For the second time in so many days, Guts finds himself stirring from a deep, dark unconsciousness. The world slowly spins to a stop as his eyes flutter open. Where the hell was he?

He lies down flat on his back, listening to the rhythmic noises of looms and thread being strung together. Footsteps and female voices were just outside. The memories of the fight come back to him in dull waves. Wrestling with the old warrior woman, being poked and prodded at by a bunch of girls. Then everything went black. Had he lost to some old bag and her little parade of kids? There’s a sting to his pride at that.

He reaches up to touch the wound on his shoulder, but first finds his wrists bound together, and scowls. He’s still able to examine himself somewhat, at least.

His armor was gone. His shirt, too, to bandage up and have easy access to his wounds. Whatever treatment they’d done had dulled the pain from the agonizing ordeal it could have been. Even then, dull radiating aches and the sharp burn of the deepened stab wound still plagued him.

Despite his miserable condition, he manages to sit up. He didn’t look quite so menacing after being pried out of the steel plate and rinsed of the grime.