It had been one of those quiet, unremarkable mornings that people in Tendo Village had long since learned to cherish.
The air was crisp but warm, carrying the scent of tilled earth and fresh-cut wood. Farmers moved through the fields just beyond the clustered homes, their tools rising and falling in steady rhythm. Chickens clucked lazily near the fences, and somewhere a child laughed, bright, careless, untouched by the weight that hung just beneath the surface of village life.
Kenta Brooks lay slumped in a narrow alley between two weathered buildings, his back pressed against rough wood, one leg stretched out and the other bent awkwardly. An empty bottle of ale rested loosely in his hand, tilting just enough that a final drop clung stubbornly to the lip. His head lolled to the side, long brown hair tied back but messy, strands falling across his face.
He didn't look like much. Just another drifter who had wandered in, drunk too much, and passed out where he landed. The villagers had given him a glance or two earlier that morning, but no one bothered him. Men like him came and went. Better not to get involved.
For a while, the world stayed peaceful.
Then came the sound. At first it was distant, faint, and almost easy to ignore. A dull rhythm against the earth. Hooves.
Kenta didn't stir.
The sound grew louder. Hooves pounding, fast and heavy. Not one horse. Many.
By the time the first villager noticed and turned toward the road leading into town, it was already too late.
A group of riders burst into view, kicking up clouds of dust as they charged straight into Tendo Village without slowing. Their expressions were wild, grins sharp and hungry, and weapons already drawn. Steel flashed in the sunlight.
Screams followed almost immediately.
One of the riders swung low as he passed a man carrying a basket, the blade cutting clean across the man's chest. The basket spilled, vegetables scattering across the dirt as the man collapsed. Another rider crashed straight through a wooden stall, splintering it apart as if it were nothing. Chickens scattered in a frenzy, feathers filling the air.
The peaceful rhythm of the village shattered in an instant. People ran. Some tried to fight. Most didn't make it far.
The ruffians moved like they'd done this countless times before: efficient and brutal. Anyone who resisted was cut down without hesitation. Doors were kicked in. Homes were torn apart. A woman screamed as her husband was dragged from their doorway and beaten into silence.
Within minutes, chaos had been reduced to control.
Villagers were forced into the center of the village, shoved together into a trembling mass. Those who had tried to flee were dragged back, thrown to the ground. Blood stained the dirt in scattered patches, a grim reminder of what happened to anyone who stepped out of line.
Kenta stirred slightly in the alley, brow twitching as distant screams reached him. His grip on the bottle tightened just a little, but his eyes didn't open.
Not yet.
In the village center, the riders formed a loose circle around the captives. One of them dismounted slowly, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
He was taller than the rest and broader, his presence alone enough to make the nearest villagers shrink back. His armor was mismatched but sturdy, pieces clearly taken from different places, all worn with a kind of pride. A cruel smile stretched across his face as he looked over the crowd.
"Now then," he said, his voice carrying easily over the terrified murmurs. "Let's get right to it, shall we?"
He spread his arms slightly, as if welcoming them.
"I am Lieutenant Drago of the Haven Syndicate."
The name alone sent a ripple through the crowd. Some lowered their heads immediately. Others stiffened, fear tightening their faces.
Drago chuckled as he began pacing slowly in front of them, hands clasped behind his back like a man inspecting livestock.
"This village…" he continued, voice light, almost amused, "hasn't been keeping up with its tributes."
A murmur passed through the villagers, quickly dying when one of the riders raised his bow slightly.
Drago sighed dramatically.
"And here I thought we'd been patient." He shook his head. "More than patient, really. Yet what have we received?"
He stopped, turning sharply toward the crowd.
"Half."
Silence.
The village elder, an older man with a bent back but steady eyes, slowly stepped forward despite the trembling in his legs.
"P-Please," the elder said, voice strained but determined. "We've been working tirelessly. The harvest was poor this season, and—"
Drago laughed.
It was sudden and loud, cutting the man off completely.
"Working tirelessly?" he repeated, as if the words themselves were a joke. "That's what you're going with?"
The elder swallowed hard. "The amount you demand… it's too much for a village our size. If you would just give us more time—"
The blade moved so fast most didn't see it.
One moment the elder was speaking, and the next, his head separated cleanly from his body. It hit the ground with a dull thud. For a heartbeat, no one reacted.
Then the screaming started.
Panic surged through the crowd, people scrambling back, some collapsing to their knees as they tried to crawl away. A few shouted, others sobbed; the fragile composure was completely shattered.
Drago wiped his blade lazily against the elder's robe, unbothered by the chaos.
"Ah, there it is," he said, almost pleased. "That's the reaction I was expecting."
He glanced up, expression hardening slightly.
"Quiet."
The word wasn't shouted. But the tone behind it was enough.
The panic stuttered, then slowly died as fear settled back in, heavier than before. The villagers lowered themselves, pressing their foreheads to the dirt, desperate not to draw attention.
Drago smiled again.
"Much better."
He stepped over the elder's body without a second glance.
"Let me make something clear," he continued. "I don't care about your excuses. I don't care about your harvest. And I certainly don't care about how 'hard' you've been working."
He gestured vaguely toward them.
"If you can't come up with the money… we'll simply collect it another way."
His gaze shifted, slow and deliberate.
Predatory.
It moved across the crowd, lingering on certain individuals. Women. Younger ones especially. Then the men, those with broader shoulders and stronger builds.
A few villagers trembled under that gaze, realizing exactly what he meant.
"Mm," Drago hummed, nodding slightly. "Yes… I think we can make this work."
One man suddenly surged to his feet, desperation overriding fear. "You can't—!"
The arrow struck him mid-sentence.
It punched clean through his throat, the force snapping his head back as he collapsed instantly. Blood pooled beneath him as the life left his body.
Drago didn't even look at the shooter. Instead, he addressed the rest.
"Anyone else want to play hero?"
Silence.
Not a single person moved. Not a single voice spoke. They all stayed pressed to the ground, shaking. Drago's grin widened.
"Didn't think so."
He turned slightly, raising a hand.
"Alright, boys. You know the drill. Tie up the best-looking women and the strongest men. Try not to damage the goods too much."
The riders moved immediately, dismounting and grabbing ropes. Villagers were yanked up, wrists bound tightly. Some cried, others struggled weakly before being struck down and dragged anyway.
Drago watched with clear satisfaction.
"We'll get our money back twofold with this crop," he said, almost to himself, licking his lips faintly.
Then out of nowhere something crashed.
Two bodies suddenly flew out from a nearby alley, slamming hard into the center of the village. Dust kicked up as they hit the ground, rolling slightly before going still.
Both were men. Both wore the same rough gear as the others, and both were unconscious. Both were absolutely bloodied.
For the first time, Drago's smile faltered.
"...What?" he muttered.
Every head turned toward the alley. A moment passed. Then a figure stepped out.
He moved slowly, almost lazily, one hand still holding an empty bottle of ale. His brown and white robes were wrinkled and disheveled, hanging loosely over his frame. His hair was tied back, though strands had escaped, framing a face that looked more tired than anything else.
Kenta Brooks squinted slightly, raising the bottle to eye level and peering through the glass like he expected to find something inside.
"Huh," he muttered, his voice rough with sleep. "Seems I passed out in yet another alley."
He tilted the bottle, watching the nonexistent contents for a second longer before letting out a small sigh. Then he lowered it. His gaze drifted forward. Taking in everything.
The bound villagers. The bodies. The blood. The armed men.
There wasn't any urgency in his expression. No immediate anger. Just a quiet, assessing calm, like he'd walked into something mildly inconvenient.
He scratched the side of his head, eyes settling on Drago and his men.
"...So," Kenta said, tone casual, almost bored. "What seems to be going on here?"