Just half an hour ago, at the entrance of a narrow alley lined with low, worn-out houses, a group of young men loitered around the corner, exchanging glances and whispers. Among them, the one leaning casually against the wall was unmistakable, his face marred by fresh purple bruises, a mark of recent trouble. This was Boris, the undisputed leader of the gang, glaring with a kind of lazy menace.
From the shadows, the last member of the group, a young man with an innocent smile, finally stumbled in, his stuttering speech breaking the tension. "B-Brother Bo... Boris... W-What happened? Y-You got hit again?"
Boris' face darkened instantly. Without missing a beat, he smacked the back of Hawke's head, irritation spilling over. "Stupid, shut your mouth! You think I don't know what's on my face?"
"I-I-I was just c-concerned..." Hawke whimpered, rubbing his head but quickly retreating behind the others, the sting of the slap still fresh on his skin.
The rest of the boys, who had the look of street hooligans, snickered. One of them leaned in close to Hawke, whispering, "Don't mess with him. It's the old cripple's daughter, she gave him that beating. He's been fuming about it for days."
Boris shot them a murderous glance. "Think I didn't hear that? I let her get away with it because she's a woman, that's all!"
His followers quickly fell silent, though the looks they exchanged said otherwise. They knew all too well, Boris had been on the receiving end of that woman's temper for years. His "mercy" had nothing to do with it.
"Enough with the chit-chat. Look over there," Boris ordered, pointing toward a figure standing just outside the alley.
The gang turned their heads. Not far away, at a street stall run by the village tailor, stood a ragged, shirtless young man, haggling with the shopkeeper. His clothes were torn, his appearance wild and unkempt, like he had wandered in from nowhere.
"I don't know him. Must be new," muttered one of the boys.
"Yeah, never seen this beggar before. What's he doing in our village?"
They all spoke at once, their voices overlapping with curiosity.
Boris, growing more frustrated, snapped, "Are you all blind? Look closer. That guy's no beggar. Look at his waist."
The others squinted, trying to make sense of Boris' words, until their eyes fell on the object hanging at the stranger's side. A sword.
The sword wasn't immediately impressive; plenty of wealthy villagers had one. But there was something different about this one, something that caught the eye. Despite the ragged cloth wrapped around it, the handle and scabbard showed glimpses of intricate carvings, beautifully crafted, with fine details that set it apart. The scabbard's lacquered surface glistened in the sunlight, hinting at something far more valuable than it appeared at first glance.
"Hey... where did that guy get such a fancy sword?" one of the followers murmured, eyes gleaming with newfound interest.
"Must be worth a fortune," another chimed in.
Boris smirked, his eyes narrowing with cold calculation. "You idiots don't get it. This isn't just about money. I've seen the Baron's sword, this is even more exquisite. That kid isn't a savage, he's a runaway. A slave, probably, and that sword... it's stolen from some noble, no doubt."
The gang fell silent, exchanging uneasy glances. If Boris was right, this wasn't just a random beggar, they had stumbled upon something much bigger.
"That's exactly why I say you're all idiots. Look at that boy's face carefully." Boris gestured toward the distant figure, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the stranger. "Sure, he's covered in dust, and he looks a bit rough, but underneath all that grime, you can see it, he's got sharp features, delicate skin. There's no way he's a beggar. No, he's got to be some noble's kept slave, pampered since he was a kid."
Boris smacked his lips, clearly impressed by his own deduction.
One of the gang members snorted, his face twisted in confusion. "A male pet slave? For a noble lord? That's... disgusting. Why would anyone do that?"
Boris rolled his eyes and swatted the guy on the back of the head. "You don't know anything! This is how the upper class works. What they do isn't like us commoners."
Another follower, always quick to agree, nodded vigorously. "Yeah, yeah! Their tastes are way different from ours, that's why they're nobles and we're... well, us."
The gang murmured in agreement, the idea both bizarre and fascinating to them. They were used to their small world, and the strange, decadent habits of the nobles seemed almost exotic in their eyes.
"Brother, you're brilliant!" one of the younger boys piped up, eyes wide with excitement. "We should report him to the village elders! They can capture him, hand him over to his master, and we'll get rewarded. We'd be heroes!"
Boris gave the boy a withering look, crossing his arms over his chest. "Are you completely brainless? Why would we involve the villagers? If they catch him, we'll end up with nothing. And even if we handed him over, do you think the noble would toss us more than a few measly coins for our trouble?"
The group fell silent, realizing the flaw in their idea. The boy's eager grin faded as the truth sank in.
Boris, seeing the opportunity to reassert control, leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "No. We don't need anyone else. This runaway slave is nothing. We'll corner him, get him to hand over that sword. If he refuses, we bag him, knock him out, and dump him in the nearest ditch. No one will miss him. Then I take the sword to the city, sell it, and we all walk away with a nice fat pile of gold crowns. At least fifty, maybe more."
"Fifty gold crowns?" one of the boys gasped, his face turning pale. His voice was barely more than a squeak. "Fifty?"
The whole group went wide-eyed, jaws dropping at the sheer amount of money Boris had just promised. Fifty gold crowns! For a bunch of village boys, that kind of money was unimaginable. Most farmers wouldn't even see that much in their lifetime. To think, one sword could be worth that fortune!
"Y-you sure, boss?" another asked, his voice trembling.
"Of course I'm sure!" Boris grinned, his eyes gleaming with confidence. "I asked the old blacksmith about it once. He said the baron's sword wasn't worth half as much as this one. And just look at that scabbard. If the blade is as well-made as I think it is, we're looking at a goldmine."
The gang exchanged glances, their excitement growing as Boris continued.
"Have you all got your gear?" Boris asked, his tone turning sharp and commanding.
The boys patted the small knives and daggers strapped to their belts, looking eager but nervous. What had started as a bit of fun was quickly becoming real.
"Don't worry, brother," one of them said, trying to sound braver than he felt. "We've got everything. We're ready."
Boris smiled coldly, feeling the power shift in his favor. "Good. Let's go pay that runaway a visit, shall we?"
"Listen up. When I lure him into the woods, keep your mouths shut and follow my lead. No screw-ups, got it?" Boris barked the orders, his eyes flashing with malicious intent.
As he looked around to make sure everyone was armed and ready, his gaze landed on Hawke. The boy stood there, empty-handed, with no weapon in sight. Boris's face twisted in fury. "Stutter, are you out for a picnic? Where the hell is your dagger?"
"I-I-I thought it was just g-g-going to be a fight..." Hawke stammered, his face pale, clearly regretting his lack of preparation.
Boris spat on the ground in disgust. "Useless! Why do I even bother with you?" He waved Hawke off, already dismissing him as a liability.
Suddenly, one of the boys standing lookout called out, panic creeping into his voice. "Brother! That kid's gone!"
"What?" Boris whipped around, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "You idiots, how could you lose him? Weren't you paying attention?"
"He slipped out of the village! We just saw him heading toward the river."
Boris cursed under his breath. "Then what are you waiting for? Get after him!"
At the edge of the village, near the riverbank, the gang finally caught sight of their target, but it wasn't just the boy. He had two companions with him. The three of them stood by the water, dressed in clean, freshly washed clothes. The boy, now free of dust and grime, had transformed. His skin was fair, his posture confident. He no longer looked like a runaway slave, but like someone of much higher status, maybe even a noble's son.
Leon, the tallest of the three, stood protectively in front of his companions, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. His eyes locked on the group of approaching thugs, irritation flickering across his face. "What's the problem here?" he asked, his voice carrying a foreign accent that Boris didn't recognize.
Boris hesitated for a split second. He hadn't expected the boy to have companions, let alone ones who looked this capable. His mind raced as he quickly reassessed the situation. The sight of the discarded, tattered clothes at their feet reassured him. These three weren't nobles, they must be fugitives. A pampered slave, a muscle-bound brute, and some third-rate handyman, Boris thought to himself. Just runaway slaves. And even if they were strong, his gang outnumbered them. That gave him the advantage.
Putting on a show of authority, Boris puffed out his chest and shouted, "Who do you think you are, asking questions? I'm the captain of the village militia, and I suspect you're spies for the Kantardar people. Now, come with us peacefully, or things will get ugly."
Leon narrowed his eyes, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The so-called militia leader looked like he'd never seen a real fight in his life, and his gang of misfits were armed with nothing more than daggers, short knives, and even a sickle. These were no militia. They were thugs at best. "Militia, huh?" Leon said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You expect me to believe that? We're just passing through and don't want any trouble. So why don't you just tell us what this is really about?"
Boris, seeing Leon's lack of fear, scowled. "A spy never admits to being a spy," he snarled, drawing his dagger and pointing it at Leon. "You'll be coming with us for questioning whether you like it or not. And while we're at it, hand over that sword. Now. Or you'll wish you had."
Leon chuckled, shaking his head. "So, that's what this is about. You're after the sword."
Boris's eyes gleamed with greed. "That sword doesn't belong to a filthy runaway like you. So, I'll say it one last time, hand it over, or don't blame me when things get rough." His gang moved in closer, their eyes filled with the promise of violence.
Leon's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his patience wearing thin. "You're making a mistake." His voice was calm, but there was a deadly edge to it now. The situation was quickly spiraling out of control, and Boris had no idea what he was about to get himself into.
Boris's gang, emboldened by their leader's commands, drew their ragtag assortment of weapons; daggers, rusty knives, and even a broken sickle, forming a crude circle around Leon and his companions.
Leon, seeing the display, sighed in exasperation. So it was greed after all. His patience, thin to begin with, was evaporating fast.
"Look," Leon said, his voice cold, "this sword is our only valuable possession. If you want it that badly, you'll have to trade your life for it." With a swift, fluid motion, he unsheathed his sword. The blade gleamed in the afternoon sun, catching everyone's attention.
The once-hidden treasure was now fully revealed. The hilt sparkled with intricate gold plating and inlaid gemstones, while the blade itself shone with a dazzling silver light, straight and flawless. The exquisite craftsmanship was undeniable, even to the most untrained eye. It was clear this sword was worth far more than Boris had initially guessed. His greedy eyes widened with a hunger that overtook any sense of caution.
His followers, momentarily entranced, stared at the sword as if hypnotized. They barely registered the danger Leon represented; all they saw was the fortune in front of them.
"You've said enough," Leon muttered, his eyes narrowing. "It's useless to reason with fools." He had fought monsters and demons, faced death many times, but never before had he killed another human. Today, though, these desperate, reckless thugs were leaving him no choice.
Liam, the burly man beside him, grunted and drew his own weapon, a battered sword, chipped and worn from use. He swung it with casual confidence. "Don't waste your breath on these fools, Leon. I could take them all down myself."
Next to him, Brandon unsheathed his dagger but hesitated, weighing the situation in his mind. The thugs posed no real threat, but killing them was a different matter. He worried that if they left bodies behind, they could become wanted men in a foreign land. Was it worth the trouble?
Before the standoff could escalate further, a sharp, commanding voice rang out from behind the gang.
"Boris! What foolish thing are you doing this time?"
The tone cut through the tension like a knife. Instantly, the gang flinched. Their shoulders tensed, and they shrank back as if a cold wind had swept over them. The fear on their faces was unmistakable, like rats caught in the glare of a cat's eyes.
Boris's smug grin faltered. His expression froze, and his blood ran cold. As if on cue, the bruises on his face began to throb, reminding him of past humiliations. Cursing under his breath, he spat the name he despised the most.
"Olivia."
He turned to see her, the girl who had been a constant thorn in his side.
Olivia, a petite blonde with piercing eyes, strode toward the riverbank. Her long dress fluttered slightly in the breeze, and her ponytail swayed with each determined step. Though she carried nothing but a simple wooden stick, the expression on her face made it seem as though she wielded a sword more fearsome than Leon's. The fury in her cold, pretty features was unmistakable.
Boris swallowed hard. His gang, who moments ago had been itching for a fight, now cowered in fear. Even the suggestion of confrontation with Olivia was enough to make them quiver.
"Brother, the Golden Lion is here," one of the thugs whispered urgently to Boris, his voice shaky. "Maybe we should... forget about it for today?"
The nickname "Golden Lion" wasn't just for show. Olivia was known throughout the village for her fierce temper and unmatched strength, especially for someone her size. And every single one of them, including Boris, had felt the sting of her wrath before. None of them wanted to relive that nightmare.
Boris clenched his jaw, torn between pride and self-preservation. His plan was falling apart, and now, with Olivia standing between him and the prize, things were looking bleak.
But even as his mind raced for a way out, Olivia's glare only grew sharper, and with each passing second, the idea of retreat seemed more and more like the only option.