Blood streaked the figure's tattered cloak as they stepped out of Murphy's, the door creaking shut behind them with an ominous finality. The cold met them like an indifferent spectator, its bitter wind tugging at the blood-soaked fabric, spreading dark stains across the frayed edges. Tolk's narrow streets, once filled with idle chatter and mundane routine, had erupted into chaos. People sprinted in every direction, their faces twisted with terror, voices lost in a cacophony of screams, frantic shouts, and the rhythmic pounding of footsteps over packed snow.
Some townsfolk, driven by sheer instinct or fleeting courage, tried to rally others. "Run! Get to safety!" a man bellowed, his voice cracking under the weight of fear as he dragged a child toward an alley. Others darted toward distant buildings, hoping for sanctuary behind fragile doors and thin walls, ignorant of how meaningless such barriers were against what stalked them.
The figure moved through this sea of panic with mechanical precision, their stride steady, deliberate. They spared no glances for the faces twisted in horror, no hesitation as people stumbled past them, scrambling to escape. Their mission was etched into every motion—a singular, burning need that consumed all thought beyond revenge. Efficiency hadn't mattered inside the bar, not when rage had gripped them so tightly. But now, outside, watching the town reel in terror as if none of them bore the guilt they should, that fury surged anew, blinding and raw.
A harsh breath hissed through clenched teeth. Their hand slipped beneath their cloak, fingers curling around the cool, rough casing of a handmade firebomb. The glass container felt fragile in their grip, a volatile promise of destruction. A flick of the lighter—click—and a small flame sputtered to life, casting flickering shadows over their face, momentarily illuminating eyes devoid of remorse.
The bottle arced through the frigid air with practiced ease, the flame trailing briefly like a comet before smashing through a window. Glass exploded inward with a crystalline shriek. A beat later, the fire caught. Flames erupted, hungry and wild, devouring the dry interior with terrifying speed. Screams followed—raw, panicked pleas choked by smoke—as the blaze clawed its way outward, spilling fire like liquid rage.
But that wasn't enough.
Two more bombs nestled against their ribs, but the figure hesitated. No, not yet. The distant, impersonal destruction didn't satisfy the gnawing void inside them. They wanted to see it—to look into their eyes, to watch the life drain out, to feel it matter.
Their gaze snapped to a door nearby, hastily barricaded, faint whimpers leaking through the gaps. Without breaking stride, they crossed the distance. One boot planted, muscles coiling, and then—crack! The door splintered inward with a deafening snap, shards of wood flying like shrapnel. Even if reinforced with metal, it would've been the same. Nothing could withstand the force behind that kick—fueled by obsession, honed through relentless purpose.
The figure stepped through the wreckage, framed in the doorway like death itself. Inside, families huddled together, wide-eyed and trembling. Mothers shielded their children, men stood frozen between the instinct to fight and the certainty of futility. The figure raised their gun, the cold metal an extension of their will, finger tightening on the trigger.
But instinct flared—a whisper of danger just before it struck.
A blur of motion. A rush of displaced air.
They twisted, narrowly avoiding the whistling arc of a blade—a saber? No, sharper, cleaner—wind itself shaped into a weapon. The unnatural force sliced through empty space where their skull had been moments prior, embedding itself into the wall with a thunk.
The figure pivoted sharply, eyes locking onto the source.
A man stepped into view, framed by smoke and ash, his presence cutting through the chaos like a blade. Gray streaked his dark hair, his face carved with the lines of battles survived. Plate-jacket armor clung to his frame, scuffed but well-kept, a saber sheathed at his hip. No hesitation, no warning—just movement. Fast.
The kick landed square in the figure's gut before they could react. A violent, bone-rattling impact. Breath ripped from their lungs as their body flew backward, crashing through another doorway with the force of a battering ram. They hit the ground hard, skidding across rough floorboards, momentum carrying them until they slammed into an overturned table. Pain flared, sharp and hot, but it was distant—irrelevant.
They gasped, forcing air back into burning lungs, then pushed to their feet, eyes narrowing at the man now standing framed in the doorway they'd just been hurled through.
The room around them blurred, reduced to background noise.
The name echoed from trembling lips within the crowd. "Sir Leger."
Recognition flickered—not from the figure, but from the survivors. Hope ignited in their faces, fragile and desperate. Sir Leger stood tall, his expression a mask of grim determination, saber now drawn, its edge gleaming with lethal intent.
"I'm sorry I was late," he said, voice steady, tinged with regret as his gaze swept over the blood and ash. "Too many lives lost before I arrived."
The words meant nothing to the figure. Just noise. Their breath came in ragged bursts, fury overtaking pain. They lurched forward, voice sharp, splintered with paranoia. "You! That trick—you used what they did. You're with them, aren't you?"
Sir Leger's brow furrowed, confusion flashing for a heartbeat before being swallowed by resolve. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied flatly, saber rising, stance tightening. "But your atrocities end here."