It was almost noon, and the Dragon Hunters were starving. Some lit torches in the underground restaurant. This was a special moment, and no hunter dared to waste their meager forty-five minutes of rest.
The bell rang, and all the nearby Hunters ran to the tavern. Those outside the guild hall, checking mission boards, also hurried to the place.
There were over forty active Hunters that day. Mr. Byron, the tavern owner, cook, waiter, and also pianist, was already sweeping the floor. He removed cobwebs from under the chairs, dusted off the surfaces, and put a huge black dragon breast to roast.
Smoke from the oven rose through the guild's chimney, signaling that it was lunchtime. "Let's go," said one of the Hunters as he headed to the tavern.
Soon, the previously empty space was crowded. The Hunters settled at their tables—some playing chess, others playing card games, and a few just dozing off.
Those at the bar were only interested in taking a good shot of cachaça or any other alcoholic drink. "Hey, Mr. Byron, give me a shot of White Vermillion."
"Are you sure, Max? We have a mission this afternoon, we can't drink too much. Besides, that drink makes you really sleepy," warned his friend Noro.
Mr. Byron interjected. "No problem, Noro. A small sip won't hurt, it'll just give you a hell of a nausea. I don't know who hunted this dragon, but I think its saliva was mixed with vomit," mocked the tavern owner.
"Wait, are you saying this drink is made from dragon saliva? That's disgusting."
"You're right, it is disgusting, but some people like it."
The oven's coals dimmed, and finally, the black dragon breast was ready—perfectly cooked. Tender, delicious meat. Zero fat, just meat.
Everyone celebrated enthusiastically. Mr. Byron placed the large meat on a table along with other dishes. No hunter wasted time; that enormous, delicious breast quickly became nothing more than small bones.
Only fifteen minutes of rest remained. Everyone was stuffed from eating and was just talking about the day's missions. Suddenly, heavy footsteps were heard descending the stairs.
Everyone stopped talking and turned alert toward the tavern's entrance. One step at a time, heavy and loud. TOC-TOC-TOC… NHEC-NHEC-NHEC creaked the stairs with each step.
One of the Hunters stood from his chair and drew his sword. "Who's there?" he asked.
Suddenly, a silhouette appeared in the darkness of the staircase—a body in knight's armor over two meters tall, against a brave man of one meter seventy.
The armor was deeply scratched on the chest, bloodstains visible. His face was hidden by the helmet, but his breathing and muttering could be heard. "Ufff… he's coming back."
The knight lost balance and fell to his knees, spitting blood onto the floor, then falling backward. Those nearby witnessed one of the most gruesome scenes of the day.
The knight's back had a massive bite, so deep that his organs and spine were visible. "How did he get here?" asked one of the Hunters.
Suddenly, another warrior descended the stairs, heavy steps again, but this time not in heavy armor. The warrior wore only leather pants and a sleeveless shirt, a sword at his waist in its sheath. Long black hair reached his neck, yellow eyes, and a scar across his mouth.
"What, you're alive?" asked the skeptical Hunter standing in front.
"Who is this guy?" asked Laurencio, leader of a group of Hunters.
The same group member, still impressed, whispered:
"It's Yzael, the greatest dragon hunter of the generation. They say he went to the top of a volcano to kill the Devil Dragon, which caused frequent eruptions in the region. He's a legend."
Yzael stared at everyone—some disbelieving, others envious, but no one had the courage to challenge him.
"Y-you brought this guy here?" asked the Hunter in front.
Yzael looked at him. "Yes, he was unconscious. I was returning from a mission in the South and found him among the bushes being devoured by smaller dragon hatchlings. I brought him on my horse, and it seems the stubborn one wanted to come down here himself."
"What were you doing alone in the South?" asked one of the Hunters at the back of the tavern, apparently uneasy. He immediately stood.
He was Lazio, a noble and petty hunter with blonde hair. He wore fine blue and red garments woven from cotton and silk. He stared into Yzael's eyes for a long time.
Yzael laughed mockingly. "Don't think your skills will make me bow to you, you petty daddy's boy."
Lazio's eyes bled heavily, forcing him to close them in pain. "Damn it! What the hell, man."
Yzael walked toward Lazio, pushing aside those in his way. "You were in the South too. Your team had an attack warrior. You and your members abandoned him in the forest to die alone. You son of a—"
Yzael raised his hand to punch Lazio, but a team member grabbed his arm. It was Mirai, one of the mages capable of summoning lightning from nothing. "Don't get the wrong idea about us. We weren't on horseback—it was impossible to bring that man here."
Yzael pulled his arm free and grabbed the mage by the neck. "You selfish mage, you're the type with money; if one of you dies, you can hire another for fewer coins. It disgusts me."
Mirai struggled, suffocating against Yzael. A third group member, Marcela, drew a dagger from her pocket and jumped from her chair to strike at his neck. However, Yzael landed a solid punch on her jaw with his other arm.
"Don't think that just because you're a woman, I can't take you down, bitch."
Marcela felt weakened, unable to move her legs, her face bloody. Lazio, fearing Yzael's threats, bowed and begged forgiveness.
"Please, forgive my indecency as captain. What can I do to end this peacefully?"
Yzael dropped Mirai to the ground and turned his back. "Surrender to the local authorities. You broke the Guild's Third Law: Never abandon a member or collaborator, even at the cost of your life."
Lazio gritted his teeth. As Yzael walked toward the exit, Mirai activated his ocular lightning ability.
An electric line shot toward the boy. CRACK! A cloud of dust rose. Yzael was gone. Only Mirai, impaled in the chest and pinned to the counter by Lazio's sword, with Marcela's dagger embedded deep in his throat, trapped against the oak counter.
Everyone was stunned—except Byron. "Trouble kid, glad I'm used to this," he thought while washing the glasses.