"What a hellhole! I truly bought into those bastards' bullshit, saying that I'd be released early if I fought in Transylvania? Pah! This damned place is even worse than the sewers of North Wind Castle."
On the streets of the small border town Bata Sin in Transylvania, a guy in a baggy Northlander military uniform sat on the curb, gnawing on a hard loaf of bread laced with sawdust, his face filled with dissatisfaction. He gazed at everything around him with a cynical and disdainful look, and the scars on his face, coupled with his fierce expression, made it clear he wasn't some kind-hearted, peaceful soul.
The complex black tattoo peeking out from his wrist, which carried a special meaning, hinted at an identity beyond that of a regular person.
This was a Black Hand mafia.
Well, that's the highfalutin term for it, or in plainer language, organized criminal thugs.
