The sharp scent of herbs and alchemical salves filled the air, mingling with the metallic smell of blood. Pino lay on the hospital's bed, almost his entire body bound in thick bandages, every breath a burning reminder of the blast that had nearly torn him apart. At his side sat his sister, Pell, her hands clasped tightly on her Lacrima necklace soothing his pain with Holy Magic. For serious injuries like this, the traditional method was still safer, as there could still be shards embedded in his body.
It had been three days since the blast at the bridge. Straf, with the help of Tormund, was able to bring Pino to the nearest hospital. Eris, Lili, Pell and their newest member Karan had heard of the news when they got back to the guild house inn.
The door creaked open. Walking into the chamber was the man Pino had saved.
"How is he?" Tormund asked Pell, standing at the side of the bed. He looked down at the battered figure who had shielded him from death itself, his head bowed in solemn gratitude.
"The herbalist and the chirurgeon said he should be fine in a week or two," Pell answered, her voice trembling but laced with hope. A faint smile tugged at her lips, "Thank you Sir Tormund, for arranging Pino's recovery."
Through Tormund's authority as a Royal Guard, he was able to get Pino the best medical care in Bridgetown. "You don't have to worry about that. I should be the one thanking him. I'd hate to think what I would be now if it wasn't for his bravery."
"Um.. Sir, is it possible you might know something about turning Pino back to a human?" she asked, her tone soft and shy.
"Sorry, little miss. Even Adalan's noble Beastkin family doesn't have that information."
"I understand," sadness weighing down her words.
"If I ever find something, I'll let you know," he promised firmly, offering her some comfort and assurance. "Well then, I'll be back in a few days. Gotta sort some things out first. Thank you again. I am forever indebted to your brother."
Tormund went to Bridgetown on official royal duties, mainly tasked with overseeing the collection of taxes. As Adalan's largest and richest city west of the River Nephar, it was important to maintain control over this strategic location. A public display of dominance, reminding the people of their true ruler, was needed every now and then. Who better to embody that image than the strongest of the strong - Tormund, the Thunder Lord.
The Royal Guards were an elite force under the direct command of the King of Adalan. They were handpicked from among the kingdom's most veteran knights. Upon their induction into the Royal Guards, each was entrusted with a special weapon forged from the rarest and finest materials, a symbol of the kingdom's wealth, history and might.
Tormund's first destination was Bridgetown's guild house.
"Make way for the King's will," the herald cried. "His Exellency's Royal Guard, Sir Tormund, the Thunder Lord."
For a moment, the rowdy adventurers in the guild hall fell into respectful silence, acknowledging the man's presence.
Inside, the Guildmaster, Izolde, greeted him, her voice stern and steady, "Lord Tormund, a pleasure." Though past fifty, she stood sturdier than many men half her age. The scars traced on her arms and neck, her broad shoulders and battle-hardened muscles, all spoke of her vast experience and countless adventures.
"Izolde, we have much too talk about."
"To my office then," she replied in her no-nonsense demeanor.
Due to the rising tensions in the region, the King decreed a raise in taxes to swell the coffers in preparation for war. "They won't like this, Tormund," Izolde remarked after hearing the royal decree. When tax on the guild increased, the added burden was passed down to the adventurers through lower quest rewards.
"It is His Highness' wish to fortify our defenses in case a major war broke out. The safety of His people is of the utmost priority." Tormund declared, justifying the heavier levy.
The frustrated Guildmaster gave him a look of disbelief, her brows wrinkled as if trying to pierce the truth from his words. "The people, eh?" Yet after a moment of silence, she yielded with a weary nod and a heavy sigh. "Fine, I'll have our treasurer prepare what is required for this season's taxes."
"Perfect. I shall inform His Majesty of your 'unwavering' loyalty," Tormund placed a strong hand on her shoulder, the weight deliberate, as though to remind her of her place. Tension bubbled like water being heated in a kettle, but before it could boil over, "Now, what of the Shadowlands report?"
Aside from tax collection, it was also necessary for Adalan's King and advisors to grasp the situation in the Shadowlands, and Bridgetown was its closest domain to the area. The Shadowlands is a vast terrain in the west littered with jagged mountains and perpetually shrouded in a dark miasma, a place only few have dared to tread. It is said that powerful monsters dwell in those parts, and that dungeons also spawn more often there. It posed a grave safety concern for the kingdom, but it also offered a tantalizing opportunity: rare dungeon materials and monster drops.
"Here," Izolde handed over the papers containing the list and descriptions of all the monsters and dungeons encountered recently in the Shadowlands.
The two continued their discussion that stretched on for hours, meticulously reviewing the documents and going through other pressing matters for the kingdom.
Dusk had come and at last, they concluded their meeting.
"It was good working with you, Izolde," Tormund shook her hand, showing genuine respect for the woman that held things together in Bridgetown's guild with her unwavering resolve. "I'll be off."
"Likewise, Lord Tormund. Until your next visit."
The following day, Tormund went back to the bridge where the blast had occurred. From there, he went down into the slums. With him were a herald and a handful of Adalan soldiers, clad in full armor, their weapons at the ready.
The slumfolk stared at the men with confusion and fear in their eyes, whispers spread through the perplexed crowd as they tried to make sense of the group's sudden appearance.
Why are they here?
The herald stepped forward and unfurled the parchment scroll in his hands, "Hear this, people of the realm, by His Majesty's will, judgement falls upon you!
For your rebellion against the Royal emissaries, retribution is demanded!
Stand aside and submit, and through your sacrifice, order and peace shall be restored."
The herald's words crashed through the slums like a wave of despair. Mothers clutched their children tightly and the elderly bowed their heads, trembling.
"Sacrifice?! We didn't have anything to do with that damned blast!" a man yelled, pleading to the armed men.
"Please, spare us!"
"Mom, what's going on?"
"Don't think we're going down without a fight, you lapdogs!"
It was true. They were innocent. Belrik, the alchemist who orchestrated the explosion meant to kill the Royal Guard, had already escaped to the other side of the river through the Black Vein. Nonetheless, he did operate in the slums, as did many outlaws.
It was the perfect excuse to rid the slums of its shadowy business, even if only temporary. It was also necessary for the kingdom to save face. An act of defiance against the crown, especially one of this magnitude, cannot go unpunished for long. Investigations were already taking place to find the culprit, but the people needed to witness swift justice from the King, lest they come to believe defiance bore no consequence.
Tormund gripped his axe tightly, his fingers blushed blood red from pressing against the haft. Lightningbane. The name given to his battle axe. It was made with Orichalcum, a legendary metal coveted for its rarity and its unmatched Mana superconductivity, among other properties. Only a handful of weapons had ever been forged from it.
He wore the face of an executioner, his expression cold, detached and unfeeling. He readied himself for the first strike. Electricity crackled along his weapon, as its blade gleamed with a brilliant golden light.
KZZZZZTT!!
"LIGHTNING SLASH!!"
With a single swing, he unleashed a blazing arc. A row of settlements was obliterated, split in half by the crescent attack.
Panic erupted in the slums as shrieks of terror filled the air. The people ran desperately, bolting in every direction. Most fled. Some, either courageous or simply deranged, charged forward and attacked, picking up whatever tool they could find that had the semblance of a weapon. But, they proved no match for the might of the soldiers, carving through them as easily as a butcher cuts meat.
"Accept your judgement!" the herald announced amidst the bloodied screams of the persecuted.
The soldiers stormed through homes, doors splintering beneath their boots. They looked for anything that might have been used for the blast - alchemical reagents, powders and potions.
Anyone suspected of possessing such materials were slaughtered without fair trial. A woman, as if despised by the gods, happened to own a bottle of medicine for her ailing husband. She was dragged through the dirt, her hair pulled by steel hands. She begged them for mercy; she begged the heavens for a savior. A blade ran through her chest, blood mixed with mud, her voice forever silenced. Her bedridden husband suffered the same cruel fate.
What can you do when the people sworn to protect you end up being the ones to kill you?
The execution raged on, leaving a quarter of the slums decimated in its wake.
It had to be done.
Tormund thought to himself. As the strongest in the kingdom, it was his duty to defend the realm against all threats - be it from enemies, monsters, or even the mere idea of rebellion against the throne.