The gang parlour reeked of burnt meat, spilled ale, and faintly scorched magical residue the aftermath of someone trying to barbecue a fire elemental while arguing over coin. Broken chairs leaned precariously against walls. Tables were scarred with knife marks and scorch marks. A half-deflated banner of their gang symbol drooped from the ceiling.
Near the hearth, a thin man in glasses was tied to the wall, an apple balanced precariously on his head. A gang member twirled a knife, preparing to test his aim.
"Watch this!" he called, voice dripping with arrogance. "I've thrown knives at a moving troll in a blizzard and hit its cousin! Today? This apple is nothing."
The thin man blinked. "I regret all my life choices," he muttered.
Another gang member snorted, sipping ale. "Pfft. We're untouchable, boys. Ain't nobody in this city magic, swords, dragons nobody can touch us. We're legends!"
"Legends?" chimed in a wiry man polishing a dagger. "I'm glorious! Remember last week? I fought three men, a demon, and a sentient cake and came out smelling like roses!"
"Ha!" shouted a broad-shouldered brute, tossing a chair aside. "I once threw a fireball through a tavern roof just to roast my breakfast. You think anyone can beat me?"
A small explosion fizzled in the corner from a miscast spell. Sparks rained down. A fire-breathing cat hissed at the nearest gang member, who waved it away. "It's fine! Nothing can touch us! NOTHING!"
The thin man flinched. "I… don't know if I want to be part of this gang," he whispered.
"Silence!" bellowed a man vaguely resembling a leader, though it was hard to tell amid the chaos. "I said—SILENCE! Or I'll—"
Before he could finish, the door banged open with a crash of metal on wood.
A knight in battered armor strode in, cape torn and frayed like a banner dragged through a hundred wars. Each plate of his armor was a map of old violence scratches that crossed like claw marks, dents that spoke of hammer blows and monster teeth, faint streaks of dried, blackened magic scoring the metal. His dented helmet caught the firelight, gleaming in uneven flashes as he moved.
The visor was lowered, shadowing his eyes so completely that only the lower half of his face was visible: a weathered mouth set in a line of quiet defiance and a thick, frost-white beard bristling against the steel. The beard made him look older than the heavy stride suggested like a storm-worn veteran who'd walked straight out of legend and into their filthy parlour.
In his left hand he raised a leather-bound book as though it were a holy weapon, its cracked spine and scorched corners hinting at journeys through fire and worse. Every step he took rang with the dull, war-drum thud of metal boots, and the air seemed to tighten around him, the smell of cold iron and spent magic riding in with the night.
"Listen up, you obnoxious sacks of shits!" he bellowed. "I am a knight! And I will tell you the true story of my life every heroic feat, every absurd magical disaster, every impossible thing I survived!"
Silence.
The kind that swallows a room whole. Even the crackle of the hearth seemed to hold its breath.
A knife, mid-spin, clattered to the floor. The gang stared some blinking, some smirking, all caught between confusion and disbelief.
Then the parlour erupted.
"He's delusional!" spat one, slapping his knee.
"Look at him! Armor dented, cape in rags, waving a book like it's a blade," another crowed. "You think you're tough?"
Laughter rolled through the room like thunder.
"Sir Rustbucket's lost in the wrong tavern!"
"Tell us a bedtime story, grandpa!"
A barrel-chested bruiser pounded the table, tears of mirth streaming down his face. "I've eaten wizards for breakfast this one's dessert!"
Coins jingled as someone started taking bets on how fast the stranger would beg for mercy.
The tied-up man with the apple on his head shut his eyes and muttered, "This is how I die. Death by idiots."
The knight didn't move. The diary stayed raised.
Behind the dented visor, a slow, razor-thin smile began to spread.
The gang laughed.
"Ha! We're all legends here. Mighty warriors!" shouted another a man seemingly with some missing teeth like some unfinished jigsaw puzzle and rugged hair branded his dagger and pointed at the knight "We've survived curses, dragons, and magic storms that would vaporize lesser men! What can you do?"
The knight's eyes glinted behind his visor. "Oh-ho-ho! You haven't seen anything yet!"
Out of nowhere he swung his sword into the ceiling.
Wood splintered. Dust and debris rained down. A few gang members were sent flying into tables, barrels, and each other.
The thin man nearly lost his apple but ducked just in time, blinking at the chaos.
It was so sudden and violent everyone was left speechless. Light crept down and landed in the knight. He stood there beneath the ray beam like some legendary figure was being displayed in all its glory.
After a little more silence the leaders of the gang. All big and burly men who's faces had seen better days shouted at the knight with a strange husk and high voice.
"Oi Fucker! What der ye think ye doing?!" The knight tilted his wondering if his ears heard it right. The man can't even speak in a proper sentence. A gang member near the thin man slap his face in embarrassment. The toughness flew away the moment the leader spoke.
"You think you can just come in here and blow a hole in our roof!?" Said another leader, this time his English more coherent. There was a silent clap in the crowd as if to applaud the leader for his fine english restoring whatever pride the gang had in contrast to the other weird one...
The leaders charged, roaring, fists and weapons raised. The knight's grin widened behind his dented visor. With a single flick of his gauntlet, the first leader spun through the hole in the roof like a ragdoll, arms flailing, landing in a heap on the street outside.
The second followed, ricocheting off a signpost, shrieking curses, and landing in a puddle. Even the nearby street vendors ducked instinctively.
The remaining gang members froze, mouths hanging open. Some trembled, gripping their weapons as if that alone could shield them from what was coming.
"Going somewhere?" the knight said, voice dripping with fake sweetness. One wiry gang member tried to edge toward the door. In the blink of an eye, a miniature explosion spell detonated behind him. The force was so violent, so precise, the man staggered back, stunned, and well, he literally shit himself. The smell was faint but unmistakable. Silence fell like a heavy, oppressive blanket.
The thin man on the wall, glasses crooked and apple rolling gently, muttered, "I… think I'm going to regret everything."
"Oh, you're all going to regret everything alright" the knight said, slamming the diary onto the table for emphasis. Dust and small splinters puffed into the air. "Now that I have your undivided attention, I will tell you the story of a man who could make kingdoms tremble, monsters weep, and magic itself bow while the rest of the world pretends it's mundane." The knight took a seat on an old chair as he open his dairy.
The scene looked light a kindergarten teacher surrounded by his kindergarten students as they all wait eagerly for the teacher to tell them the fairytale.
But the crowd has a look on their faces that said otherwise. Some confused some scared and some tied to a wall while tears fell down his face.
The gang exchanged nervous glances. Some whispered, "Is he serious?"
Others simply sat down, muttering, "I'm too old for this shit." A small fireball fizzled harmlessly in the corner, casting flickering light on their wide-eyed faces.
The knight's tone shifted, slower now, more deliberate. "And you will listen. Every word. Every heroic feat. Every absurd, impossible thing. Because the world doesn't care for heroes, not really. Only I could see the absurdity of it all."
He opened the diary, running a finger across the worn pages. "And now," he said, voice perfectly imitating the arrogance, bravado, and swagger of the diary's author, "you will hear my story."
A chair creaked somewhere in the back. The fire-breathing cat twitched its ears, clearly annoyed at the intrusion. The gang leaned forward, as if leaning closer could somehow shield them from the impossible chaos they were about to witness.
Dust hung in the air, a few splinters still floating lazily. Outside, a street vendor peeked over the edge of the roof, whispering, "What the hell just happened in there?"
Inside, the knight smiled beneath his dented helm. The stage was set. The gang was immobilized by fear, awe, and disbelief. And as he began reading the diary aloud, impersonating his best friend, the room held its collective breath, unknowingly about to witness absurd feats, magical chaos, and heroic madness feats that they believed belonged to the knight himself.
And somewhere, deep in the shadows, the chaos of the city hummed, waiting to see what would come next.