Wat and Rickstar walked side by side as they strode out from the grand council hall. The echo of their boots faded behind them, swallowed by the open streets of Kanter City.
Rickstar broke the silence first, his voice edged with suspicion. "What is your real business here, Wat Tyler?"
Wat chuckled without looking at him, his smirk as sharp as a blade. "Don't worry, paladin dog. As long as Naro keeps the money flowing, I'll stay on the leash."
Rickstar's eyes narrowed. "I can't say for certain. Your criminal record is one of the baddest I've seen. Everything about you tells me you wouldn't mind biting off that leash and sinking your teeth back into the peace."
Wat shot him a sideways glance, his grin widening. "Shut it, paladin dog. Why don't we grab a drink instead? A bar, a little ale, maybe even some laughter. What do you say?"
"Just keep your hands where I can see them," Rickstar muttered.
They went straight to a bar—a dim-lit tavern filled with the smell of ale and the rumble of laughter. Wooden mugs clinked as men played cards in the corners. Rickstar ordered two mugs and slid one across the table.
"How did you end up here in Kanter City?" Rickstar asked, eyes fixed on Wat.
Wat lifted his mug, staring into the froth as if searching for answers. "I'm not obliged to answer your questions, paladin dog."
"Stop calling me that."
"Nah," Wat said with a smirk. "I'll keep calling you that."
Rickstar sighed. "Why don't you tell me something? In exchange, I'll buy you more ale."
Wat didn't answer. Instead, his mind drifted back to a time he wished he could forget—the jagged shards of his past.
He was born in Siralab, a poverty-stricken mining village in Wulfsar, where the ground trembled constantly from the pickaxes of desperate men. His father was one of those miners—a stern but hardworking man who believed toil was the only way to survive. His mother, a gentle soul, cared for Wat and his two younger siblings.
Then came the winter that broke them. The mine collapsed after weeks of neglect by greedy overseers. Wat's father was trapped deep underground with dozens of others. The village pleaded for help, but the magistrates refused, calling the rescue "a waste of resources." The men were left to die.
Days later, with supplies dwindling, the overseers came to the starving widows and children, demanding they surrender their homes as payment for "unfulfilled labor contracts." Wat, just nine years old, watched as their belongings were burned in the snow as a warning. His mother resisted—and they beat her in front of him. She didn't survive the season.
That winter swallowed everything. His sister was taken by guards under the pretense of finding her work in the city. Wat fought back, and they shattered his arm, leaving him bleeding in the dirt. When he woke, she was gone. His younger brother froze to death three nights later.
From that day forward, Wat understood something chilling: cruelty wasn't an accident. It was designed.
At twelve, he stole a miner's pickaxe and split open the skull of the overseer who had left the miners to die. He didn't run. He stood over the body, glaring at the guards, and said, "The ground swallows the greedy."
It was the first murder of many.
Wat became a raider. He learned to channel his rage into violence, extorting villages, toppling caravans, leaving death in his wake. If the world was built on taking, then he would take more than anyone.
When he joined the Shook Knights, an ashkin bounty-hunting group, his bloodlust found new purpose. It was with them that he stole and discovered the Seismic Heartstone—it allows him to create tremor with his fists. Its power felt like destiny. The Nasyonalistas saw his potential and offered him a deal: freedom from execution in exchange for service.
He accepted, not for loyalty, but for opportunity—to burn the world that had burned him.
Wat blinked and found himself back in the bar. His mug was empty. Rickstar had dozed off at the table. Wat stared at his calloused hand, clenching it slowly. "The day will come," he whispered to himself, "when I'll fulfill my brother's dream—our dream. Death to them all."
Morning light crept through the tavern windows. Rickstar woke with a groan, looking around frantically. "Where's Wat?" he asked the alemaid.
"He walked outside already," she said casually.
Rickstar rushed out and spotted Wat sitting on a bench, stretching lazily. "You're awake now, paladin dog?" Wat said with a grin.
"Shall we?" Rickstar asked coldly.
"Sure."
They summoned a wagon and rode toward Hollow Village. Rickstar kept eyeing Wat, his jaw tight.
"Any problem, paladin dog?" Wat asked.
"It's just… I really want to fight you. To drag you back in chains for the crimes you've committed."
Wat chuckled darkly. "Trust me, paladin. You don't want that. I've killed far stronger men than you. Remember Marco Klien? Senior officer of your precious order? I killed him without breaking a sweat."
Rickstar froze. Marco Klien—a name carved in the annals of paladin honor. He realized Wat wasn't lying.
Currently, Wat bore five stars—a Tribunus-level threat. Yet his bounties were erased the moment he became a warlord under Nasyonalistas rule.
"One day," Rickstar muttered, "the paladins will wipe out ashkins like you."
Wat threw his head back and laughed. "You're all welcome to try!"
The wagon lurched to a stop.
Rickstar jumped down. "What's the hold-up?"
"Paladin roadblock," the carter said nervously.
Rickstar strode forward, the weight of exhaustion briefly lifting from his shoulders when his eyes caught the glint of steel in the distance. Familiar silhouettes. Plate gleaming under the afternoon sun—at least, that's what he thought at first glance. His heart surged with relief, a rare warmth cutting through the chill of unease that had settled in his bones for days.
"I though we are in trouble…" he murmured under his breath, quickening his pace. "Paladins." The word tasted like hope on his tongue.
As he approached, he called out, voice steady but strained. "Good day, brothers! I am Rickstar, Captain of the paladins. Can you let us pass?"
The group of men turned to face him. Their leader stepped forward slowly, a crooked smile curling on his lips. For a heartbeat, Rickstar believed everything would be fine—until the man chuckled. A low, mocking sound that spread to the others like wildfire.
"Brothers?" the man repeated, feigning confusion. Then he threw his head back and roared with laughter. "AHAHAHA! Did you hear that, lads? 'Brothers!' Oh, I think we've got a rich one here today!"
Rickstar's brows furrowed. Something was wrong. He glanced closer, his relief crumbling like brittle glass. Those weren't polished breastplates. No gilded symbols of justice. Just cheap scraps of metal strapped over worn leather, patched with threadbare cloth. And beneath the mismatched armor, ragged tunics—stained, frayed, and crawling with grime.
"No true paladin wore rags."
His gut twisted. He froze for half a second—and that was all it took.
Before his hand could close around his sword's hilt, they were on him.
A rough fist slammed into his wrist, another into his ribs. The breath punched out of his lungs as his knees buckled under the sudden weight of three men. Fingers clawed at his shoulders, his arms, prying away his blade as if it were a toy. He thrashed, teeth gritted, muscles screaming in protest, but they were fast—too fast—and more desperate than any battlefield foe.
"Get his sword!" one barked.
"I've got it!" another snarled, wrenching the weapon free with a triumphant laugh.
Rickstar's heart pounded as he was dragged to his knees, the steel that had been his life ripped from his grasp. The edge of humiliation cut deeper than their blows. These weren't paladins of justice. These were scavengers—wolves in sheep's' coat.
And now, he was their prey.
"You must be rich," one robber sneered, laughing. "A fine catch today."
The carter bolted to the wagon's rear and whispered, trembling, "Sir… your friend's being robbed!"
Wat didn't move. His eyes remained closed as he lounged lazily. "Let him be."
"But sir—"
Wat's eyes snapped open, one glowing faintly. His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of death. "Disturb me again, and I'll turn you inside out."
The carter stumbled back, pale as ash.
Meanwhile, Rickstar fought like a cornered rat, every muscle screaming with defiance. He smashed his elbow into one attacker's nose, feeling the sickening crunch as blood sprayed across the ground. Another lunged from the left, and Rickstar ducked low, sweeping his leg to send the man crashing to the cobblestones. Blades hissed around him, steel flashing in the dim light, and the sharp bite of metal grazed his forearm, tearing through leather and flesh alike. Pain seared him, but he ignored it, slamming his fist into a jaw so hard the man toppled backward, teeth scattering like shards of glass.
But for every one he dropped, two more took his place. Shadows swarmed him, ragged faces twisted with hunger and greed. His breaths came in harsh gasps, armor feeling heavier with every passing second. He tore a dagger from a fallen hand and slashed wildly, the blade carving crimson arcs through the air. For a moment, freedom seemed within reach—until a club smashed into his ribs with bone-jarring force, stealing his breath and driving him to his knees.
They descended like wolves, gripping his arms, forcing him down onto the cold, dirty stone. His dagger slipped from blood-slick fingers as they pinned his head against the ground. He snarled, thrashing with the fury of a dying beast, but the weight of their bodies crushed the last of his strength. The leader stepped forward, his grin wide and cruel, boots scraping against the cobblestones. Slowly, almost leisurely, he raised his sword high, letting the dull light catch on the jagged edge.
"Enough games," the man sneered, voice dripping with mockery. "Now… you die."
Before the blade could fall, a hand gripped his head from behind. Wat stood there, calm and terrifying.
"I admire your actions of robbery and mischiefs," Wat said softly. "But you've wasted enough of my time."
A pulse of unseen force erupted from his palm that made the head tremble violently. The leader's body went limp, collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. Wat stepped forward, eyes burning like molten rock. The remaining bandits fled in terror.
Rickstar stared, breathless, shaken to his core. He had just witnessed the power of the man walking beside him.