Wat stood over the fallen body, his cloak swaying slightly as the dust settled around him. His knuckles were still glowing faintly from the strike that had ended the last of the attackers. He looked down at Rickstar with a smirk, the kind of grin that held no warmth, only arrogance.
"That," Wat said, his voice calm and low, "is how it is done, paladin dog."
Rickstar, bruised and bloodied, pushed himself up to his knees. His chest heaved with each breath, but he still managed a faint smile. "Thank you, Wat," he said, though his pride stung from the implication in Wat's words.
Wat just scoffed, not bothering to look at him as he turned back toward the path. "Let's go back to the wagon," he muttered, his tone dismissive.
Their journey continued in tense silence, the only sound being the creak of wagon wheels and the distant calls of crows echoing across the plains. When they finally reached Hollow Village, Rickstar's heart sank. The once-bustling settlement he remembered was now a ghost town. Windows were shuttered tight, doors barred from the inside. The laughter and lively chatter of merchants were gone, replaced by an oppressive silence that seemed to weigh down on the air like a curse.
The only movement came from armed men patrolling the muddy streets—Andros' men. They walked in pairs, their hands always close to the hilts of their weapons, eyes sharp with suspicion. Rickstar took a deep breath, his armor glinting faintly in the gray light of the overcast sky.
"This is not how I remembered this place," Rickstar muttered, his voice heavy with dismay.
Wat, keeping his hood drawn low to conceal his identity, cast a quick glance around. His body remained tense, every step deliberate, as if he were walking into the jaws of a predator. "Let's find the headman," he said curtly, his tone leaving no room for debate.
As they made their way toward the village center, two of Andros' men suddenly stepped into their path, their expressions hard and questioning.
"Who are you?" one demanded, gripping his spear tightly.
Rickstar straightened his back, his voice calm but authoritative. "I am Captain Rickstar of the Paladins," he declared. He gestured toward Wat with an open palm. "And this is my companion."
The man's eyes narrowed. "What is a paladin captain doing here?"
Rickstar kept his composure. "I have been sent by our superiors to assess the situation here," he explained. "Reports speak of mysterious disappearances in Hollow Village."
The guard hesitated for a moment, then nodded stiffly. "Wait here," he ordered before jogging back to a group of men nearby. Rickstar caught snippets of their hushed conversation, the way they cast uneasy glances toward him and Wat. Tension rippled through the air like a drawn bowstring.
Before Rickstar could call out, the guards moved quickly, circling them with weapons drawn. Steel flashed in the dim light as they closed in.
Rickstar raised his hands defensively. "Hey! Hey! We are not here for any trouble!" he shouted, trying to keep the situation from spiraling out of control.
But Wat didn't flinch. Beneath his hood, his lips curled into a predatory grin. He clenched his fists slowly, and the ground beneath his feet cracked like dry clay under the sheer weight of his aura. Dust rose around him, pebbles dancing in the sudden surge of invisible force.
The men stumbled back, their faces paling as they felt the crushing pressure radiating from Wat. Some even dropped their weapons, their hands trembling uncontrollably.
Rickstar acted fast, stepping in front of Wat and pressing a hand against his chest. "Hold it," he hissed urgently, his voice firm but low. His eyes locked with Wat's shadowed gaze. For a heartbeat, it seemed Wat might ignore him—but then the tension in his stance eased, the ground stilled, and the oppressive aura vanished like a storm passing.
Before the silence could stretch further, a voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"What is this nonsense!?" The crowd parted as Headman Andros strode forward, his presence commanding immediate respect from his men. His fur-lined cloak swung behind him as he approached, eyes sharp as a hawk.
Rickstar seized the opportunity, stepping forward quickly. "Headman Andros!" he called out, relief in his voice. He placed a fist over his chest in a formal salute. "I am Captain Rickstar of the Paladins. We are here to help Hollow Village."
Andros' piercing gaze swept over them both before settling on Rickstar. "Who sent you?" he asked coldly. "Kanter City or Yubi City?"
Rickstar froze for a moment. He understood the trap in the question. To choose either side was to declare allegiance in a political struggle he wanted no part of. So, he stood tall and replied steadily, "Neither. I am sent here by my superior."
Andros studied him for a long, tense moment, then finally nodded. "Hmm. In that case, let us go to the village hall."
The two men led them through the silent streets. All around, Andros' guards remained on high alert, hands resting on their weapon hilts, eyes tracking Wat and Rickstar with suspicion that bordered on hostility.
When they entered the hall, the air grew warmer but no less tense. A man awaited them inside—older, but with sharp features and an aura of quiet authority. Andros gestured toward him. "This is Mr. Aurelios, a nasyonalista and the man funding Hollow Village's industrial development."
Rickstar extended his hand in greeting. "An honor," he said politely.
The man clasped it firmly. "Alfonso Aurelios," he introduced himself.
At that name, Wat stiffened under his cloak. The syllables slammed into his mind like a hammer against an anvil. Alfonso Aurelios. The name echoed, sharp and venomous, stirring old memories and long-buried rage. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling ever so slightly.
"Hey!" Rickstar's voice snapped him back to the present. The paladin was frowning at him, concern etched across his face. "Are you okay?"
Wat inhaled slowly, forcing his hands to relax. "Yes," he said evenly, his voice betraying nothing. "I'm fine."
Rickstar eyed him for a moment longer, then turned back to Aurelios. "Shall we proceed?"
Aurelios inclined his head, then excused himself with a smile before vanishing down the corridor. Wat's hood tilted slightly, following his retreating figure, but he said nothing.
Inside a small chamber, the men gathered around a round table stacked with documents and parchment. Rickstar began to sift through the reports, his brow furrowed in concentration. "These records... they only mention eighty missing villagers," he said thoughtfully.
Wat crossed his arms. "These reports are incomplete," he said flatly, his tone carrying a weight that drew every eye in the room. His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "Are you hiding something?"
Rickstar spun toward him, alarm flashing in his eyes. "Wat! You can't just—"
But Andros raised a hand, silencing him. "Actually, he is correct."
Rickstar blinked in surprise. "What do you mean?"
"The true number," Wat said, his voice like iron, "is closer to one hundred and fifty."
Rickstar turned sharply. "What? That many?"
Andros exhaled slowly, the weight of truth settling on his shoulders. "One hundred and fifty-eight," he admitted. "We downplayed it for the sake of the villagers. Panic would have destroyed what little order remains."
Rickstar's fists tightened at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. "Why wasn't the truth reported to the authorities?" His tone was sharp enough to cut stone, carrying an edge of accusation that drew the room into silence.
Andros' golden eyes locked onto his, unwavering and cold, like molten metal cooling into steel. "Because the truth," he said slowly, each word weighed like an anchor, "would bring more than help. It would bring vultures." His voice darkened, laced with venom. "Hunters who smell profit in blood. Lords who see chaos as an opportunity to expand their dominion. Even the Church would come knocking—not to save us, but to leash us."
Rickstar didn't flinch. He took a step forward, boots echoing like distant war drums against the stone floor. "And what of the innocent? What of the families who vanished in Hollow Village? How many more will suffer while you protect your pride?" His voice rose, fierce and unwavering. "Allow us full freedom to investigate. No walls. No whispers. No interference."
A muscle in Andros' jaw twitched, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. The weight of the courtyard's silence grew heavier; even the night air seemed to hold its breath.
Andros exhaled slowly, his voice dropping into a low rumble that was both threat and concession. "You do not know what nest you are about to strike, human," he advised.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, he gave a single, curt nod. "Very well. You will have your freedom." His eyes flared, catching the moonlight like twin flames. "But know this—freedom in my territory is not without consequence. Fail, and the next grave we dig will have your name."
As they exited the hall, the tension in the air thickened again. At the doorway, a towering figure stepped into their path—a massive man with arms like tree trunks, a cruel grin carved into his face. Drogbo.
"New faces," Drogbo rumbled, his voice like grinding stone. "Who are you?"
Rickstar frowned. "None of your business," he said curtly.
Drogbo's grin widened. With deliberate slowness, he swung his enormous axe down in front of them, the blade biting deep into the wooden floor. "No one walks through here without my say-so."
"Drogbo!" Andros' voice cracked like a whip as he strode forward. "They are paladins. Show some respect."
"Tsk," Drogbo spat, glaring at Wat through the shadows of his hood. "I don't think so."
Before the exchange could escalate, Andros cut in sharply. "How your work went? Where are the prisoners?"
Drogbo sneered. "You won't believe this. Mikael helped them escape."
Rickstar stiffened. "Prisoners?"
Andros waved a dismissive hand. "Thieves," he said casually. "Nothing of concern."
Rickstar's eyes lingered on Drogbo a moment longer before he said, "Then we'll be on our way."
As they walked off, Drogbo watched them go, his gaze lingering not on Rickstar, but on Wat—the hooded figure who had spoken little but whose presence radiated like a storm waiting to break.