The tavern wasn't packed, but for a place buried deep within a remote village, it was unusually crowded. The heavy scent of alcohol clung to the air, tangled with the musk of sweat as summer heat pressed down on the building like a damp blanket. It was a blistering day, the kind that made wood sticky and tempers short.
A woman, waitress, bartender, cleaner, and likely the cook too, moved between the tables with too much flexibility for her curves. In one hand, she balanced two chipped gray plates side by side, their surfaces cracked and yellowed from age and constant use. Her elbow joint locked beneath them, propping the plates steady as she carried two bottles of water in the other hand. Condensation clung to the glass like a second skin. The water was fresh, probably drawn straight from the stream and funneled in through makeshift bamboo canals that snaked into the tavern from the outskirts of the village.
"There. Eggs and pork belly," she said, setting the plates down gently in front of two strangers seated near the back, where the light was particularly dim. Both wore robes that obscured their faces. Despite the stifling humidity, neither showed signs of discomfort. No words. No glances. Just silence.
"Enjoy the meal," the woman added with a polite smile before retreating. Their silence made it clear, her company wasn't welcome.
Behind the counter, the tavern owner glanced up from his drink, eyeing the strangers warily. "Did they say anything?"
"No," the woman answered, brushing damp hair from her forehead. "But I caught a glimpse. One of them's a young woman."
"I already figured that," he muttered, pouring a syrupy yellow liquor into two tall glasses. "She was the one who ordered, wasn't she?"
The man's tone was flat but strained. He didn't like unknowns. "You know the rules. Everyone who passes through gets recorded, even if they're just passing by."
"I know," the waitress replied, exasperated. "But what do you want me to do? Rip their hoods off?"
He winced. "No. Just… no."
"Who were you bringing these to?"
"Table near the window. Five men. Loud ones." The tavern owner signaled with his eyes in the direction as his expression tightened. "Ria, don't talk to them. Don't look at them. Just leave the drinks and go. They're trouble."
The woman nodded and turned, but before she could take a step, his hand stopped her gently.
"Wait. I'll take it."
She blinked in surprise. "What if that angers them?"
"They won't do anything," he said, though his voice lacked conviction. "Everyone knows we're under their protection."
He took the drinks from her hands and walked toward the boisterous table, brightened by the sunlight coming from the window. Five men sat there, drinking heavily, their voices louder than the rest of the tables combined.
"Who's gonna be our next host, haha…" one of them laughed, his face flushed from alcohol or heat, it was hard to tell.
"Any village we decide to visit," the man at the head of the table said, though his tone lacked the same levity. He leaned back, kicked his boots onto the table, and cast a lazy glance toward the approaching owner. "But keep your damn voice down. You're making us too visible."
The tavern owner arrived at the table with the drinks in hand. His pace slowed slightly as he met the gaze of the man seated at the edge - broad-shouldered, sunburnt, and loud. Forcing a faint smile, the owner set the two glasses down with a polite nod, already turning to leave.
He didn't get the chance.
"Why the hell are there only two glasses?" the loud man barked, slamming his fist onto the table. The sound echoed through the tavern like a thunderclap, silencing everyone. "There's five of us. You blind or just stupid?"
The owner flinched. "Good lords, I-I'll fetch the others right away," he stammered, stumbling back a step, hands raised.
But the drunk wasn't finished.
"And why are you the one serving us? Where's that curvy girl, huh? What, she too good for the likes of us?" His lip curled. "Should we be paying extra just to get a smile?"
"Please, sir, she's…"
"See?" the man shouted, nudging his friend beside him, as he rose to his feet. The wood beneath him creaked from the increased weight. "Bastard doesn't even have an answer! You think we're beggars you can humiliate?"
Before it escalated further, Ria rushed to the table, her face pale. She clutched a tray with three more glasses, which clinked and wobbled with every panicked step.
"I brought the rest," she said quickly, placing them down with shaking hands. The wet rims showed she'd poured the liquor in a rush or perhaps she had spilled some while running. "I apologize, good lords. My husband forgot the rest. It was just a mistake."
The loud man's scowl softened into a grin, not because of the apology, but because he'd shifted his attention. He leaned back, shifting his weight toward his heels, gaze sliding over Ria's figure, slow and leering. From her ankles to the crown of her head.
"Good," he said, not explaining what he was referring to, though his eyes were still locked on her. "You can go now."
Ria turned quickly, already stepping back.
"Not you."
The words came sharp. His hand shot out, thick fingers wrapping around her wrist. She stumbled as he yanked her backward, crashing awkwardly against him. His arm slid around her waist with familiarity she never gave, his grip tightening as he pulled her flush to his side.
"What are you doing?!" the tavern owner shouted, lunging toward them. "Do you even know…"
"Shut the fuck up!"
He didn't get to finish. Another man from the group, one who'd been quietly sipping his drink until now, rose and casually kicked him in the stomach, cursing as he did so. The force sent the owner stumbling back, nearly collapsing over a chair before crashing to the floor.
The tavern fell into a suffocating silence.
The owner curled inward, clutching his abdomen. His breath came in gasps, pain radiating from his gut. But his eyes, red and watering, remained fixed on his wife. She was trapped in the embrace of a stranger, face stiff with humiliation as his hands wandered without shame.
And the others, those he'd served for years, pretended not to see.
Their faces turned away. Their drinks suddenly too interesting. Their hands busy with nothing. They didn't look at him. Not one of them. Not even the ones he'd loaned coin to when they were down on their luck, or fed when they had nothing.
Then, finally, his eyes reached the back table.
Two figures. Still veiled. Still silent. But both staring.
Not at Ria. Not at the drunkards.
At everything.
Desperation tightened his throat. His voice came out low, cracked, barely more than a whisper.
"Please… help…"
The tavern owner wasn't even sure if what he saw was real. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or maybe his desperation conjured it from thin air, but for a fleeting instant, he thought he saw two faint cyan glows flash beneath the hood's shadow.
And then one of the figures vanished.
The floorboards barely creaked under his sudden arrival as he stood before the table, facing the five men.
"The hell?!" the loud man cursed, staggering back in alarm, still clutching Ria by the waist. His grip tightened instinctively as if she might anchor him to safety. The other four reacted instantly, chairs screeching as they jumped to their feet. Crude weapons were drawn in a flash - iron, chipped steel, rusted blades dulled by age but still deadly. An axe, a sword, a jagged dagger, and a thin rapier all gleamed in the summer light leaking through the tavern's warped windows.
"Who the fuck are you?" barked the man who'd kicked the tavern owner moments earlier. His voice was louder now, more bark than bite, but he didn't wait for an answer. Something in his gut told him the robed stranger was dangerous. He couldn't afford hesitation.
He lunged.
The curve of his sword caught a shard of sunlight mid-swing, but it never landed. The robed figure raised his arm at just the right angle, catching the wrist of the man not with his palm, but with the sharp jolt of an elbow with enough force to distort the joint entirely.
The man dropped to one knee, howling in agony, clutching at the limp, useless hand now dangling at a sickening angle. His face twisted with pain, eyes wild, veins bulging.
"Who the…" He barely got out the start of a question before the robed figure's hand struck again, this time landing against the base of his throat. The sound was muffled, but the impact echoed in every watching chest like a threat.
He fell back, gasping, mouth open and quivering, but no air came in. His good hand clawed at his throat as if trying to tear open a hole to breathe through.
"I'll kill you!" the man with the rapier shouted, eyes burning with panic and rage after seeing what happened to his friend. He darted forward, blade lancing straight for the hooded figure's chest.
But it passed through afterimage.
Before he could recover, a hand gripped his shoulder from behind. His knees buckled as something cold touched his neck. There was no time to struggle, no time to speak.
Crack.
His head twisted sideways in a smooth, clinical motion. The rapier dropped with a clatter, followed by the rest of him. He hit the floor as a limp mass, lifeless and slack.
The remaining three men froze mid-step. Their weapons still in hand. But their minds were no longer with them.
The third target, the one with the axe, tried to raise his weapon as a shield, but the robed figure was already there. A single fist punched into his gut, folding the man like paper, lifting him slightly off the floor from the sheer impact. Before he could drop, a knee drove into his jaw with a sickening crunch, and the blow spun him backward like a rag doll.
The body hit the floor in a twitching sprawl.
The last thing he felt was a heel driving down into his throat, crushing what little life still clung to his spine.
And just like that, three of them were dead.
"Don't come any closer!" shouted the man with the dagger, the same one who'd placed his feet on the table earlier. "I didn't do anything! I haven't done anything wrong!"
His panic took hold. He turned and bolted out the door, the wooden frame rattling behind him as he vanished into the daylight.
The robed figure who had dismantled the others didn't follow.
It wasn't necessary.
Because the second silhouette, the one who'd stayed seated, watching, was already gone.
Only the loud man remained, still gripping Ria tightly. One arm coiled around her neck, the other shamelessly groping her waist, fingers digging in as if trying to memorize the shape before death came knocking. Sweat soaked his forehead now, not from heat, but from a sudden, sinking certainty that this moment was his last.
"Don't come closer!" he screamed, spinning toward the robed figure that now faced him. "I'll kill her! I swear I'll…"
"Please," the tavern owner begged. He had dropped to his knees, tears streaking his dust-stained face. "Please, don't hurt my wife…"
Ria didn't speak. Her tears rolled silently, her body frozen. The pressure on her throat was growing. Her breath was shallow, but she still clung to consciousness, afraid to move even an inch.
But the robed figure didn't slow.
In a blur, he was beside them.
The loud man barely had time to react. A hand grabbed his wrist, yanking it off Ria's neck like peeling bark from a tree. The next instant, a devastating kick landed in his gut - so fast, so brutal, that the man's entire body lifted from the ground and flew backward.
Glass shattered as he crashed through the tavern's front window, the frame splintering around him. His body tumbled outside, rolling across dirt and stone like a rag doll tossed in rage.
As the loud man finally stopped rolling, he tried to get up. Desperately.
But the pain stole everything. His stomach was on fire. Blood leaked from his sides, glass shards embedded deep into his skin. His left leg wouldn't move. His right arm was twisted at the elbow.
Still, he tried to crawl.
Even if it meant dragging himself with a single hand, even if he had to eat dirt to move, he wanted to live.
But the shadow was already there.
Crouched low. Watching.
Silent.
"Please," the man whimpered, blood dripping from his lips. "I was drunk. I didn't mean…"
There was no answer.
Only the hand.
It reached down, not to help, but to end.
Fingers coiled into his hair. His face lifted slowly, suspended for one final moment. And then it slammed down once.
Hard.
His skull cracked against the dirt with a wet, final thud. Like fruit crushed under boot.
There were no more pleas after that.
The robed figure rose, stepping away from the ruined body without a second glance. The dirt beneath the corpse was already turning a deeper shade of red.
A moment later, footsteps approached fast.
The tavern owner scrambled outside, still on his knees, practically throwing himself before the stranger. "Thank you… kind lord," he gasped. "Thank you, thank you, please, I… we owe you…"
He didn't dare look up. He only bowed lower, pressing his forehead to the ground.
"The fifth one… did he escape?" he asked carefully, glancing over his shoulder, just enough to check.
He didn't need to ask.
Because the second figure was already standing nearby, holding the body of the fifth man slung across her back like a sack of potatoes.
"Lord K…" the feminine voice called softly. "I've caught him."
The robed man didn't turn.
Instead, he slipped a hand into his robe, rummaging briefly before pulling out a small pouch.
He tossed it forward without a word.
It landed at the tavern owner's feet with a muted jingle.
"For the window," came the voice, energetic and casual, betraying the young age of the figure hidden beneath the robe.
And with that, the two strangers walked away - one dragging a corpse, the other leaving behind something more terrifying than broken glass.
**
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