In Mr. Doan's establishment, the patrons and staff stood frozen, bewildered, their minds racing to make sense of the rapid sequence of events that had just unfolded.
First, there was the gunshot from above, a sudden and unexpected sound that had sent everyone's attention skyward.
Then, the two men had fallen to the floor in front of them, their injuries evident and their screams silenced by the burly assailant's swift and ruthless action.
Amid the confusion, the fat assailant had issued a clear threat, his words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Minds raced to make sense of the situation, and a palpable tension settled over the room as the patrons and staff grappled with the rapidly changing circumstances.
Indeed, the individuals in the establishment were caught in a web of uncertainty.
Some among them were employees, others were simply patrons seeking a drink and respite, and a few were hiding from the looming conscription.
During this chaotic and unexpected situation, they found themselves grappling with a fundamental dilemma.
Who was this enigmatic speaker, and what side did they represent?
Fear and apprehension coursed through the room as they weighed the potential threat posed by this imposing figure, uncertain of how to proceed or where to place their loyalties.
However no matter how you look at it that last statement was a threat, wasn't it?
The notion of a threat was undeniable, and in the spirit of Mythralis, a city filled with individuals descended from those who challenged authority, pride flowed through their veins like a heady elixir.
These were not mere farmers or herders; they were a breed of men who aspired to be renowned pirates, and their pride was as boundless as the sea.
It was the kind of pride that swells within a boy after his first conquest of a woman, a heady mix of exhilaration and hubris that makes him feel invincible.
In Mythralis, this pride was the lifeblood of the city, driving its people to challenge the status quo and carve their 'destinies' upon the tumultuous waters.
In the wake of this unknown figure's threat, the patrons of the motel found themselves at a crossroads.
Each man within these walls bore the same fiery pride that ran through their veins.
Who was this man, and who did he represent? The allure of violence and the enduring flame of pride flickered within them, urging them to rise against any form of authority.
Yet, they needed clarity, a cause to rally behind.
As the seconds ticked away, a profound realization dawned upon them.
They began to grasp the balance of power in this uncertain moment.
Their numbers far exceeded that of the figure who had issued the threat. They outnumbered him.
Pride, bravery, and heritage embolden their spirits.
The spark of defiance, ever bright, found a new purpose within them.
They were Mythralisians, born of the sea, and they would not yield to intimidation.
There were no questions asked, no one was curious.
As the patrons of the Salty Siren rallied their courage, a chair was flung across the room breaking the stillness of the room, followed by a tankard and then even a barrel.
They hurled everything they could find, maintaining a safe distance from the imposing figure before them. However, Ralf, a skilled swordsman and a Sequence 9 sailor, possessed an appropriate defence for such an onslaught.
In response, Ralf became a living wall of defence. His sword danced through the air as he deflected each incoming object with a grace that belied his burly stature.
The chair veered off course, the tankard shattered into pieces, and even the hefty barrel was redirected harmlessly. Ralf's mastery of the blade was a resolute shield, and the patrons' efforts to break through his guard proved futile.
With supernatural strength and uncanny precision, he deftly blocked each projectile with his sword, swatting them aside as if he could see through the darkness of the night itself.
His mastery of the blade was a formidable barrier, and the patrons' attempts to intimidate him with thrown objects proved futile.
Indeed, Ralf a Sequence 9 Sailor wielded two formidable abilities granted to a Sailor: supernatural strength and the uncanny gift of night vision. Though he possessed more abilities than just the two, the others could only show their might at sea.
In no time, they exhausted their supply of projectiles to hurl at Ralf.
The boos and jeers from the patrons grew louder, a cacophonous expression of their discontent.
Why would he defend himself?
Undeterred, the approximately 30 men banded together, forming a determined, charging mass.
They split into two groups, with roughly 20 of them advancing towards Marcellus and the remaining 9 aiming for Ralf.
However, despite their numerical advantage, it would soon become evident that rushing did not help the weak.
As the mob of around 30 men surged forward, the determination in their eyes was palpable. They divided into two groups, roughly 20 closing in on Marcellus, while the remaining 9 targeted Ralf.
Amidst the chaos, a lantern shattered, spilling flaming oil and igniting a sudden blaze. The room was instantly thrown into uproar as the flames began to lick at the wooden furnishings.
The men unknowingly gravitated toward Marcellus, driven by a primal instinct that dictated targeting the seemingly weaker opponent first, a simple matter of common sense in their eyes.
Ralf's movements were a masterclass in precision and speed as he engaged the group of assailants who dared to challenge him. His sword, a deadly extension of his will, sliced through the air with unparalleled finesse.
In the dimly lit area around Ralf, the flashes of steel and the sound of metal meeting flesh echoed through the room.
The first man who lunged at Ralf found himself missing an arm, a gush of crimson marking his painful defeat.
The second, driven by desperation, charged forward only to meet the same fate, but this time it was his leg that fell victim to Ralf's unforgiving blade.
One by one, the attackers met their doom as Ralf's sword danced with deadly grace. Limbs were severed, screams of agony filled the air, and the once-confident group found themselves reduced to a disarray of pain and fear.
Ralf was a force to be reckoned with, his supernatural strength and combat prowess on full display.
As the Flames Blazed, the floor was littered with the wounded and the dead men, Ralf stood tall, his blade stained crimson, a formidable figure amid chaos.
Marcellus, while not possessing the supernatural strength of Ralf, was no less skilled in the Blade, some would claim he was better since he was faster.
As the group of assailants approached him, he maintained his composure.
The first attacker lunged at Marcellus with a crude swing of a makeshift weapon, but Marcellus moved with a fluidity that seemed almost unnatural. His blade became a blur of steel as he deftly took off the man's head.
With a swift counterattack, he made the incoming assailants hesitant.
The others, seeing their comrade's failure, hesitated for a moment, but Marcellus wasted no time. He advanced with calculated steps, his movements fluid and controlled.
One by one, he engaged his adversaries, using his superior swordsmanship to dismember and incapacitate them.
His sword danced through the air, slicing through their flesh and dismembering men with precision.
Thud!
Now and then there was a thud someone's head, or limbs had just fallen.
Despite the chaos and the numerous attackers, Marcellus remained calm and composed, relying on his training and experience to navigate the melee.
In the end, the group that had initially targeted Marcellus found themselves defeated or Headless, lying wounded on the floor.
Marcellus stood victorious, his sword at the ready.
With blood drenching his clothes and the fiery chaos burning the establishment to the ground, Marcellus drew a deep breath. There was something profound, something rewarding about the clarity of combat.
Thoughts flashed through his mind, and he couldn't help but remember the lessons of his second sword teacher, Leon. "The essence of combat is murder," Leon had once told him in the dream realm.
This was the second time he had this raw intense feeling, He felt the same way during the battle with the wereshark and in every fight since then felt the same way but now it was overwhelming.
The taste of victory was sweet, Marcellus felt a profound sense of the Emptiness within him being filled.
As the flames raged around him and men scattered in fear, Marcellus stood amid the destruction, his deep-set hazel eyes reflecting the flickering firelight.
The adrenaline that had surged through him during the fight began to subside, leaving behind a hunger for more. Marcellus's spirit burned with a different kind of fire—a fire of unwavering hunger.
I feel as if this empty feeling is all that is left of me Marcellus thought.
This was not the first time he had experienced this raw, intense feeling. The first had been during the battle with the wereshark, and in every fight since then, he had felt the same way. But now the intensity of his emotions was overwhelming, The blood was overwhelming, The fire was overwhelming, The Screams were overwhelming, Marcellus was overwhelmed.
There is something very wrong with me he thought.
...In the deepest recesses of my soul... there's is an invisible grief, a sadness, a melancholy that clings to me like a shadow. It's a weariness that seeps into my bones, I wonder — was it all just a dream?
This sorrow, like a fragment of a memory from a time long gone, haunts the corridors of my mind. It whispers tales of loss and longing. Yet, the world around me continues its relentless march, oblivious to the turmoil that churns within.
And in these moments I realize that this sadness is a remnant of a life once lived. It feels as though I've lived a thousand lives, each one etched with its measure of joy and despair.
I have betrayed myself...
"Everything washes away — murder, Dreams, hunger, words. The sword too, in a river of blood, yet the enduring struggle remains when the shadows of our presence and our deeds have long been washed away. Why not invest blood in our struggle?" Marcellus said out loud, "I'll fight till I can no more"
Marcellus stood alone, his thoughts a tumultuous sea, crashing against the shores of his consciousness.
"Sometimes deciding who you are is deciding who you'll never be again," he mused, the words echoing in the hollows of his mind like an ancient chant.
It was a profound realization, a crossroads in the journey of his identity.
Marcellus understood that with every choice made, a part of him was left behind, like a snake shedding its skin.
The person he once was—a naïve youth, a hopeful dreamer, perhaps even a naive idealist—was slowly fading into the annals of his past.
Each step forward was a farewell to a version of himself that no longer fit the narrative of his life.
The realization was both liberating and melancholic.
Marcellus felt a deep sorrow for the parts of himself left behind.
There was a comfort in the familiar, in the person he had known himself to be.
But growth demanded change, and change was an inexorable tide, relentless and unyielding.
In this pivotal instant, Marcellus conquered his Dream Psyche, uniting it with the Marcellus of yore.
In deciding who he was, he accepted the ghosts of who he would never be again.
Marcellus found himself succumbing to a profound sorrow.
Silently tears, unbidden yet inexorable, began to trace their way down his cheeks. The act of weeping, so raw and unguarded, was a catharsis, a release of the pent-up emotions that his introspection had unearthed.
He grieved for the parts of himself that he had left behind, for the innocence and dreams that had been casualties of his evolution.
He mourned the lad who boarded the merchant ship in pursuit of the war front and fortune, never to disembark again. Onboard, he committed a grisly act, spilling the cook's blood.
In this moment of vulnerability, Marcellus was more himself than he had ever been.
Marcellus wept.