"We just want to rough him up a bit, teach him a lesson. No need to worry, we won't go as far as killing him."
The man speaking had a deep, gravelly voice, his scarred face illuminated briefly by the moonlight as he gave a quick, dismissive pat on the dancer's rear. His impatience was clear. He didn't need to say much else for her to understand what was at stake.
Reluctantly, the dancer accepted the money handed to her by the gang. The weight of it in her hand felt heavier than it should, as if the coins themselves carried a sense of guilt. Her conscience nagged at her, but the promise of easy cash won out. "This'll buy me a few days off at least," she thought, pushing her doubts aside. She was no stranger to shady dealings, but something about this felt off.
The narrow alley was cloaked in shadows, the moonlight barely cutting through. Their brief exchange ended, and with a forced calmness, the dancer turned away, her footsteps echoing in the stillness as she made her way towards the tavern. She had a role to play now.
Pushing open the tavern door, she entered with a shy, almost endearing look plastered across her face. Her gaze landed on the poet, who was seated by the dimly lit corner, brooding in his own melancholy. His zither lay idle beside him. She approached, her heart beating faster, but not for the reasons it might seem.
"Sir, your songs… they stir my heart, like a gentle spring breeze whispering through the leaves," she said, her voice laced with sweetness, her cheeks flushed with a deceptive innocence. Boldly, she grasped his arm, her hand trembling ever so slightly. "Would you… perhaps, compose a melody with me tonight?"
The poet, who had been lost in thought, paused mid-sentence, his gaze locking onto hers. His brooding expression melted into something altogether less noble. A smug grin stretched across his face, and his demeanor shifted, suddenly greasy, self-satisfied.
"Ah, what a delightful little nightingale you are," he mused, setting his zither aside. He wrapped a possessive arm around her waist, pulling her closer. "How could I refuse such a lovely offer? Perhaps, I'll even be inspired to pen a new poem for you."
The tavern, filled with drunken patrons, erupted into half-hearted boos and complaints. "Leaving already? We didn't come here for love songs! Sing us a real epic! Something heroic!"
The poet tipped his hat dismissively, clearly unbothered by the crowd. "Sorry, friends. I'm a wandering bard, not a tavern minstrel. Besides, you can always ask that bumbling idiot by the fire to serenade you. His songs may sound like a harvest chant, but at least he can carry a tune." With that, he gave a mock salute and allowed the dancer to lead him towards the stairs.
The tavern owner, watching the scene unfold, merely shrugged. He knew poets like this didn't stay long, this one had only stuck around to offer a 'charity performance,' after all.
The dancer leaned in close to the poet, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, "Why don't we step outside? Just like in your poem… a secret meeting under the moon, two lovers hidden from the world."
The poet's face lit up with excitement, his lewd grin widening. "A tryst in the night? Hahaha, I like the way you think, my little muse." His steps grew lighter as if he couldn't believe his luck. He let out a giddy laugh, oblivious to the true intentions hidden behind her blushing cheeks.
She led him out of the tavern, into the cool night air, her hand still gripping his arm. The poet followed eagerly, like a moth drawn to a flame.
Meanwhile, inside the tavern, Brandon watched the pair disappear into the night. His expression showed a hint of regret. "Such a shame. His poetry really was quite remarkable," he muttered, shaking his head. "My father never even managed to hire a bard of that caliber for our banquets."
When he received no reply, Brandon glanced at his companion, Leon, who was busy peeking through a crack in the tavern shutters.
"What are you looking at? Something happening out there?" Brandon asked, curiosity creeping into his voice.
Leon waved him off. "Hold on, let me see… could be a fight. You know how it goes in these places."
Outside, bathed in the faint glow of the moon, the dancer led the poet into a secluded alley. The poet, still chuckling and humming to himself, barely noticed the sudden shift in her demeanor. As they reached a quiet corner, she leaned against the wall, her back to him. He fumbled clumsily with his trousers, completely unaware of the seven dark figures lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The ambushers moved swiftly, their steps silent like shadows, rushing up from behind the poet before he could react. A pair of thick, leather-gloved hands clamped down over his mouth just as he opened it to scream, muffling the sound of his fear. His eyes bulged in terror, his muffled cries lost behind the suffocating grip.
In a blur of motion, the remaining men grabbed his arms and legs, pinning him to the ground as he thrashed helplessly. His attempts to struggle were futile against their brute strength.
The dancer, now turning around, gasped in horror. Her hand flew to her mouth as her eyes widened at the sight unfolding in front of her. Without a second thought, she spun on her heel and bolted into the dark, her heart pounding in her chest. She couldn't bear to stay, to witness whatever fate awaited the poet. Besides, these men weren't after her.
The gang barely spared her a glance, their focus entirely on their captive. The leader, a gruff man with a scar running down his cheek, leaned in close to the poet's ear, his breath hot and foul.
"Well, well," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery, "We've been looking for you for a long time, and you had the nerve to stay in the city? Mr. Rotty sends his regards, Master Goliad."
The poet, his mouth still covered by the glove, shook his head desperately, his eyes darting in every direction as if searching for a way out. Panic gripped him tighter than the hands holding him down. In a moment of wild desperation, he jerked his head to the side, slamming it into the face of the man behind him. The thug yelped as pain shot through his nose, his eyes watering instantly.
"! Help! Help me! Wuwuwu!" The poet, sensing a brief opening, tried to scream, his voice shaky with terror. His eyes locked onto a figure watching from a window nearby, a glimmer of hope flickering in them.
But his cry for help was cut short as a fist drove hard into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, gasping, the pain contorting his body like a shrimp curling inward. The thug who had taken the blow to the face recovered quickly, his anger boiling over. He grabbed the poet's face, pinching his cheeks cruelly, and shoved a dirty rag into his mouth to silence him once and for all.
The gang leader, still rubbing his sore nose, turned in the direction the poet had tried to call out to. His eyes locked onto Leon, who was peeking out from the window shutters. The two exchanged a tense stare, the thug's lip curling into a snarl.
"Mind your own business, or I'll slit your throat!" the leader growled, baring his yellowed teeth in a menacing grin.
But Leon didn't flinch, his eyes steady as he watched the men bind the poet tightly. Without another word, the gang hoisted their captive up and hurried out of the alley, the poet's muffled cries fading into the night.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!" the leader shouted back, fury in his voice. He glared at Leon, who remained unmoved, still watching through the small gap in the window. Enraged, the thug bent down, picked up a rock, and hurled it towards the window.
Leon quickly let go of the shutters, and they slammed shut with a sharp snap, blocking the rock just in time. The sound echoed through the empty tavern. He stood still for a moment, his mind racing. This wasn't just some tavern brawl. No, something far darker was at play here.
The weight of the poet's terrified eyes stayed with him. Leon knew he couldn't just stand by and do nothing. He thought of the knight's oath he had taken not long ago; the promise to protect, to serve. It gnawed at his conscience. This wasn't just about some poet getting roughed up. There was a greater danger here, and he couldn't turn his back on it.
He turned to Brandon, explaining quickly what he had just witnessed. "They've taken the poet. We need to do something."
Brandon's brow furrowed. He glanced towards their companion Liam, who had been sitting idly by, bored. Without hesitation, the three of them stood and made their way toward the table where a guard sat, nursing a drink.
Leon placed a firm hand on the guard's shoulder. "I just saw a poet being kidnapped right outside. We need your help."
But before the words had fully left his mouth, the guard, drunk and bleary-eyed, muttered something incoherent, something like "Mary...Mary..." before attempting to embrace Leon, arms wide open.
Leon sidestepped the drunken grab effortlessly, his patience wearing thin. With a frustrated sigh, he turned and made his way to the bar, where the tavern owner was watching with mild interest.
"I saw what happened," Leon said urgently. "The poet was taken right outside. You have to help."
The tavern owner glanced at him, his expression unmoved. He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "Look, if it had happened inside my tavern, I might've been able to stop it. But outside? That's none of my business. In this line of work, we can't afford to get involved in trouble like that."
Leon's jaw clenched in frustration, but he knew the owner's words weren't entirely unexpected. This wasn't a place where people stuck their necks out for others. Still, the image of the poet's pleading eyes wouldn't leave his mind.
He turned back to Brandon and Liam, determination settling in his bones. "If no one else is going to help, we'll have to handle this ourselves."
"Can you tell me where I can find the guard in charge?" Leon asked, urgency lacing his voice.
The tavern owner, a grizzled man with a weary expression, pointed down the street. "Go out, turn right, and you might run into some patrolling soldiers."
With human lives hanging in the balance, Leon didn't waste another second. He pushed the door open and stepped into the cool night air. The moon cast a hazy glow over the street, and a gentle breeze whispered through the shadows. Liam, who had been dozing off, stirred awake, rubbing his eyes in confusion.
"Are we really going to call the guards?" Brandon asked skeptically, watching Leon with concern. "If the guards had really shown up, they'd be doing more than just standing around. That poet could already be in serious trouble."
"You go ahead and alert them," Leon replied, his gaze fixed ahead. "I'll follow the path those thugs took and see what's happening." He felt a surge of determination; carrying a captive would slow them down.
Acting quickly, Leon and Liam split up, following the road that the kidnappers had taken. As they rounded a corner, Leon caught sight of the men in the distance, dragging the poet into a secluded alleyway.
Drawing their swords, the two young men sprinted after them, adrenaline coursing through their veins. As Leon stepped into the alley, his heart sank. The kidnappers had already bound the poet, tossing him carelessly into a corner while their leader, flanked by his brutish companions in leather armor, stood waiting with a sword in hand.
"I warned you not to meddle in affairs that don't concern you," the gang leader spat, eyes narrowing as he inspected Leon and Liam. "Have you been sipping too much of the horse piss they call ale? I'll give you one last chance to get out. Otherwise, I'll toss you both and this pretty boy into the Rushina River for the fish to feast on."
Leon's expression hardened as he studied the thugs. They stood in a haphazard manner, their postures sloppy and unsure. They were nothing more than ruffians, only slightly tougher than the village bullies he had faced before.
"We are knights of the Thornflower Family from Grayir Valley," Leon declared, his voice steady. "Given your blatant disrespect and your actions here, I would consider it merciful to merely flog you. An execution might even be justified."
Lowering his sword, Leon stepped closer, his gaze locking onto the leader. "Now, I command you to explain this kidnapping at once."
The leader raised an eyebrow, a sneer creeping across his face as he sized them up under the moonlight. "Knights, huh? You two look like kids playing dress-up. Where did you crawl out from, little brats?"
Laughter erupted from the gang, crude and mocking. "Haha! If you're knights, I must be the Count of Buneros!" one of them jeered, the sound echoing off the alley walls.
Leon felt a flash of frustration, reaching instinctively for the leather bucket at his waist. But in the dim light, it would be useless; these thugs couldn't read or recognize the emblem of the thorn flower even in daylight. His youthful appearance worked against him in this moment; perhaps he needed to disguise himself better in future encounters.
"Stop blabbing, boss. Just kill them already!" one thug yelled, swinging an iron-wrapped mallet, eager for a fight.
Liam looked at Leon, scratching his cheek, an uncertain expression on his face. "Leon, what's the plan here? This isn't looking good."
Leon took a deep breath, weighing his options. "We stand our ground. We can't let them harm the poet. Ready yourself."
The sergeant's son, having grown up in the barracks, wasn't sure whether to go for the kill or handle the situation like the street brawls he'd seen back in Rolandar. He stood there, fists clenched, caught between instinct and caution.
"Think of it like a drunken brawl," Leon advised, his voice calm despite the tension. "We don't want to cause any unnecessary deaths." He knew they weren't in their familiar territory of Greyfir Valley. The rules were different here, and they had to tread carefully.
With practiced ease, Leon removed the scabbard from his belt with his left hand, raising his sword with his right. In a smooth motion, he sheathed the blade in front of him, its sharp edge hidden for now. "Quick fight. Quick resolution," he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the thugs surrounding them.
"Got it," Liam replied, a mischievous grin spreading across his usually honest face. He slid his sword back into its sheath, his body humming with anticipation. Without Olivia around to knock him into shape, he'd been itching for a release of energy. It was time to vent some of that pent-up frustration.
The leader of the thugs, seeing the boys prepare for combat with such confidence, hesitated for a moment. But pride, or perhaps fear of appearing weak in front of his men, pushed him forward. "Get 'em!" he barked, rallying his men with an aggressive wave. "Let's put some holes in these fools!"
Leon, calm as ever, didn't throw away the scabbard. Instead, he held the sword hilt in his right hand while his left gripped the scabbard firmly, stepping to the left in a calculated movement. He assumed a half-sword stance, positioning himself to meet the oncoming rush.
He had trained for moments like this, and though Olivia's erratic, punishing sparring methods had been unpredictable, they had prepared him well. As the thugs charged, disorganized and sloppy, Leon almost felt disappointed. This was chaos, yes, but a chaos that was easy to navigate for someone with his training.
He stepped forward into the fray, sidestepping to the right in a smooth pivot. His arm armor, hidden beneath his cloak, flashed as he raised the scabbard just in time to block a wild, thoughtless swing from one of the thugs. With a fluid motion, the pommel of his sword crashed into the thug's face, hitting with the force of a hammer. There was a sickening crunch as several yellowed teeth flew from the man's mouth, his chin collapsing under the force. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Without hesitation, Leon shifted his stance, transitioning seamlessly from the "half-sword hoe" position to a "True Cross" attack. His body moved like a well-oiled machine, each joint working in perfect coordination. Centering his balance on his right foot, he swung his left arm in a tight arc, using the scabbard to knock aside another blade that came stabbing at him from the right. The end of his scabbard found its mark, smashing directly into the attacker's face. The crunch of bone was unmistakable as the thug's nose exploded in a mess of blood.
The man dropped his weapon, clutching his shattered nose as he collapsed to the ground, wailing in agony.
Leon barely broke stride. Raising his sword hilt, he spun to face another enemy, this time using the "pseudo-cross" stance. He anticipated the attack coming from his left, but when he locked eyes with the thug, the man's bravado crumbled. The once-ferocious expression melted into terror as he watched Leon systematically dismantle his companions.
In a single breath, it was over.
The thugs who had surrounded Leon now lay scattered on the ground. Some were unconscious, others groaning in pain, one clutching his face and sobbing as if he'd just lost his mother. It was a pitiful sight. None of them could muster the will to stand, let alone fight.
The last thug standing, armed with a hammer, was visibly trembling. His legs shook beneath him, and his grip on the weapon faltered. The security he once felt from the heavy iron mallet now seemed like a distant memory. His voice quivered as he stammered, "Y-you're really knights?!"
Leon's gaze was unwavering, his sword still drawn but lowered. "You'd better believe it," he replied coldly, the threat in his voice unmistakable.
Leon tilted his head slightly, a calm, almost amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He finally understood why seasoned knights wouldn't bother treating opponents like this with any seriousness. When your enemy is so predictable, so clumsy in their approach, there's no real sense of danger. You could see through their every move before they made it, leaving you with no sense of urgency, no thrill to heighten your instincts.
Not far to his right, Liam had finished dealing with the four thugs surrounding him, though his approach was less precise and more brutish. Using only his fists, Liam was barely a moment slower than Leon. His iron-gloved right hand had hoisted one of the thugs off the ground like a limp rag doll. The poor man hung there, head lolling, his face so swollen it was barely recognizable. His eyes had disappeared into a puffy mess, and his features now resembled something closer to a pig than a person. With a disappointed shake of his head, Liam let the man drop to the ground.
"Didn't even get to warm up properly," Liam muttered, cracking his knuckles. The thought crossed his mind that the fight wasn't nearly as satisfying as when Olivia used to press him into a corner during their sparring sessions. These thugs weren't even in the same league.
Leon, with his sword still lowered, approached the last remaining thug. The man's face was ashen, eyes wide with fear, and his back pressed tightly against the wall. There was nowhere for him to go now, he was trapped by the same position he and his friends had taken to surround Leon and Liam.
"Now," Leon said, his tone casual but carrying an unmistakable threat, "do you want to explain your little kidnapping, or would you prefer to join your friends in a long, peaceful sleep?"
The thug, clearly panicking, dropped his club with a clatter. His knees gave out, and he fell to the ground, raising his hands as if begging for mercy. "N-no, no, no! Young knight! Master Knight! I didn't mean to offend you! Please, kick me if you want to vent your anger, but spare me! I'm just a pawn, doing what the boss told me! I swear, it's just a personal dispute! Besides," he added quickly, his voice trembling, "that guy's no saint. This is just one dog biting another—no honest folk are involved here!"
Leon's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
Sensing a glimmer of hope, the thug pointed frantically at the middle-aged poet, Goliad, who was still wriggling like a caterpillar in the corner, his hands and feet bound. "That man, Goliad! He's no good! The boss invited him to his home, spent a fortune on him, but what did he do? He seduced the boss's wife and ran off with her! We've been searching for him ever since!"
"Wait, what?" Leon's sword lowered even more as he scratched his head, bewildered. Had he just interfered on the wrong side of this situation? His initial righteousness wavered as he glanced at Liam, who immediately walked over to the poet and yanked the gag from his mouth.
Goliad coughed and spat, glaring at the thug. "Slander! Complete slander! When did I ever 'abduct' Mr. Rotty's wife?" He tried to regain his composure, though it was hard to do while tied up. His voice took on a dramatic tone, the kind bards use when performing for a crowd. "All I did was help that poor, beautiful woman realize her potential. I merely guided her, a bird with broken wings, out of the cage she was trapped in, to seek her true happiness!"
Liam, unimpressed, crossed his arms. The thugs, however, were having none of it. One of them shouted angrily, "You call 'that' helping? You jumped out of the boss's window stark naked! Everyone saw it! If you didn't kidnap his wife, then who did?"
The gang member's words stung with bitterness. Even thugs had some semblance of loyalty, and their boss, despite being a criminal, had been humiliated in a way no man could endure.
Goliad, still defiant, smirked and replied, "Ah, but that was simply the parting of two souls destined for greatness. How could someone like you understand the harmony of spirit between us?"
As if to emphasize his romantic delusions, Goliad began humming a love ballad, his voice carrying the same smug air of someone who believed wholeheartedly in his own righteousness.
Leon sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. What had he gotten himself into? This city was a web of messy relationships, and it was starting to give him a headache. Why did everything have to be so complicated here? Back in Grey Fir Valley, things were simpler; at least the villains were clear-cut.
Just as Leon was about to say something, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from outside the alley. He looked back toward the street and saw the welcome sight of Brandon, leading a group of guards armed with torches. Their flickering light cast long shadows on the cobblestones as they approached.
Relief washed over Leon. "Finally," he muttered, glancing at Liam, who had grown tired of Goliad's rambling. The poet, still tied up, continued his song, oblivious to the approaching guards. This situation might just resolve itself after all.