Adam hit the training dummy again.
The wooden sword cracked against the stuffed torso with a dull, tired sound. The straw within rustled weakly, as though even the dummy had grown weary of the abuse.
Again.
Sweat rolled down Adam's temples and dropped onto the packed dirt floor. His breath came in sharp bursts, chest rising and falling like a bellows forced too hard.
His palms burned.
The skin there had already split in places. Red lines crossed his hands where the wooden hilt had rubbed them raw. Every swing reopened them a little more.
But he didn't stop.
Again.
And again.
His shoulders trembled. The afternoon sun leaned through the open training yard, painting long bars of gold across the ground.
"Have to…" he muttered under his breath.
Another swing.
"Have to..."
The sword rose again.
But this time, it never reached the dummy.
Something stopped it. Someone.
The impact vibrated through the wooden blade and into Adam's aching hands. He blinked, sweat slipping into his eyes.
A second wooden sword had intercepted his strike.
Adam slowly lifted his gaze.
Alaric stood in front of him, holding the blade easily with one hand.
For a moment, Adam felt relief wash through him. Then that boyish annoyance, mixed with something not so boyish.
Alaric looked at him for a long second.
Then his expression softened.
And he smiled broadly.
"Why are you training so hard?" Alaric asked.
Adam did not answer immediately. The question hung in the quiet courtyard, broken only by the dull thud of wood striking wood.
The training dummy in front of him shuddered as his practice sword struck it again. And again.
Adam kept his eyes on it.
He did not want to answer.
But eventually he spoke.
"You know why."
"I do not know," Alaric replied calmly.
Adam stopped swinging. He stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling as he tried to steady his breathing.
Then he sighed.
"I'm weak," he said. "That's why."
The words came out flat, but there was an edge buried inside them.
Alaric's gaze moved slowly from the dummy to the boy.
The wooden post was carved with dozens of dents and gouges from repeated blows.
Adam looked much the same, in a different way. Not on the outside. His stance was solid, his movements practiced. But there was something tight in the way he held himself, something wounded that never quite relaxed.
Physical scars on the dummy.
Mental ones on the boy.
Alaric felt a quiet ache settle in his chest.
"Weakness is not a sin," he said gently.
Adam's jaw tightened.
"So you agree that I'm weak," he muttered, almost biting the words out.
Adam frowned at the question.
For a moment he looked almost offended by it.
"What kind of question is that?" he muttered.
Alaric waited.
Adam shifted his weight, the wooden sword hanging loosely at his side. His hands still trembled from the strain.
"Weakness is…" Adam stopped, searching for the words. His jaw tightened again.
"It's when you can't do anything."
His eyes flicked toward the training dummy.
"When someone stronger shows up… and you just stand there," Adam said. "When you can't do anything to protect the people behind you."
His jaw tightened.
"To kill—"
Adam stopped there.
The word lingered in the air.
"Adam…" Alaric said quietly. A dull guilt pressed into his chest. "I…"
Adam shook his head, cutting him off.
Alaric fell silent for a moment. Then he made up his mind.
"If weakness is idleness," he said slowly. "If weakness is stopping when fear overtakes you…"
Adam looked up.
Their eyes met.
"Then how are you weak?" Alaric asked.
Adam blinked.
Alaric's voice remained calm, but firm.
"Have you stayed idle in the face of fear?"
Adam said nothing.
Alaric held his gaze.
"No," he continued quietly. "Not for long, anyway."
Adam's grip on the wooden sword loosened.
The tremor in his hands had not gone away.
Now that he had stopped swinging, it felt even worse, as if the strength had drained out of his arms all at once.
He said nothing.
Seconds passed.
Adam stared at the ground.
He let go of his sword, it fell on the ground, making a dull sword.
Alaric rested his hand on Adam's head.
"Let's go eat something, shall we?"
Adam didn't nod or respond, he simply walked alongside with Alaric.
_________________________________________
In a mansion, just outside the free port city of Maris–
In a dark corner of the main hall, several young girls huddled together beneath a torn blanket. Their shoulders shook as they pressed themselves into the wall, trying to disappear.
None of them dared make a sound.
Across the room, a man knelt on the floor.
His expensive clothes were half torn away. His pale belly spilled over his belt. Sweat poured down his face as he struggled uselessly against the rope binding his wrists behind his back.
His knees ground painfully against the marble floor.
In front of him sat a figure on a ruined sofa.
Black cloak.
Red mask.
The figure lounged comfortably, one leg crossed over the other, as if this were nothing more than a dull afternoon conversation.
"P–please…" the man sobbed.
The cloaked figure hummed thoughtfully.
"You are a wealthy man, are you not, Mister Baker?"
Baker's eyes lit up with desperate hope.
"Yes!" he cried. "Yes! I am! If you want money you can have it! As much as you want!"
He leaned forward as far as the ropes allowed.
"I'll give you everything! Gold, estates, jewels!"
His voice grew frantic.
"I'll even give you those girls! Take them! Take my wife! My daughter! My mother! Anyone you want!"
"Just let me live!"
The cloaked man clicked his tongue.
"Mr. Baker… Mr. Baker."
His tone was almost gentle. Amused.
"I am a pious man." He tilted his masked head slightly. "What use would I have for money?"
Baker's expression twisted with panic.
"Then what do you want?!" he shouted. "Tell me! What do you want from me?!"
The answer came immediately.
A boot descended onto Baker's hand.
Bones ground against marble.
"AHHHHHHH!!"
The man screamed as pain shot through his arm.
The cloaked figure leaned forward slightly, pressing his weight down harder.
"What a pig, eh?" he murmured casually. His gaze drifted to the cowering girls.
"No manners at all."
The girls shrank back further.
Then the figure looked down again.
"Now then, Mr. Baker."
His voice lowered.
"You see, I am not a good man."
The boot pressed deeper into Baker's crushed fingers.
"I know that. And you know that you are not a good man either."
Baker whimpered.
"But unlike you," the cloaked man continued calmly, "I am devoted to something greater."
He leaned closer.
"A sanctuary."
The word hung strangely in the ruined hall.
"And you, Mr. Baker… have been quite the thorn in its side. A small one, but a thorn, nonetheless."
Through the pain, Baker forced out the words.
"What did I do?!"
The cloaked figure sighed.
"You lied."
Baker shook his head violently.
"I told you everything! I swear!"
The masked man tilted his head.
"You had ties to the Thieves' Guild."
"They threw me out!" Baker shouted desperately. "Years ago!"
The cloaked figure stood up slowly.
His boot lifted from Baker's hand.
For a brief moment, hope flickered across the merchant's face.
Then the boot came down again.
This time on his head.
The marble floor cracked beneath the impact.
"They did," the cloaked man said calmly.
"But you told us they did not."
He crouched slightly, red mask inches from Baker's bleeding face.
"And the information you gave us…"
His voice grew almost thoughtful.
"It was only a drop."
A pause.
"But a drop of deadly poison ruins the whole ocean."
He pressed his boot down harder.
Bone creaked.
Baker's face flattened slowly against the marble floor, the pressure forcing blood from his nose, his mouth, even the corners of his eyes.
"You are as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside. A filthy, degenerate, with no beauty to behold. It would be a waste to give you the divine blessing. So...."
His screams turned wet and broken as the weight increased.
The cloaked man watched without emotion.
"Mr. Baker," he said calmly.
"You will now be… executed."
His leg lifted.
For a brief moment Baker gasped for air.
Then the boot came down.
Hard.
The impact thundered through the ruined mansion. Marble shattered beneath the force as Baker's body was driven straight through the floor, the stone collapsing in a violent crater that swallowed him into the darkness below.
Dust rained from the broken ceiling.
Silence followed.
The cloaked man brushed a few specks of debris from his sleeve as though nothing particularly interesting had happened.
His masked gaze drifted toward the corner of the room.
The girls were still there.
Huddled together beneath the torn blanket. Frozen. Eyes wide with terror.
He studied them for a moment.
Then he noticed the marks around their throats.
Thin black bands of ink burned into their skin.
Silent Slaves.
His head tilted slightly.
"…Ah."
For a moment he said nothing.
Then he waved a hand casually toward the broken doorway.
"You should run," he said.
His tone was almost bored.
"As fast as you can."
The girls did not move at first. Fear held them in place.
Then one of them scrambled to her feet. The others followed, stumbling toward the exit.
Just before they reached the doorway, one girl stopped.
She turned.
With shaking hands, she bowed deeply. As if to say : thank you.
The cloaked man stared at her for a moment.
A single quiet second passed.
Then he flicked his hand impatiently.
"Run."
They ran.
Their footsteps faded quickly into the distance outside the ruined mansion.
The cloaked man waited until the sound disappeared.
Then he walked toward the shattered hole in the floor.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and dropped through it.
He landed lightly on the lower floor beside the broken remains of Baker's body.
Around him lay several other corpses.
Mercenaries.
The ones who had been guarding the merchant.
Blood pooled across the cracked marble.
Perfect.
The cloaked man knelt.
He murmured under his breath.
The blood responded.
Thin streams slid across the stone, creeping toward one another like living things. Within seconds they formed a large, intricate circle around the corpses.
Symbols twisted and joined inside it.
The man clapped his hands together once.
The circle ignited.
Flames burst outward instantly, racing along the blood markings like wildfire.
The mansion groaned.
Wood beams cracked. Curtains ignited. Fire swallowed the ruined hall with hungry speed.
By the time the cloaked man stepped outside, the building was already burning.
He stretched his arms lazily above his head.
"Ahhh…"
Smoke curled into the sky behind him.
"You did well, Julius."
He began walking down the road, humming a quiet tune to himself.
Behind him, the mansion collapsed into flame.