and the frustration on the faces of the two opposite him instantly turned into anger.
"There it is!"
"Grab him!"
The chase resumed without any suspense. Draven cursed his bad luck and turned to run again.
This time, both sides had expended a great deal of energy. The chase gradually escalated from a frantic sprint to a jog, and then to a panting jog. The three of them continued their pursuit, unknowingly moving from the western edge of the city to the more chaotic and crowded slums in the north. Here, the shacks were even more densely packed, and the roads were even more muddy and difficult to traverse.
Finally, all three reached their physical limits. Draven had gone from running to dragging his legs forward, each step causing a burning pain in his lungs. The other two weren't much better off, leaning against the crumbling wall, hunched over, inching forward. All three were panting heavily like broken bellows, barely able to curse, but they still refused to admit defeat.
Draven turned his head and muttered intermittently, "You...two...useless...can't even...catch...me...go home...and drink...milk..."
The young man in front retorted breathlessly, "Thief...you...steal...don't...run away..."
The person behind him couldn't even form sentences, only uttering meaningless syllables: "XX...XXX...@#￥..."
They couldn't actually hear what the other was saying, and their own words were incoherent and nonsensical, but when you're out in the game, you can't afford to lose face. This "war between men" was unfolding in an extremely pathetic and comical manner.
Just as the three broken bellows were exchanging glances and broken words, an uninvited guest joined the fray. A boy of about fourteen or fifteen, with a blade of grass dangling from his mouth, sauntered out from a side path. His name was Scarface, because of a small scar on his left eyebrow. He was one of the gang leaders in this slum in the north of the city. Draven knew him and had been robbed by him more than once—although most of Draven's belongings were stolen or robbed anyway.
Scarface clearly noticed the three exhausted men, especially the two conspicuous rye loaves of bread in Draven's hands. His eyes lit up, a "what a stroke of luck!" expression on his face. He casually walked over, and while Draven's attention was focused on the two pursuers behind them, he reached out and effortlessly snatched the intact rye bread from Draven's left hand—the one in Draven's right hand had been bitten in his nervousness and was somewhat deformed and flattened from being gripped so tightly. The one in his left hand was the one he intended to take back, and it was relatively intact.
Draven immediately realized his hand was empty. Looking up and seeing Scarface, old and new grudges surged into his heart.
"Scarface! You fucking!" Draven tried to snatch it back, but Scarface was much taller and bigger than him, and easily lifted the bread high.
Scarface chuckled, "Draven, 'working' again? Consider this a tribute to your brother Scarface." He placed the rye bread in front of him, took a deep drag, and looked ecstatic, as if he were smelling freshly baked white bread—stolen goods always smell better!
Draven's eyes turned red with rage. He was too short to grab it, and in desperation, he bit down hard on the hand that Scarface was using to shield his face! He bit down fiercely, as if to vent all the resentment he felt from being robbed earlier.
"Ah! Are you fucking a dog?!" Scarface yelled in pain, caught off guard, and instinctively tried to shake off Draven. "Let go! You little bastard!"
Draven bit down hard, refusing to let go, while his other hand clenched into a fist and wildly pounded on Scarface's stomach. Scarface, holding the bread, elbowed Draven in the back. Draven groaned, feeling like his bones were about to break, but his stubbornness only intensified, causing him to bite even harder, while simultaneously throwing a powerful punch at Scarface's groin!
This was a dirty trick typical of street fights, but it was extremely effective. Scarface let out a bloodcurdling scream, immediately releasing the bread in his hand, clutching his groin, bending over and kneeling, his face deathly pale, writhing on the ground in pain, too exhausted even to curse. The rye bread rolled on the ground, gathering dust.
The two boys who caught up from behind saw this and realized their chance had come. They exchanged a glance, then rushed up and started punching and kicking Draven, who was trying to pick up the bread, effectively kicking him while he was down.
"You dared to steal bread!"
"I'll beat you to death, you little thief!"
Draven had used up all his strength biting Scarface, and now, facing two opponents (actually, he was being attacked by two people), he was quickly kicked to the ground. He curled up, protecting his head and groin, still cursing under his breath.
Scarface, who had been rolling on the ground clutching his groin, recovered and struggled to get up to join the mixed doubles match.
Just as it seemed there was no escaping this beating, several fierce barks came from the alleyway.
"Woof! Woof woof!"
A thin shadow suddenly darted over with astonishing speed. It was a malnourished-looking mongrel, its fur grayish-yellow, its ribs faintly visible, but its eyes gleamed with alertness and ferocity. It had a clear target; it went straight for Scarface, who had just stood up, and bit down hard on his rump!
"Ouch—!" Scarface's scream escalated again, and his body, which had just straightened up, bent over again. The pain in his testicles hadn't subsided, and now a sharp pain shot through his buttocks, making matters worse.
The two pursuers who were kicking Draven were startled and stopped, staring in horror at the vicious dog that had suddenly appeared.
Having landed a successful bite, the skinny dog growled and chased after Scarface's calf, pretending to bite. Scarface was in pain and scared, and dodged repeatedly, kicking wildly but missing twice. Seeing the skinny dog's ferocious baring of teeth, he no longer cared about saving face or the pain, and ran away, limping and looking very pathetic.
The skinny dog turned its head, its green eyes fixed on the remaining two pursuers, a threatening growl emanating from its throat, thick drool hanging from the corner of its mouth, as it approached step by step.
The two boys had never seen anything like this before. They could bully their peers normally, but facing a real stray dog, especially one so fierce, they were terrified.
"Dog... mad dog!"
"Run!"
The two screamed, forgetting all about Draven and the rye bread, and turned to run. They were much faster than when they were chasing Draven, and disappeared at the end of the alley in the blink of an eye.
Seeing that everyone had run away, the skinny dog immediately stopped growling, and as if its expression had changed, it wagged its tail happily, trotted over to Draven who was lying on the ground, rubbed its nose against his face, and made a concerned "woof woof" sound.
Draven grimaced as he scrambled to his feet, his face bruised and battered, his whole body aching. He reached out and patted the dog's head a couple of times, forcing a smile that looked more like a grimace, and exclaimed, "Luck! What a fucking good dog!"
After saying that, he endured the pain, looked around, and tentatively called out, "Alice?"
The sound echoed in the empty alley. From around the corner of a shack made of broken planks and tarpaulin, a small face cautiously peeked out. It was a girl with neatly combed silver-white hair and large, red-eyed eyes. She looked around to make sure it was safe before fully emerging, stretching out her thin arm to wave at Draven, and whispered, "Draven, I'm here!"
Draven bent down to pick up the dusty rye bread that had fallen to the ground, patted it hard, then picked up his own half-eaten, flattened bread, carefully tucked them both into his pocket, and limped over.
A makeshift wooden crate, roughly 20 centimeters off the ground and fitted with four old wheels, resembled a miniature carriage. Inside, a clean, tattered cloth lined the inside, beneath which lay some dry straw. Alice, a silver-haired, red-eyed girl, sat inside this makeshift "cart." At the front of the cart was a shaft with a simple rope noose nailed to it.
The skinny dog named Lark, without being told, walked to the front of the cart, skillfully put its head into the rope loop under the shaft, adjusted its position, and got ready to pull the cart.
Draven walked up to Alice and asked, "Were you scared?"
"No! But Djokovic is injured!"
"It's nothing, just a superficial wound." Draven waved his hand dismissively, took out a relatively intact rye bread from his pocket, and handed it to Alice. "Here, eat this. It's just a little dirty, but you can still eat it after patting it off."
Alice took the bread, but didn't eat it immediately. Her red eyes curved into crescents as she said, "Thank you, Little De!"
Draven walked to the car, picked up the rope dragging on the ground, draped it over his shoulder, and said to Lark, "Let's go, buddy, let's go home."
Skinny dog Lark barked in response and began to pull hard forward. Draven also helped Lark drag the makeshift cart. The cart creaked and groaned as it slowly moved forward on the uneven gravel road.
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