Chapter 1In the depths of the most remote mountains of the land of Tiamat, there lay a small village. It was neither picturesque nor wealthy, its only value being the hardworking people who cultivated the land day after day with honest toil. However, it was known for one peculiar detail in its surroundings...
That day was harvest day. This event, increasingly frequent and exhausting, had become a draining task. The village leader, along with the rest of the inhabitants, stood gathered before the collectors in the town square, where a commotion had broken out.
"I already told you, sir, have mercy… you just came last month…", said an elderly man desperately, his skinny arms trembling with rage. Before him stood an imposing man with green skin, nearly two meters tall, a robust musculature mismatched by a large, swollen belly. The latter, with a mocking gesture, simply waved his hand for the old man to be silent.
"It's not our fault, sir. You know our master is very patient, but even he has limits. And he was very clear: three youths, older than fourteen and younger than seventeen, who have never known the opposite sex. See how considerate he is? He didn't even specify the gender this time, unlike before."
The man trembled as he heard how casually this brute spoke about offering up his children, grandchildren, and the village youth in sacrifice—it filled him with helpless rage. Though it was nothing new, each word cut like a knife. The village had always kept a low population, but their high birth rate was the only reason they had remained useful to that lord's interests. Failing to comply with his orders meant that death would, in fact, be the least of the evils they might face.
"But… please, a little mercy. Just last month we had to sacrifice three youths. At this rate we won't be able to—"
"I already told you it's not my fault!" the green-skinned man interrupted with a harsh tone. "And your whining is the last thing I care about."
The huge man stood, and the sound of his movement made everyone in the room shudder.
"Just… please… this time…" the old man pleaded, bowing his head in desperation until his forehead rubbed against the ground.
But the colossus showed not a shred of pity. To him, the dying village had no value beyond satisfying his master's demands. He knew other nearby settlements could easily fill their needs if this one failed. With a cruel smile and a sadistic gesture, he lifted his massive foot, placing it level with the old man's vulnerable body. His movements were slow and deliberate, savoring the horror reflected in the eyes of the onlookers.
The effect was immediate. A little girl and a young man ran to the old man, hugging him tightly in a desperate attempt to shield him.
"What are you doing?!" the elder cried, feeling their bodies pressed protectively against him on the ground.
"Please, sir!" shouted the boy, his voice trembling. "I… I will fulfill the quota. I've never known a woman… and I'm fifteen years old."
The green man stared at him intently, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction at the brave—yet tragic—sacrifice.
"Good! I knew there was some quality among you," he said, letting out a mocking laugh.
Then he slammed his foot down beside the elder's head, shaking everyone present.
"And what about the girl?" he added, his gaze locking on the child, who clung even more tightly to the old man.
That fixed, predatory stare made the boy flinch, but he stepped in front of her again, resolute.
"She… she's only ten years old, sir!"
"You've got to be joking. Ten?! My ass, boy!"
With a violent kick, the giant shoved the boy away from the elder, the old man himself feeling the impact. Only the girl remained in place, and the massive man seized her firmly by the forearm. The child struggled desperately, but it was useless; not even an adult could escape such a brutal grip.
"I told you she wasn't ten."
"Please… no…"
The girl sobbed as the reckless boy threw himself at the colossal being again. Yet his frantic blows didn't harm the towering brute in the slightest—he ignored them entirely.
"Fine, take these two. We'll find one more later…"
A sudden noise interrupted the order. It was a peculiar sound, slowly approaching along the dirt road leading to the village entrance. Few merchants dared to travel to these lands; no trader was foolish enough to believe they'd find anything of value here. However, the idea of it being a merchant quickly vanished when everyone recognized the sound: a sputtering steam engine accompanied by somewhat rickety machinery.
The vehicle was painted in bright, striking colors, dominated by a vivid blue that adorned the front. At its center was a smiling black eye, emblazoned across the massive wagon's face. But the most remarkable thing was the music: a playful tune, the kind one might hear at festivals or circuses. It was cheerful and repetitive—utterly out of place in the tense atmosphere.
"A traveling circus?" one of the ogre henchmen muttered.
The leader, still holding the girl, tossed her to the ground without a thought, while another ogre restrained the boy, who thrashed desperately to help her. The leader stepped into the middle of the path, positioning himself before the peculiar caravan. Then, unexpectedly, the vehicle's roof opened with a soft click, revealing a man.
He was young, with silver hair and a piercing gaze. He wore a dark blue tunic with a black fur-lined hood. His boots matched the color of a glove that covered his entire right hand and forearm. With a cocky smile—and, in a way, more terrifying than that of the ogres themselves—the man surveyed the place as if peering through an imaginary spyglass, his bare hand raised to his brow as he scanned the scene from left to right. Finally, he took a breath and spoke his first word:
"What a grotesque spectacle you've put on without me. I hope my invitation got lost on the way."
"Who are you? Where do you come from? You don't look like you're from the master's lands," one of the ogres holding the boy replied.
"If we're talking about quick-wittedness, you'd surely win the prize. Allow me to introduce myself," the newcomer said with a mocking tone. "I'm the owner of 'The All-Seeing Eye.'"
As he said this, he spread his arms wide. Instantly, the vehicle began to open, revealing a set of small lights that dimly illuminated the man standing at its center. Beneath his feet, a symbol was revealed: a half-open eye with shaded bags beneath it, drawn in light blue, its pupil a vivid violet, encased within a monocle.
"My name is Trill. A pleasure to meet you," he added, concluding with an elegant bow to his stunned audience.
Everyone present was bewildered. The villagers had no idea what to make of this flamboyant man who seemed completely oblivious to the gravity of the situation. Of the three ogres, only one clapped after the presentation, clumsily letting go of the girl, who immediately ran toward the boy.
"Idiot, don't let her go!" the leader roared in fury.
He snapped at the absurd behavior of his companion, who quickly lunged to grab the girl again. However, something stopped him—or rather, something caught his attention. A sharp silver knife had pierced the palm of his hand. The cut was so clean he barely felt it at first, but the material began to burn progressively, causing a howl of pain to echo through the place. He tried to pull it out himself, but it was useless; the metal seared even his other hand to the touch. Like an abandoned pup, he looked desperately to his leader, who also didn't know what to do. Both turned at once toward the culprit.
The man atop the caravan was now toying with another knife identical to the one buried in the ogre's palm.
"You know, it's bad manners to interrupt the showman during his act."
"Damn you! You'll pay with your head!" the leader bellowed in rage.
"Ooh, scary… But you see, I didn't forecast that a grumpy, foul-smelling lardball would be the one to give me a beating today. Or did you forget to tell me something, Skipper?"
The young man raised his right hand, showing the back of it, where a sapphire-colored eye moved at his will. Its serpentine iris seemed to analyze the leader for a few seconds before the boy casually scratched his head.
"Looks like there's no other choice… Little Eye, 'show me my future.'"
In the blink of an eye, the boy was gone. The caravan stood completely empty. Desperate, the leader spun around, searching everywhere—until a sharp sound behind him made him turn.
"Wrong side, friend."
The young man waved the severed hand of his subordinate, while in his other hand he held the same ogre's head, now separated from its body and tossed onto the ground.
"You son of—" The leader tried to speak, but was interrupted by another voice.
"You're a Witch Hunter!"
The old man had risen to his feet, watching the scene with eyes full of newly rekindled hope. Trill returned his gaze with an unpleasant smile.
"I see you know my lady."
"I… I want to hire your services!" the man shouted desperately.
"Foolish old man…" The orc leader began to say something, but all he got was a slap with his subordinate's severed hand. Instinctively, he held the limb before dropping it in disgust and stumbling back until he fell to the ground.
"Let's see… Each orc is worth two gold coins. But I'll be generous. The first one was free; the other two you'll have to pay for. Understood, old man?"
Cold sweat beaded on the man's forehead. It was well known across the continent that the Crimson Witch's guild charged dearly, but he had never imagined this much. With a single gold coin, he could feed the entire village for months. That price meant selling all his livestock—but still, if with those four coins he could save his grandchildren, he would do it. With determination, he nodded and declared loudly:
"I accept. I'll pay whatever you ask… but save my grandchildren!"
"A deal struck is a deal never undone!" Trill said with a sinister grin, drawing two silver knives, one in each hand.
"Wait! If it's gold you want, my master will give you as much as you want!"
The plea went unheard. The first knife struck straight into the orc leader's throat. In the blink of an eye, as if a wild beast had pounced on its prey, Trill was already hanging from the baffled brute's chest.
"I don't make deals with 'Nemirs.'"
Without further words, he pulled the knife free. The wound spread as if the orc's flesh rotted around the cut, his head dropping to the ground with a dull thud. The last orc released the boy and bolted in panic. His large, clumsy legs carried him as fast as they could—until he stepped on one of the silver knives previously placed on the ground. The pain made him stumble, and as he fell, his own foot was shredded as if it were butter under a hot blade. Desperate, he tried to crawl away, but Trill took his time. With playful, deliberate steps, he closed the distance, savoring the moment.
When he was close enough, the hunter gave him a kick that rolled him onto his back. The orc tried to fight back; even on the ground, he was much larger than the young man, who didn't even stand one meter seventy. But when he threw his first punch, he realized how useless it was—Trill caught his wrist with unnerving ease.
"You know, I like to look the ones I hunt straight in the eye. I wonder… when you were making so many 'Sirmn' suffer, did they see the same thing? I doubt it. You have no soul."
It was over. The knife sank cleanly into the orc's chest, ending his life in an instant. By the time Trill was done, the bodies had already been consumed by the silver.
"Well then," the young man said, turning to the villagers, now speechless in awe. "So… who do I talk to about business?"