The golden afternoon sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows of Count Farrell's private study, casting fragmented colors across the polished mahogany desk.
The Count sat behind it, his tall, commanding frame framed by the chair's ornate backrest. His bright golden hair was neatly combed, streaks of silver at the temples giving him a regal yet rugged appearance. His deep brown eyes, sharp and calculating, bore into the man across from him—a merchant clad in an expensive silk tunic, his brown hair slicked back, and an air of arrogance practically dripping from his smug smile.
Count Farrell adjusted the cuffs of his navy-blue coat, the golden embroidery catching the light as he leaned forward slightly. The man's purple tie pin gleamed under the light as he gestured lazily with his ring-adorned hand. "Count Farrell," the merchant began, his tone dripping with false politeness. "Surely you understand why securing exclusive rights to the eastern mana crystal mine would be mutually beneficial. A man of your stature must see reason."
Farrell's jaw tightened, though his expression remained impassive. He detested the merchant's oily tone, the way the man assumed that the Count's goodwill was for sale. Farrell's hands gripped the armrests of his chair, his long fingers drumming faintly against the carved wood. "And yet, your proposal offers nothing to ensure the protection of the miners from rogue beasts or bandit attacks," Farrell replied, his deep voice steady but cold. "Forgive me if I don't find one-sided deals particularly appealing."
The merchant's smirk faltered, and he opened his mouth to respond when a soft knock interrupted them. Farrell exhaled through his nose, more irritated by the meeting than the intrusion.
"Enter," he said.
A young servant hurried in, bowing quickly before approaching the Count. "My lord, I bring urgent news," he said, holding a parchment with slightly trembling hands. Farrell took the paper, his brow furrowing as his eyes scanned the report. He leaned back in his chair, his lips pressed into a thin line. "The Saint Hood Gang," he muttered, folding the parchment with deliberate care.
"Several of their members have been found dead across the city." The merchant paled slightly but said nothing, opting to watch with growing curiosity. Farrell dismissed him with a sharp look. "You may leave. Our discussion is concluded for now."
The merchant bowed reluctantly, backing out of the room. Once the door shut, Farrell turned to the servant. "Who in Divitas would be reckless enough to provoke a gang of that size?" The servant hesitated. "My lord, the city guard reports an official capture bounty has been posted for the assailant. The gang is growing increasingly violent, targeting civilians in their search." Farrell sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course they are," he muttered. "And the guards, no doubt, are overwhelmed."
Rising from his chair, he adjusted the crimson sash across his chest. "Send a squad of my guards into the city. Have them patrol near the manor and ensure that the citizens close by are protected from any harm. We'll keep this chaos from spilling into our streets."
"Yes, my lord," the servant replied, bowing deeply before retreating.
Farrell stood by the window, gazing down at the bustling city below. The idea of someone provoking the Saint Hood Gang intrigued him. Whoever this "Saint Hunter" was, they were either extraordinarily bold or extraordinarily stupid.
In the guild, Amir splashed cold water on his face, watching the droplets streak down his reflection in the mirror. His yellow-and-green jacket hung over the back of a chair, revealing the faint scars crisscrossing his lean arms. He dried his face with a rough towel, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips.
"They're calling me the Saint Hunter," he murmured to himself, chuckling as he leaned against the sink. His mind raced with plans. Drawing out the gang's stronger members was risky, but it was the only way to disrupt their operations.
The key wasn't fighting them head-on—it was controlling the chaos he caused. "Let them come," he whispered, his grin widening. He straightened up, his dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. "The fun's just getting started."
The city was in turmoil. Saint Hood Gang members stormed through the streets, shoving merchants, slapping beggars, and hurling threats at anyone who crossed their path.
Civilians cowered in doorways, whispering prayers to Atlas. In a crowded market square, a city guard clad in the standard brown uniform crossed paths with a gang member wielding a rusty dagger. "Still out in the open, huh?" the guard scoffed, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I thought rats like you preferred the sewers." The gang member snarled, lunging forward. Metal clashed against metal as the two began a vicious duel, drawing a crowd of frightened onlookers.
Skirmishes like this erupted all over Divitas, the tension mounting with every passing hour. Near the city's outskirts, a man with gray hair tipped in black knocked on the door of a humble home.
The family inside flinched as he entered, dragging an unconscious gang member behind him. He tossed the body to the floor with a thud. "You're under the Count's protection now," the man said gruffly, his piercing gaze sweeping over the room. The family nodded in relief, whispering their gratitude as the man stepped back into the street. He looked down at the gang member and muttered, "Whoever's behind this, you're a fool."
As the moon climbed higher, Amir stepped into the chilly night, his jacket zipped halfway up. He moved through the city streets with practiced ease, his green-and-yellow attire making him blend into the crowd. His black jeans and white shirt gave him the appearance of an average boy, just another face in the bustling city. Spotting a lone city guard in a blue uniform—a higher-ranking officer—Amir's lips curled into a mischievous smile. Perfect.
"Sir!" he called, running up with wide, fearful eyes. "I have information about the Saint Hunter!" The guard knelt to Amir's level, his expression softening.
"Calm down, boy. You're safe here. Tell me what you know." Amir glanced around nervously before whispering,
"I saw him last night. He's short, with black hair. He moved so fast, like lightning!" The guard's eyes narrowed. 'That matches some of the reports we've received. Thank you for telling me.' He patted Amir's shoulder.
"Don't worry—we'll keep you safe from the gang."
Amir's lips trembled as he asked tearfully, "Can you walk me back to my mom? I'm scared to go alone."
The guard's heart softened further. "Of course. Let's go."
Amir led him into a quiet alley. The moment the guard turned his back, Amir struck him at the base of his skull with calculated precision.
The man crumpled to the ground, dazed, as Amir's strength far exceeded what his youthful frame suggested. Kneeling beside the unconscious guard, Amir smirked.
"Now the real fun begins."
Amir adjusted the enchanted uniform, the fabric snugly resizing itself to fit his lean frame. The spray from the small bottle he carried enveloped him in a faint shimmer, distorting his appearance in the eyes of onlookers. His boyish features were replaced by those of a rugged man in his mid-twenties, complete with a stubbled jawline and sharper cheekbones.
He inspected his reflection in a shop window, smirking at the convincing disguise. "Perfect," he muttered under his breath, pulling the brim of the guard's cap low over his eyes. His stolen D+ rank uniform lent him an aura of authority, and the clinking sword at his hip completed the image.
With practiced ease, he strode through the city streets, drawing no suspicion as he sought his next targets. In a dimly lit alley near the town square, Amir spotted his prey—a trio of Saint Hood members lounging by a stack of wooden crates, their garish red-and-black cloaks identifying them instantly.
Their eyes were cold and predatory, scanning the street for any sign of their elusive hunter. Amir's lip curled in disgust. Unholy pieces of shit.
He approached them confidently, his boots clacking against the cobblestones, drawing their attention. One of them, a lanky man with greasy hair and a chipped dagger at his side, squinted at Amir.
"What's a city guard doing here? You lost or something?" Amir stopped a few feet away, tilting his head mockingly. "Lost? No. Just disgusted."
The men exchanged confused glances. Amir stepped closer, his voice dripping with disdain.
"You're filth. All of you. Extorting families, peddling slaves, murdering for fun. You're not worth the mana in your pathetic cores." The tallest of the trio sneered, stepping forward. "You've got some nerve, guard. Better walk away before we—"
He didn't finish the sentence. Amir's fist connected with his jaw in a blur of motion, the crack echoing through the narrow alley as the man stumbled back into the wall. The other two lunged at Amir, drawing their weapons, but he was already moving. Ducking under a wild swing, he drove an elbow into the gut of one gang member, forcing the air from his lungs. He spun, deflecting a dagger with his forearm before slamming his knee into the third man's chest. The fight was brutal and raw, fists against steel.
The Saint Hood members were no amateurs, their strikes calculated and ruthless, but Amir's intensity and precision were overwhelming. His blows landed with bone-shattering force, his movements like a predator cornering its prey. Blood sprayed as Amir grabbed the lanky man by the collar, slamming his head into the ground repeatedly.
His face was a mask of rage, his fists relentless as they pounded into flesh and bone. The remaining two tried to retreat, but Amir closed the distance in an instant. He grabbed one by the throat, lifting him off the ground before slamming him into the cobblestones with a sickening crunch. The last gang member swung his blade desperately, nicking Amir's arm, but the boy didn't flinch. With a guttural yell, Amir delivered a haymaker that sent the man sprawling, his skull cracking against the pavement. Breathing heavily, Amir straightened, his hands and uniform drenched in blood. A crowd had gathered at the edge of the alley, their horrified gasps filling the air.
He turned to face them, his eyes wild and his chest heaving. The once-respectable guard uniform he wore was now soaked in crimson, and his knuckles dripped with gore.
"All Saint Hood members should die!" he roared, his voice echoing through the square.
"They are a plague on this city—a stain that must be wiped clean!"
The crowd murmured, some too shocked to move, others averting their gazes. Mothers shielded their children's eyes, and merchants whispered prayers. Amir raised his bloodied fist, a savage grin spreading across his face. This was his plan from the beginning.
The brutality, the public spectacle, the unmistakable provocation—it was all to escalate the conflict. He wanted chaos. Across the city, skirmishes erupted as the Saint Hood Gang retaliated.
Their members, emboldened by fury and desperation, began tearing through neighborhoods, demanding information on the "Saint Hunter." Civilians were harassed, their homes searched, their possessions stolen or destroyed.
City guards clashed with gang members in the streets, their steel clanging against crude weapons. Tensions boiled over as blood stained the cobblestones, the once-peaceful city descending into a battleground. At the Count's manor, reports flooded in.
Count Farrell stood in his war room, his brow furrowed as he read the latest updates. "This… lunacy," he muttered, tossing the parchment onto the table. "Why would a guard in their right mind would provoke the gang like this?"
The guards had skirmishes a lot recently but always ended without casualties. No one wanted to start something serious. In fact they all wanted to avoid a major fight so they all wanted to find the saint hunter.
This however is something that could potential start a all out fight with the gang and the city. His steward, a gray-haired man with sharp features, approached cautiously.
"My lord, the guards are stretched thin. The Saint Hood Gang is targeting the gaurd outposts in retaliation. If this continues, the city's stability could crumble." Farrell clenched his fists.
"Send reinforcements to the worst-hit areas. Focus on protecting the innocent." He paused, his expression darkening. "And find out which guard is behind this madness."
In the dead of night, Amir walked the shadowed streets of Divitas, his disguise still intact. His yellow-and-green jacket swayed with his confident stride as he surveyed the damage he'd caused. Fires burned in distant alleys, and the air was thick with the cries of the wounded and the clash of steel. He smirked to himself. War has started. Just as planned.