He closed his eyes, his mind flashing back to his past life on Earth.
He remembered the sound of heavy boots kicking open his apartment door in Brooklyn.
He remembered the flashing red and blue lights reflecting off his bedroom window, and the sound of his dirty partner snitching his location to the cops just to get his own probation charges dropped.
A cold, familiar smile spread across Philip’s face.
"History really does repeat itself," Philip whispered, opening his eyes. "Good thing I already packed my bag two days ago."
The night air was freezing, but Brandon didn’t feel the cold at all. His fat body was practically burning with intense, frantic energy as he sprinted up the steep limestone hill leading to the Imperial Guard Fortress.
His heart was pounding against his ribs like a sledgehammer, and his lungs felt like they were full of broken glass, but every time he felt like stopping to catch his breath, the mental image of ten thousand shiny gold coins appeared in his mind, shoving him forward.
"Ten thousand gold," Brandon wheezed out, wiping sweat off his double chin. "Ten thousand gold! I’m gonna buy a silk bed! I’m gonna hire four chefs to cook me roast pork every single morning!"
He reached the giant iron gates of the Imperial Fortress. Standing guard outside were two tall elite paladins wearing full silver plate armor, holding long halberds that shimmered with blue mana runes.
"Halt, citizen!" the left guard roared, bringing his halberd down with a heavy metallic thud against the stone ground. "The Fortress is restricted to imperial personnel! State your business or leave immediately!"
Brandon fell onto his knees, gasping for air while clutching his chest with both hands. "I... I have... information!" Brandon panted violently. "The bounty! The Healer Clown! I know where he lives!"
The two guards instantly stiffened behind their silver visors. The left guard leaned down, grabbing Brandon by his dirty apron collar and lifting his heavy body right off the ground with one hand.
"If you are lying to collect the reward, the Captain will cut your tongue out and feed it to the war hounds," the guard growled in a deep, menacing voice. "Are you absolutely certain?"
"Yes! Yes! I swear on my mother’s grave!" Brandon squeaked, his legs dangling uselessly in the air. "He works in my shop! He wears a wooden clown mask! He snorts pink dragon powder up his nose! His name is Philip!"
The two guards looked at each other through their narrow helmet slots.
"Get Captain Elias immediately," the right guard commanded. "Tell him we found the target."
Five minutes later, Brandon was standing inside a magnificent marble tactical room illuminated by glowing magic lanterns. Sitting behind a giant oak desk was Captain Elias, the supreme commander of the Royal Guard.
Elias was a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face, cold blue eyes, and heavy golden armor etched with imperial crests.
He was slowly reading a piece of paper that a scribe had just typed out based on Brandon’s wild rambling statement.
"So," Captain Elias said, his deep voice echoing off the marble walls. "This boy, Philip... he lives in your cellar? He grinds up dragon scales and snorts them to use magic?"
"Yes, Your Excellency!" Brandon bowed so low his nose almost touched Marcus’s expensive leather boots. "He is a crazy degenerate! He steals my copper coins, eats my meat skewers, and sneaks out every night wearing that hideous painted clown mask!"
Elias leaned back in his high wooden chair, tapping his fingers on the desk. "And you are absolutely sure he is the one who defeated the S rank dragon in the plaza?"
"I saw him with my own eyes!" Brandon yelled defensively. "He came back to my cellar missing the back of his pants, smelling like burnt ham, and holding the giant orange dragon core under his arm! He’s the one! I swear it on the imperial crown!"
Captain Elias smiled slowly, a sharp, predatory look flashing in his cold blue eyes.
"Fascinating," Elias whispered. "A street rat with a body capable of digesting raw dragon scales without exploding. The King’s chief alchemists will be thrilled to dissect... I mean, interview him."
Brandon blinked, a slight knot of worry twisting in his fat stomach. "Dissect? Wait, Your Excellency... the King said he wanted to give him a golden palace..."
Elias let out a short, harsh bark of laughter. "Of course, citizen. A very comfortable palace. With iron bars on the windows and three hundred guards outside his door. The Empire cannot allow an unregistered, uncontrollable god-level weapon to wander freely through the slums."
Brandon swallowed hard. For a brief, split second, a small tiny spark of guilt flickered inside his mind.
Philip was a disrespectful, loud-mouthed thief who called him a potato, but Philip had also saved his life from Big Julian and kept the shop from burning down.
"So..." Brandon squeaked nervously, holding his hands out with his palms up. "About the ten thousand gold coins..."
Captain Elias raised his hand, gesturing to a guard standing by the door.
"Give this fat idiot fifty silver pieces for his trouble," Elias ordered flatly.
Brandon’s mouth dropped open in complete, horrific shock. "WHAT?! Fifty silver?! The royal poster said ten thousand gold pieces!"
"Ten thousand gold pieces is paid upon the successful capture and secured containment of the target," Elias said, standing up and pulling his heavy broadsword from its scabbard. "If your information leads to his capture, you will receive your payment next week. Assuming the target doesn’t kill you first for snitching."
Elias turned to the forty heavy elite mages and paladins standing in formation behind him.
"First and Second Battalions! Put on your heavy suppression armor!" Elias barked, his voice ringing with cold military authority. "We are raiding Brandon’s Magic Junkshop! Use level four mana chains! If he resists, break his legs! Do not let the Clown escape!"
"SIR, YES SIR!" the forty armored soldiers roared in unison, drawing their glowing enchanted weapons.
Brandon stood frozen in the center of the room, holding a tiny bag of fifty silver coins, his face turning pale as fresh chalk as the heavy footsteps of forty elite imperial killers marched past him into the dark night.