The Iron Tankard sat at the corner of two streets that didn't have names. Or maybe they did, and Cinder just didn't know them. Three months in this city and he still got lost. Everything looked the same. Gray stone. Black iron. Purple sky.
Light spilled from the tavern's windows. Yellow. Warm. Voices leaked out too. Laughing. Shouting. The clink of glasses.
Cinder stopped across the street. He stood in the shadow of a leaning building, his back against the cold stone. His blood-soaked shirt was stiff now. The smell was starting to get to him.
He looked up at the second floor. Curtains drawn. A single window with a flickering light behind it.
'Second floor. Goran Valtris. Sin count 847.'
The number sat in his head like a stone. He didn't know what it meant yet. Was 847 high? Low? Average? He'd seen a lot of shit in three months. Men beating women for fun. Guards taking kids. Nobles riding through crowds like people were furniture.
'How many sins do they have? A thousand? Ten thousand?'
He pushed off the wall. The system had said his first mission. Fail and die. No second chances.
'Then I don't fail.'
He crossed the street. The door was heavy wood, black with age, studded with iron. He pushed it open.
Heat hit him first. The fire in the big stone hearth at the far end. Then the smell. Sweat. Ale. Smoke. Old food.
Then the noise.
The place was packed. Maybe thirty people. Men in dirty tunics, women with painted faces, a few guards in leather armor. They crowded around tables, shouting over each other. A man in the corner played a stringed instrument, badly. No one was listening.
Cinder stepped inside. The door closed behind him with a heavy thunk.
No one looked at him.
He stood there for a second, taking it in. The room was long, low-ceilinged, with wooden beams across the top. Stairs at the back led to the second floor. A bar on the left, a woman behind it wiping a glass with a rag that looked dirtier than the glass.
'Second floor. Gotta get up there without drawing attention.'
He moved toward the stairs. His boots were silent on the packed dirt floor. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched. Look small. Look like nothing. Three months in the gutter taught him that.
He was halfway across the room when a hand grabbed his arm.
"Hey."
Cinder stopped. He turned.
A man. Big. Broad shoulders. Red face from drink. He had a half-empty mug in his other hand, sloshing ale onto the floor.
"You look like shit," the man said. He grinned. Teeth missing.
'No. No no no.'
"Let go," Cinder said.
His voice came out rough. He hadn't used it in hours. Maybe days.
The man's grin widened. "What's that? You say something?"
The people at the nearby table turned. A few looked up. Cinder could feel eyes on him now. The warmth of the room was suddenly too hot.
"I said let go." Cinder tried to pull his arm back. The man's grip tightened.
"You smell like blood," the man said. His grin faded. His eyes narrowed. "What's your name, gutter rat?"
'Fuck.'
Cinder's heart hammered. His other hand clenched into a fist. He could feel his nails digging into his palm.
[WARNING: TARGET AWARENESS INCREASING. REMAIN UNDETECTED OR MISSION PARAMETERS WILL CHANGE.]
The system's words flickered in the corner of his vision. Red. Urgent.
'No shit.'
He looked at the man. Big. Drunk. But not stupid. His eyes were sharp behind the red flush. He'd noticed something.
"I asked you a question," the man said.
"Let him go, Bren."
A new voice. Female. Flat.
The man—Bren—looked up. His grip loosened just a little.
A woman stood behind the bar. The one with the dirty rag. She wasn't wiping glasses anymore. She was looking at Bren with an expression that said she'd seen this a hundred times and was bored of it.
"He's covered in blood," Bren said.
"So are half the people in this room," the woman said. "He wants a drink. Let him buy it."
Bren stared at her for a second. Then he snorted. He let go of Cinder's arm.
"Fine." He turned back to his table. "Get cleaned up, boy. You're making the place smell like a slaughterhouse."
Cinder didn't move. His arm was still tingling where Bren had grabbed it. The blood was rushing back.
'Move. Move. Stairs. Now.'
He walked. Not too fast. Not too slow. He could feel eyes on his back. Bren's. The woman's. A few others.
He reached the stairs. Wooden steps, creaking under his weight. He went up.
The second floor was quieter. A narrow hallway with four doors. Three closed. One open at the end, light spilling out.
Cinder walked toward the open door. His boots made soft sounds on the worn wood. He could hear voices now. Two men. Talking.
"—said the shipment's delayed. Something about the pass being blocked."
"Tch. Always something. That's the third time this month."
"What do you want me to do? The boss ain't happy."
"The boss ain't happy? The boss can come down here and say that to my face."
A laugh. Harsh. No humor.
Cinder reached the door. He stood to the side, back against the wall. He could see into the room from the corner of his eye.
A bedroom. Candle on a table. Bottles. Two men. One sitting on the edge of a bed, the other standing by the window. The sitting man was older. Gray hair. A scar across his cheek. Heavy coat. The standing one was younger, nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
'Which one is Valtris?'
[GORAN VALTRIS IDENTIFIED. SUBJECT: SEATED.]
The red text appeared in his vision, pointing at the older man. A number floated above his head. Faint. Glowing. 847.
Cinder stared at it. The number pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat.
'847 people. He hurt 847 people.'
He stepped into the doorway.
Both men turned.
The younger one reached for his belt. A knife. Cinder saw it. His body moved before his brain caught up.
He grabbed the young man's wrist, twisted. Bone cracked. The man screamed. The knife clattered to the floor.
Valtris was already moving. He was fast for an old man. He lunged for something under the bed.
Cinder let go of the young man. The guy crumpled, clutching his wrist, still screaming. Cinder stepped over him and kicked Valtris in the ribs.
The old man went down hard. His head hit the floor. He grunted, gasped, tried to roll.
Cinder's boot came down on his chest.
"Don't."
Valtris froze. He looked up at Cinder. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, confused. He was breathing in short, sharp gasps.
"Who—who the fuck are you?" Valtris's voice cracked. "You want money? I got money. Under the bed. Take it."
Cinder didn't answer. He could feel something building inside him. A pressure behind his eyes. A hum in his skull. The system was waking up.
[JUDGEMENT READY.]
The words appeared. Three options. Red. Gold. White.
[EXECUTE] [TORTURE] [SPARE]
Cinder's hand went to Valtris's throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. He could feel the old man's pulse hammering against his palm.
"What did you do?" Cinder's voice was low. "The 847 people. What did you do to them?"
Valtris's eyes went wide. "I don't—I don't know what you're—"
"Don't."
The word came out harder than Cinder meant. Valtris flinched.
Behind him, the young man was still on the floor, whimpering. His wrist was bent at a wrong angle. He wasn't going anywhere.
Cinder looked back at Valtris. At the number floating above his head. 847. Each one a person. Each one a life he'd broken.
'I could kill him. Quick. Easy. He won't even feel it.'
His finger hovered over the EXECUTE option.
But something stopped him.
'No. No, he needs to feel it. They all need to feel it. The ones he hurt. They felt it. Every single one.'
He looked at TORTURE.
[WARNING: TORTURE WILL INFLICT ALL 847 CYCLES OF SUFFERING ON THE TARGET. YOU WILL EXPERIENCE 1% OF THE TOTAL BURDEN. THIS MAY CAUSE UNCONSCIOUSNESS, PHYSICAL TRAUMA, AND PSYCHOLOGICAL DAMAGE.]
[PROCEED?]
Cinder's hand was shaking. Not from fear. From something else. Something darker.
'I want this. I want to hear him scream.'
He pressed TORTURE.
The world went white.
---
He was in a cell. Small. Dark. Wet.
But he wasn't himself. He was a woman. He could feel her body. Smaller. Bruised. Her hands were tied above her head. The rope bit into her wrists.
A door opened. Light spilled in.
Valtris walked through. Younger. No scar. His face was smooth, almost handsome. He was smiling.
'No. No no no—'
Valtris's hand closed around her throat. She couldn't breathe. She was kicking, thrashing, but he was too strong.
He was saying something. Cinder couldn't hear the words. He could feel her terror. Her throat closing. Her lungs burning.
Then black.
---
Cinder opened his eyes.
He was on the floor. When did he fall? His face was pressed against the wood. Cold. Wet. His own spit.
He pushed himself up. His arms were shaking. His head was pounding. There was blood in his mouth. He'd bitten his tongue.
Valtris was on the floor too. He was screaming. His body was arching, thrashing, his mouth open in a sound that didn't stop. His eyes were rolled back. His fingers were clawing at the floor, nails cracking, splinters digging in.
The young man was gone. He'd run. Cinder hadn't even noticed.
He looked at Valtris. Watched him suffer.
'One cycle. That was one. 846 more to go.'
He should feel something. Satisfaction. Justice. Something.
He felt nothing. Just the echo of the woman's terror. The feel of rope on her wrists. The sound of Valtris's voice in her ear.
'That's not justice. That's just pain.'
But he didn't stop it.
He sat against the wall, watching, as Valtris's body jerked and screamed through every cycle. Each one was different. A child. A young man. A mother. Valtris did different things to each of them. Beatings. Burns. Drowning. Cinder felt the edge of each one. Just the edge. One percent. It was enough.
By cycle 200, Cinder was vomiting. His stomach emptied onto the floor. He couldn't stop. He was shaking, cold, his skin crawling.
By cycle 400, he couldn't see straight. The room was spinning. Valtris's screams were fading in and out.
By cycle 600, he passed out.
---
He woke to silence.
The candle had burned down. The room was dark except for the faint purple light filtering through the curtain. Valtris was still on the floor. He wasn't moving. His chest rose and fell in shallow, wet gasps. His face was slack. His eyes were open, staring at nothing.
[JUDGEMENT COMPLETE. TARGET: GORAN VALTRIS. SIN COUNT: 847. VERDICT: TORTURE.]
[XP GAINED: 8,470. RANK UP: MAGISTRATE.]
[NEW ABILITIES UNLOCKED: SHADOW OF JUDGMENT – BASIC CONTROL.]
[WARNING: KARMA BEARER BURDEN INCREASED. CURRENT BURDEN: 1.2%. PHYSICAL DECAY ACCELERATION DETECTED.]
Cinder read the words. They blurred and swam. He blinked. His eyes felt like sand.
He looked at his hands. They were shaking. The skin on his knuckles was cracked. He didn't remember hurting them.
'What the hell have I done?'
He looked at Valtris again. The old man was breathing. That was it. His eyes were still open. No recognition. No awareness. Just empty.
'He's gone. Whatever he was, it's gone.'
Cinder pushed himself up. His legs almost gave out. He grabbed the wall, waited for the spinning to stop.
He looked at Valtris one more time. The number was gone.
He turned and walked out.
---
The tavern downstairs was quiet. Almost empty. A few people at a table in the corner, heads down. The woman was still behind the bar, wiping the same glass.
She looked up when he came down. Her eyes went to his face, then to his hands. She didn't say anything.
Cinder walked to the door. His legs were heavy. His head was pounding.
He pushed the door open. The night air hit him. Cold. Wet. It smelled like the black stuff from the moons.
He stepped out into the street. The purple sky was lighter now. Dawn was coming. Or whatever passed for dawn in this world.
He walked.
He didn't know where. He just walked.
'847 cycles. I felt one percent. That's eight. Eight full lives of suffering. In one night.'
He stopped. His legs gave out. He sat down hard on the cobblestones, his back against a wall. He couldn't move. Couldn't think.
'This is what I am now. This is what I chose.'
He looked at his hands again. They were still shaking.
'What's going to happen when I have to do this to someone with ten thousand sins? A hundred thousand?'
The system didn't answer.
He sat there, in the gutter, as the purple sky lightened. His hands didn't stop shaking.