The bar smelled of salt and old wood, its timbers creaking faintly as the sea breeze slipped in through half-shuttered windows. The lamps hanging from rusted hooks gave off a dim, amber glow that struggled against the heavy shadows crowding the corners. Dust clung to the bottles on the shelves, most of them half-empty, their labels long faded. Only a few tables were occupied. A pair of fishermen hunched over a jug of cheap rum, speaking in low tones.
At the counter sat a man who stood out from the rest. Broad-shouldered and scarred, his muscles rippled even beneath his worn shirt. His back was straight, his presence too sharp for this sleepy bar. Strapped across his back was a sword—an enormous, battle-worn blade, its hilt wrapped in leather darkened by time and sweat.
He leaned forward, speaking in hushed tones with the bartender, who polished a glass with more patience than urgency. Every so often, the man's low laughter rumbled through the empty room, carrying a weight that made even the fishermen glance over and then quickly look away.
The bartender Smith was a man in his 70s with white hair and beard. Smith wiped down the counter with his usual lazy rhythm, eyes flicking to the hulking man across from him. "You've been hanging around here longer than usual, Yuhan. What's the matter? Lost your taste for blood?"
Yuhan smirked, resting one elbow on the counter. "Lost my taste for listening to arrogant academy brats. Thought I'd give my ears a rest." He tilted his mug and drained what was left before setting it down with a heavy clink.
Smith chuckled. "Still chasing that dream?"
Yuhan leaned back on his stool, the sword strapped to his back catching the lamplight. "Not chasing. I'm already near it. Passed the Grandmaster Trial last month."
Smith raised his brows, genuinely surprised. "Hah. Didn't think you'd pull it off this soon."
"I told you, Smith," Yuhan said, a proud grin spreading across his scarred face. "The academy doesn't own the title of strength. I've proved it. Non-academians can rise just as high, higher even. Those pompous elders at the top? One day, I'll stand among them. And when I do, they'll have no choice but to recognize me."
The bartender poured another drink, sliding it over without asking. "An Elder, huh? That's a tall order. Most men your age are happy enough to keep their heads attached to their shoulders."
Yuhan's eyes narrowed, but his tone stayed calm. "Most men don't carry the weight I do. My party's strong, we've fought through storms that would've broken lesser hunters. They've gone home for now, but when we regroup, the world will know our name."
Smith leaned on the counter, lowering his voice. "Ambition's good, but the higher you climb, the darker the shadows get. You're not the only one with eyes on the Elder seats. Some don't take kindly to competition."
Yuhan gave a quiet laugh, deep and rough. "Let them try. I've cut down monsters twice my size. Men plotting in the dark don't scare me."
Smith didn't reply immediately. Instead, he glanced around the quiet room, then back at Yuhan. "Monsters don't hold grudges. People do."
For the first time, Yuhan's grin faltered. He gripped his mug tighter, his gaze distant for a moment before hardening again. "Doesn't matter. I've chosen my path. I'll carve it with steel if I have to."
At that moment the door creaked open, letting in a breath of salty sea air. Heads turned briefly, but most quickly lost interest. Only Yuhan's eyes sharpened as the newcomer stepped inside.
A young man, maybe mid-twenties, draped in a dark cloak that looked out of place in the humid island heat. His boots clicked against the wooden floor, steady and unhurried. The way his eyes drifted across the room was unsettling—calculating, as if he were measuring every patron, every exit, every weapon.
Dozens of seats were open, yet he came straight to the counter. Without hesitation, he slid onto the stool beside Yuhan, close enough for the leather of his cloak to brush against Yuhan's arm.
"Strange," Smith muttered, pouring him a glass without being asked.
The cloaked man ignored the bartender. He lifted the drink, took a sip, then slowly turned his head toward Yuhan. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Nice blade," he said, his tone calm, almost casual—yet there was a weight beneath it, a deliberate provocation.
Yuhan's hand instinctively brushed the hilt that jutted over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed, meeting the stranger's gaze. "Funny," he said, voice steady. "Most men learn to respect distance when they notice the steel."
The man didn't flinch, didn't shift. He just leaned a little closer, his smile never leaving. "Respect is earned. Sometimes… tested." Smith's hand paused halfway through polishing a glass. The bar, already quiet, felt as though it had sunk into silence.
Yuhan's lips curved into the faintest smirk as his eyes drifted down. Beneath the folds of the stranger's cloak, a sliver of steel caught the light.
"Hide it properly if you want to hide it," Yuhan said flatly, tilting his chin toward the exposed edge. "What's that, a sickle?"
For a heartbeat, silence pressed against the room. Then the stranger's shoulders trembled—soft laughter spilling past his lips. Not nervous, not careless—confident.
He traced his fingers along the rim of his glass before replying, voice smooth as a blade sliding from its sheath. "When the tip alone is enough to make the enemy afraid… why bother showing the whole thing?"
The words hung between them, heavy and deliberate. Smith's hands tightened around the glass he was cleaning, his gaze flicking between the two men. He'd been in this bar for decades, and he knew when a storm was about to break.
But Yuhan didn't break eye contact. His smirk deepened, though his hand hadn't moved far from the hilt on his back. "Careful," he muttered. "Some men don't scare so easily." The stranger lifted his drink in a mock toast, his eyes glinting with an unreadable fire. "Then those men are worth meeting."
The conversation ebbed and flowed, neither man giving away too much, each testing the other with words as sharp as their weapons. Eventually, the stranger drained the last of his glass and rose from his seat, the cloak falling neatly around his frame.
"It was better knowing you," he said, his tone strangely final, as though he had just signed an agreement only he understood. Yuhan gave a short nod, eyes half-lidded but watchful.
"We will meet soon," the stranger added.
"How?" Yuhan asked, leaning slightly forward, hand resting lazily on his drink.
The stranger's smile was thin, unsettling. "You can't just evade me." With that, he turned and walked out, his footsteps fading into the quiet streets.
Yuhan exhaled, muscles unclenching. He poured himself another drink—then another. The hours blurred, the sharp edge of the encounter drowned in the burn of liquor. Eventually, his head slumped against the counter, the world spinning into darkness.
When he finally stirred again, the bar was silent. The laughter and voices had long since died. Only Smith remained, polishing glasses with the same steady rhythm, as if nothing in the world had changed.
The night had settled over the island, deep and hushed. Yuhan pushed himself up, rubbing the weight of exhaustion from his eyes. Without a word, he slung his blade over his back and stepped outside into the dark.
The door shut behind him, leaving the bar empty once more.