Midnight whispers spread through Valorhaven's alleyways, yet within Nightingale Tavern, revelry reached fever pitch.
The murky air reeked of ale's sweetness and sweat's sourness. Across rough wooden tables, clay mugs clashed constantly with crisp yet dangerous sounds—each collision beating rhythm for some unborn battle. Mercenaries' hoarse curses, serving girls' cautious dodging, and gold coins clinking on the bar—all these sounds wove together, crafting this haven-turned-arena's unique cadence.
Proprietress Nightingale leaned behind the bar, fingertips tracing an old knife scar. Her gaze swept these drunken desperados as something elusive flickered in her eyes, as if peering through present clamor toward some long-vanished summer.
Bang! Door hinges groaned. Three mercenaries in gray-green leather armor burst inside, bringing outdoor chill. The tavern's noise briefly dipped like beasts pausing at unfamiliar scents, then surged again—nobody truly cared about these new Wildfox Company faces.
Their sharp gazes swept the smoke-wreathed hall before settling on colleagues at a center table, quickly pushing through crowds.
"Seven golden rums! The finest!" A tall, lean mercenary tilted his chin toward the bar, deliberately raised voice slicing through din.
The words struck like incantations, draining half the clamor. Golden rum. That amber liquid was burning gold, honey-sweet flame—one cup worth many men's month-long killing wages. Only captains and windfall-blessed lucky bastards could afford it.
Table companions' gazes instantly blazed. "Solich," a scar-faced mercenary's throat bobbed, "what fortune did you stumble into? Treating us to such drink?"
Solich grinned widely, satisfaction nearly spilling from his features. "Windfall? No, no—fortune's goddess merely kissed my forehead." He savored their burning attention while deliberately unwrapping a long bundle of oil-stained hide from his waist.
Layer by layer, leather peeled away. In the tavern's dim light, a longsword gradually revealed itself. Upon the exquisitely crafted hilt, a pigeon-egg-sized ruby gleamed like congealed blood. Solich's thumb pressed the crossguard, gently pushing.
Ethereal blue radiance suddenly flowed forth, cold halos pulsing along the blade—energy traces unique to enchanted weapons, impossible to counterfeit.
"Gods above! A rare-grade enchanted sword!" Exclamations exploded.
"Where the hell did you get that?"
"That thing's worth three hundred gold pieces! No less!"
Wildfox mercenaries crowded around, amazement erupting continuously. Solich stood with crossed arms, basking in gazes mixing envy and greed.
"Speak up! What happened?"
"Right in that stinking alley behind the tavern," Solich lowered his voice yet loud enough for surrounding ears, "some country bumpkin claiming it was his dead father's relic. The fool had no idea what treasure he held! Ten shining gold coins drove him mad with joy—grabbed the money and ran faster than a startled rabbit!"
"Ten gold coins? Solich, your heart's blacker than dark swamps!"
"Can't let this slide! Drinks! Barkeep, another round of golden rum!"
Jeering voices filled with fevered jealousy.
Just then, a scar-covered hand suddenly lunged from the side, grasping for the table's sword.
Solich reacted lightning-fast, forearm whipping upward like steel to block, deflecting the attacking wrist. A dull thud—he staggered backward from the force, hitting the table edge.
The attacker was a bull-strong middle-aged mercenary. His most terrifying feature was a silver eyepatch covering his left eye. "Silvereye" Salik—The Bloodthorn Guild's fifth-tier Warcaptain. In this city's shadows, his name alone served as warning.
"Relax, boy," Salik's single eye locked onto Solich with murderous gleam. "Just want a look at this pretty thing."
Chill crawled down Solich's spine. He knew Salik—every mercenary scraping meals in this territory knew him. But backing down in taverns meant social death. He snatched up the longsword, tip dipping slightly in defensive stance, replying icily: "Want to see others' belongings? Ask first."
"I'm asking, little brother, because it looks familiar. Very much like the blade our Bloodthorn Deputy Leader Cristy unfortunately lost recently."
Salik's voice wasn't loud yet struck like ice water hitting hot oil. Cristy's name changed many onlookers' expressions. Months ago, that deputy leader losing a precious sword at gaming tables wasn't secret. Many gazes refocused on that brilliant ruby, recognizing it. Why it appeared from some country boy's hands, how it reached Wildfox possession—nobody cared. Truth always proved weightless before greed.
"I don't know what Leader Cristy's sword looks like," Solich gripped the hilt, knuckles whitening, "but this one—I bought with honest gold, ten pieces!"
"Many here have seen his blade. I seriously suspect your sword's origins... aren't clean." Salik stepped forward, body leaning slightly to create pressure.
Solich retreated half a step, raising the blade inches. "Accusations need evidence."
"Simple enough. Come back to Bloodthorn headquarters with me. If Leader Cristy says it's not his, you're free to leave anytime."
"You think I'm some rookie making first runs?" Solich forced words through clenched teeth. "On your turf, you'd call white black!"
"Then you have another choice," Salik's single eye narrowed. "I conduct business properly. You spent ten gold coins—I'll pay double, twenty pieces. Tonight your brothers' drinks are on me too. Quite fair."
"Dream on!" Solich spat. "Not selling!" He turned to leave.
Salik's form flickered, blocking the path like a mountain. "Until matters clarify," his low voice carried unquestionable threat, "you're going nowhere."
Solich's face turned iron-gray, longsword ringing fully free of its sheath as ethereal blue radiance lit his furious features. "So you're robbing outright?"
"I said 'clarifying.' Wait here for Leader Cristy's arrival, or come with me. Otherwise," Salik slowly drew his waist battle axe, "forget leaving this door."
"Bloodthorn bastards, stop bullying! Let's see who dares block me today!" Solich roared, enchanted longsword pointing at his opponent.
Wildfox mercenaries around him erupted simultaneously, tables and chairs crashing as they instantly surrounded Salik. "Others fear your Bloodthorn—we Wildfox don't!"
Three Bloodthorn mercenaries originally sharing Salik's table charged forward, armor clanging. Both sides pressed chest to chest as roars and vicious curses boiled forth like scalding water. Brawling hung by a thread.
For these desperados soaking in boredom and alcohol, nothing provided more thrilling entertainment than watching two great mercenary companies clash. The entire tavern erupted—other mercenaries frantically pounded tables, mug contents splashing everywhere, shouting waves cresting higher and higher.
The situation slid toward abyss. Salik's single eye flashed with hesitation. He'd thought himself offering sufficient face and choices, yet underestimated what this sword meant to an ordinary mercenary—not just hundreds of gold pieces windfall, but an impossible dream. For it, men could easily gamble their lives.
In that instant of hesitation, a heavy pewter mug suddenly whistled from the seething crowd, arcing directly toward Salik's face.
The flying cup brazenly raised battle's curtain.