The house was still.
The creaky wooden floor didn't groan anymore beneath restless feet. The twins were finally asleep—curled up under the old patched blanket that Darian had spread over them like a fragile hope. Their breathing was soft and rhythmic, like the first calm after a violent storm.
Darian stood in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame as the moonlight filtered through the single cracked window.
He looked at them. Really looked.
Not just as burdens. Not just as reminders of the man he used to be. But as children. His children.
He let out a long breath, rubbing his face with a hand stained from both blood and the filth of the road.
"Alright…" he muttered under his breath, voice hoarse. "I see that I've made some progress. Tiny progress. But progress."
He glanced toward the old, dusty corner of the room—the one that still had a bottle or two he hadn't thrown out yet.
"But those debt collectors… shit. I may or may not have really fucked that part up."
He pushed off the doorframe, pacing slowly across the room. The boards creaked now, a little louder, as if echoing his thoughts.
"They're not gonna stop. Not until they get what they came for."
He paused, frowning.
"And the worst part? I don't even know who I owe. Or which loan shark I—or the old me—took the money from."
The thought made his stomach twist.
What if they came back? What if they had more men next time?
He looked back at the bed. Rin had curled closer to her brother, one hand gripping his shirt in her sleep. Her face was still swollen, her lip split from whatever happened in the cave… and probably long before that.
Darian clenched his jaw. His veins still pulsed faintly with leftover rage.
"I should ask the villagers," he muttered. "Maybe someone knows something. A name. A face. A hint."
But the thought brought a bitter chuckle from his throat.
"Yeah… right. Like anyone in this gods-forsaken village would willingly talk to me."
He could already hear them: "Drunk." "Scum." "Monster." They never even tried to hide the way they spoke about him.
And, frankly, they weren't wrong. Not before.
Darian sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.
"And even if I could ask… it's the middle of the damn night. Everyone's either asleep or would chase me off with a pitchfork if I so much as knocked on their door."
He moved back to the window, staring out at the empty dirt path under the silver wash of moonlight.
"So. I wait."
He sat down heavily in the old chair by the door, the wood creaking beneath his weight. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes for just a moment, and rested one hand on the hilt of the blade beside him.
"Wait until morning," he murmured. "Then… I'll make my next move."
The candle on the table flickered once, then went out.
Darkness.
But this time… it didn't feel so lonely.
The rising sun bled warm gold across the gray timbers of Darian's home. Inside, he was already up—dressed, armed, and standing by the open window. The early breeze carried the smell of wet dirt and old firewood.
He rolled his shoulder, wincing as the bruises and cuts from yesterday's brawl tugged at stiff muscles.
His fingers moved instinctively, pulling up the invisible screen only he could see—hovering faintly in his vision like a ghostly menu from the game that wasn't a game.
🧾 Status Screen: Darian
Level: 20
Race: Human
Age: 24 (Mentality: 17)
Title: "That Deranged Wolf Murderer" (local nickname)
Profession: Unemployed / Beginner Adventurer
Class: BERSERKER
🧬 Stats (Average Person: 9 | Adventurers: 10–13 | Knights: 13–15 | Holy Knights: 18–20)
Stat Value
Strength 14
Endurance 17
Dexterity 11
Agility 10
Vitality 14
Intelligence 7
Wisdom 4
Perception 8
Charisma 7
Mana -1 ❌
🛠️ Traits
Street Dog 🐕 – Dirty, desperate, dangerously effective.
Unorthodox Swordsmanship 🗡️ – +Crit chance from unpredictability.
🧠 Skills
Skill Level Notes
Dark Magic Resistance 10 You're basically fireproof to edgy magic.
Sneak 3 Still learning.
Swordsmanship 2 Broken blades still count.
Skinning 2 Wolves paid off.
Pain Tolerance 4 Still standing. Barely.
Paralyzing Toxin Resistance 1 Elves and their tricks.
Brawl 11 You fight like a mad dog.
Woodcutting 1 Not perfect. But hey, it's a start.
Intimidating Presence 1 The bandages help.
Intimidate 6 Terrifying when angry.
Throwing Weapon 3 Axe throwing therapy.
Archery 4 Missed half the time. Still worked.
Passive Skill: "Frenzied Onslaught" – Boosts damage, agility, and resistance when enraged. Warning: may black out in battle.
He closed the screen with a sigh.
"...Mana's still negative. Great," he muttered. "But at least I've got enough strength to lift a horse and scare a grown man into wetting himself."
He strapped on his gear, glanced toward the twins' room—they were still sleeping—and quietly closed the door behind him as he stepped out into the early dawn.
Darian walked down the main dirt path, his presence drawing stiff shoulders and averted gazes. Mothers ushered children indoors, and older men leaned on fences with narrowed eyes.
His footsteps crunched over dry straw as he approached the old well at the village center. A hunched man with a crooked back—Old Jeb, the unofficial town gossip—was hauling a pail up with shaky arms.
Darian gave a small nod.
"Morning."
Jeb grunted. "Didn't think I'd see you walkin' 'round so soon, Darian."
"I need to ask something. Important."
"You always do when things go south." Jeb spat to the side. "What is it this time?"
"Who did I borrow money from?" Darian asked bluntly. "Before… before everything changed."
The old man narrowed his eyes. "You're really askin'? After all the crap you pulled?" He glanced around, then huffed. "You don't remember?"
"I wouldn't be asking if I did."
There was a long silence before Jeb finally spoke, quieter this time.
"You owe Marven Locke. Used to be a merchant, now he's just a collector. Moved up north, near Redgate. He doesn't come here often—sends his men instead. Big lads in black coats. You missed 'em by a week."
Darian's jaw tightened.
"That's who took the twins?"
"I'd bet my good leg on it." Jeb gave him a sharp look. "You really don't remember makin' that deal?"
"No," Darian muttered, "and I wish I did."
Jeb squinted. "You weren't right back then. Drank too much, yelled too loud. People were scared of you. Thought maybe you finally lost your mind. You came to Marven desperate, said you needed coin. Said you'd pay with whatever you had to."
Darian looked down at his hands. Scarred. Bruised. And now, shaking slightly.
"Where's Redgate?"
"Three days north on foot, two if you're lucky. But don't be stupid. Marven doesn't let people walk away. He'll want more than money now."
"I'm not looking to walk away."
He turned, walking toward his home, voice low.
"I'm looking to take something back."
The dirt road turned to gravel as Darian trudged north toward Redgate, the crisp air sharp in his lungs and the midday sun crawling behind gray clouds. His boots kicked up dust as the wooden sign of a familiar building creaked into view: "The Golden Keg", painted in gaudy gold letters with flaking edges. Beneath it hung another sign:
Owned & Operated by: Marven Locke.
Darian stopped.
He stared at the building like it had spat in his face.
The air around him seemed to hum with tension.
"...This fat bastard…"
His hand twitched at his side. A slow breath escaped his lips.
"I remember now. This smug piece of lard always played the game like a rigged deck. I needed better gear—he hiked the prices. I tried to sell wolf pelts—he undercut me and laughed. I was bleeding coin just trying to survive, while he poured wine down his throat like water.
His jaw clenched.
"They called him the 'Merchant of Misery.' A bloated tick sucking adventurers dry while pretending to be a friend. All those times I thought it was just me failing… turns out I was playing with loaded dice, and he was the one dealing."
His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to the door.
The wood groaned as he pushed it open.
The tavern was noisy, filled with the smell of sweat, ale, and cheap stew. Laughter and clinking mugs rang through the air, but a hush fell over a few patrons as Darian entered. He didn't look like a man out for a drink—he looked like a storm.
He approached the long bar counter, where a thin, rat-faced bartender was drying mugs with a greasy rag. The man froze when he saw him.
Darian leaned on the bar, voice steady.
"I'm looking for Marven Locke."
The bartender gulped.
"H-He's upstairs," he muttered. "Private room. Business hours only—he doesn't like bein' disturbed."
Darian's eyes were like black iron.
"Too bad," he said coldly. "I've got business, and it can't wait."
Before the bartender could argue, Darian turned and made his way toward the stairs.
As Darian strode toward the stairs at the back of the tavern, the shift in the room was immediate and sharp.
Boots scraped against the floorboards.
Chairs slid back.
Tankards were quietly set down.
And then—almost all at once—the entire tavern stood.
Every man in the room, from traveling mercs to grubby local farmhands, turned to face him. A few cracked their knuckles. One man pulled a dagger from his belt and began to twirl it idly. Another had a cudgel resting on his shoulder, already stained with old blood.
Darian paused.
He slowly turned his head to scan the room—calm, calculating. His eyes settled on the rat-faced bartender, who was suddenly nowhere to be seen.
"Tch."
A balding brute with a crooked nose stepped forward, arms crossed.
"You got a pair walkin' in here like that, Bandage Boy," he sneered. "Marchin' upstairs to Locke's office like you're owed somethin'."
Another man chuckled from the left.
"That's the guy, right? The nut who killed twenty bandits with a broken sword?"
"What's he gonna do, bleed on us?"
The men laughed—but the tension didn't ease.
A wiry rogue stepped into Darian's path at the base of the stairs, blades crossed over his chest. "Orders were clear, outsider. No one sees Locke without going through us. Pay the toll or walk the fuck out."
Darian looked down at the rogue's blades.
Then up at his face.
Then he sighed.
The rogue's smirk faltered.
"You lot sure you want to do this?" Darian asked, cracking his neck. "Because I'm trying really hard not to turn this into a mess."
Silence.
A bead of sweat slid down one man's temple.
Then the tavern brawler with the cudgel barked, "GET 'IM!"
Six men charged.
The six men rushed like a wave—anger, steel, and muscle crashing toward Darian.
But he didn't move.
He stood still.
Right until the first swing came from the left.
Then he ducked.
The blade hissed over his head—too slow.
Darian drove his forehead forward into the man's nose.
CRACK.
The man screamed, blood spraying.
He collapsed backward, howling.
"One."
Another came with a cudgel, swinging high.
Darian pivoted, caught the man's wrist, and pulled him off balance.
Then he slammed an elbow into his gut, grabbed the cudgel mid-fall, and with one smooth twist—
WHAM
—broke it across the side of another man's skull.
That one dropped like a sack of potatoes.
"Two. Three."
Steel flashed. A dagger nicked his side.
Darian winced.
The rogue grinned. "Got you—"
Too slow.
Darian headbutted him again, this time harder. The rogue dropped his dagger and fell, clutching his eye.
"Four."
A larger brute—maybe a farmhand on Locke's payroll—charged from behind. Darian heard the boots and spun, catching the man with a backhanded swing from a broken stool leg he'd picked up off the floor.
The wood shattered.
The man went down.
"Five."
Another lunged from the right, trying to wrap arms around Darian's chest.
"Gotcha now—!"
But Darian planted his feet and flipped the man forward over his shoulder with a primal roar. The man crashed into a table, splinters flying.
"Six."
Silence returned.
Darian stood at the center of a wrecked tavern—tables overturned, chairs broken, blood and groans on the floor. The light flickered from oil lamps as every remaining bystander stared in stunned, terrified awe.
He took a deep breath, chest rising and falling.
One of the serving girls dropped a tray with a loud clatter.
Then—
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS NOISE?!"
A shrill voice barked from the upper floor. All eyes turned to the stairwell.
Marven Locke appeared.
He was short, round, red-faced, and drenched in sweat and velvet. A greasy comb-over barely clung to his scalp, and gold rings clinked on his fat fingers as he clutched the stair's rail.
His eyes blazed with fury.
"My tavern looks like a goblin camp after a lightning storm—what in the everloving seven hells is the meaning of this?!"
His gaze landed on Darian.
The blood.
The bruises.
The broken bodies.
"YOU?!"
Behind him, in the shadows at the top of the stairs, stood a cloaked figure. Their face obscured, their frame lean but tall, and still as stone. The presence of this figure instantly changed the tone in the room. Those who were conscious lowered their eyes. Some even shuffled back.
Marven's expression twitched—equal parts nervous and furious.
"You picked a hell of a time to show your ugly mug, Darian," he sneered. "I thought you were dead. Or running. Yet here you are. Like a bad fucking rash."
Darian's knuckles cracked.
"We need to talk, Locke. About my debt."
Marven leaned on the rail, sneering.
"Oh, we'll talk alright. But not here. My associate and I will see you upstairs."
He gestured to the cloaked figure beside him.
"Come on then, 'Wolf Butcher'… Let's see how much blood you still got left to spill."
The creaky stairs groaned beneath Darian's boots as he followed Marven Locke to the upper floor of the tavern. The smell of perfume couldn't cover the old smoke and expensive liquor that clung to the walls like secrets. Velvet curtains. Gilded chairs. A bottle of wine uncorked but untouched.
And standing near the window, still cloaked in shadow, was the figure.
Marven motioned Darian inside and waddled to a cushioned chair, groaning as he sat. He leaned forward, his rings glinting as he clasped his fingers together.
"So. The infamous 'Wolf Butcher' graces me with a visit. I assume you're not here to drink."
Darian didn't sit. He stepped into the room, face grim, posture taut. His voice was a slow growl.
"I came to give you an offer, Locke. One you can't refuse."
Marven smirked.
"Oh? And what might that be?"
Darian took another step forward.
"You erase my debt. All of it. Forget it ever existed."
A pause. Then:
"Or I take your fucking head and feed it to your own pigs."
The room went still.
The cloaked figure near the window turned his head slowly, finally stepping forward. He pulled back his hood, revealing a young man, maybe in his late twenties. Short black hair. Sharp eyes. Armor visible beneath the travel cloak—darkened steel, worn but kept in good condition.
On the pauldron: the insignia of the Knighthood of the Fifth Circle.
⚔️ The Knightly Ranking System
In this world, knights are ranked in five circles, ascending in prestige and power:
Fifth Circle (Lowest): Apprentice knights or hired blades in service to noble houses or merchants. Trained but not yet proven.
Fourth Circle: Recognized warriors. Often commanders of small units, given minor land or responsibility.
Third Circle: Veterans with multiple campaigns. Trusted advisors or champions.
Second Circle: Rare. Personal knights of kings, generals of armies, or renowned duelists.
First Circle: Near-legendary. Only a handful exist. They stand just beneath the Holy Knights—the elite few granted divine blessing by the Church or gods.
And beyond them:
Holy Knights: Chosen. Blessed. Feared. Capable of feats that defy mortal limits.
Back in the room, the young knight spoke.
"Marven Locke is under the protection of the House of Greyforge. As his contracted knight, I cannot let that threat go unpunished."
Darian cracked his neck.
"Then put your steel where your mouth is."
"I'm Sir Aedric of the Fifth Circle," the knight declared, drawing his blade. "Prepare yourself."
🔥 Combat Begins – Full Cinematic Detail
Aedric lunged.
The sword came in fast—aimed for Darian's ribs.
Darian dodged left, barely—CLANG—the steel grazed his belt. He retaliated with a wild swing, the flat of his broken chair leg striking Aedric's shoulder. The knight stumbled back, surprised by the raw aggression.
Aedric: "You fight like a beast—"
Darian: "And you bleed like a man."
The next exchange was faster. Sparks flew as Aedric's blade met Darian's stolen short sword.
Slash.
Parry.
Riposte.
Darian ducked low, shoulder-charged Aedric into the wall. The knight grunted, elbowed Darian's temple, then backed off—eyes narrow.
Aedric: "You're stronger than you look."
Darian: "I'm pissed."
Blood ran from Darian's temple. His muscles ached. But he was smiling now. His heart was pounding.
"Frenzied Onslaught" began to pulse in his veins. The passive kicked in. Each blow now struck harder. Faster.
Aedric charged.
Darian didn't dodge.
He met him.
Steel collided. The knight's blade slashed across Darian's arm—but the Berserker didn't flinch. He grabbed Aedric's arm, twisted it, and slammed his head into the knight's nose—CRACK.
Aedric dropped to a knee, stunned.
Darian stood over him, panting, bloodied.
"Yield," Darian growled. "Or next time, I swing to kill."
Aedric looked up, dazed—and spat blood.
"...I yield."
Marven was pale. Sweating.
He stammered, "Now—now hold on—this is all a misunderstanding—"
Darian turned toward him, sword dripping, eyes wild.
"Debt. Gone. Say it."
"Y-Yes! Gone! Gone! No debt, no coin! Nothing owed!"
Darian leaned forward, blood staining his shirt.
"Good."
As he turned to leave, he tossed a few silver coins toward the bruised bartender downstairs.
"For the mess."
Then he disappeared into the early afternoon sun, leaving behind a battered knight, a humiliated merchant… and the whispers of Bluff's End that would never stop.