Three years had passed since Rayliar first set foot in Kandahar, the First Bastion. A city built on the sweat and blood of mercenaries. A city of debauchery and vengeance, where the faint line separating the hunter from the hunted was blurred each passing day. Located on the western border of the Empire, Kandahar stood as a neutral ground—a city with no true masters. Neither the Empire nor the neighboring state of Ragharind laid claim to its streets, and within its towering walls, law and order were words with little meaning.
For Rayliar, it was the perfect place to call home.
The young man stirred lazily, his body weighed down by the lethargy of yet another night spent drowning in drink and thought. Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking against the dim light filtering through the cracks of the wooden shutters. The dull ache in his head reminded him of the price of indulgence, but he dismissed it with a sigh.
Throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, he rubbed his temples briefly before rising. His room was sparsely furnished—just a bed, a stool, and a wardrobe that creaked with every movement. His clothes, carelessly draped over the stool the previous night, awaited him. One by one, he slipped them on, his movements practiced and deliberate, though devoid of enthusiasm.
Once dressed, Rayliar stepped out into the hallway. The narrow corridor that greeted him was just as he remembered it: dirty, dimly lit, and reeking of mildew. The walls were a dull, peeling gray, and the wooden floor creaked ominously underfoot. With a faint grimace, he made his way toward the stairs, descending into the heart of the establishment—the common area of the Storyteller's Tavern.
The tavern was bustling with life even at this early hour, its patrons a colorful mix of mercenaries, thieves, and other unsavory types. Wooden tables, lined with crude benches, were laden with food and drink. The fare was as modest as it was plentiful—cheap bread, watery stew, and ale that stung the throat like fire.
Behind the counter sat Elsa Miller, the woman who ran both the tavern and the web of secrets that radiated from it. She was perched on a stool, one hand holding a newspaper while the other cradled a glass of something dark and mysterious. The slight upward curve of her lips betrayed a trace of amusement, though whether it was directed at the news or the room around her was anyone's guess.
"Morning, Rayliar," she greeted without looking up, her voice carrying a hint of teasing. "Looks like you had a good time last night."
"Morning, Elsa," Rayliar replied with a curt nod.
He approached the counter, his movements casual but measured, the weight of the city's chaos always lingering on his shoulders.
Elsa Miller wasn't just the owner of the Storyteller's Tavern—she was its heart, its soul, and its watchful eyes. A woman of sharp wit and sharper instincts, she knew everything worth knowing about Kandahar. If a deal was struck, a blade drawn, or a life lost within these walls, Elsa would hear of it before the blood had a chance to dry.
Her hair, dark with a smattering of gray, was tied back in an elegant bun, leaving the nape of her neck exposed. Perched on the bridge of her slender nose were half-moon glasses, the lenses glinting faintly in the tavern's dim light. Despite her age, she carried herself with a confidence and allure that drew attention, her black lace dress carefully chosen to flatter her figure without sacrificing practicality.
"If you're looking for work, I might have something for you," she said, her eyes flicking up from the paper.
Without waiting for his response, she reached into her pocket and retrieved a gold coin. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she tossed it into the air.
Rayliar caught it effortlessly, his fingers closing around the coin without so much as a glance.
"What's the target?" he asked, his voice calm, almost detached.
"The usual," Elsa replied, her attention already drifting back to her paper.
"Name?"
"Kruger. The Slayer."
"Alive or dead?"
"Doesn't matter," she said with a shrug, taking another sip of her drink.
"Understood."
Without further ado, Rayliar turned and left, his boots thudding softly against the worn wooden floor. The tavern doors creaked as he pushed them open, and the city beyond welcomed him with its cacophony of sounds and scents.
__________
During his childhood, the man, now fully grown, had read a story about a certain Freddy Krueger, a figure who haunted the dreams of his victims.
"I like it!"
He had thought, and once he embarked on his criminal career, he decided to adopt the name for himself.
The only difference? He didn't stop at haunting his victims' sleep.
Over the years, through his role, he had gained glory in the imperial army, but once the war was over, all traces of him were lost.
"Fallen in battle."
That's what they had said.
But the truth was far different: there was simply no point in staying in a place devoid of bloodshed.
And so, he was reborn, in the shadows.
______________
Life in Kandahar was not for the faint of heart. Like most who called it home, Rayliar had been forced to adapt to its unforgiving nature. Survival here meant more than simply getting by—it meant doing whatever it took to stay ahead.
And for Rayliar, this time would be no different.
The streets were alive with activity as he walked, his path illuminated by the morning sun. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the tang of ripe fruit, creating a deceptive sense of warmth. On either side, stone buildings rose high, their wooden roofs casting long shadows over the cobblestone streets.
I'll never get used to this…
For someone who had grown up in a quiet, humble village, the sprawling city was both a marvel and a curse. Its towering structures and endless alleyways were a constant reminder of how far he'd come—and how far he still had to go.
Pausing briefly at the entrance to a narrow alley, Rayliar glanced over his shoulder. The streets were crowded, but no one seemed to be paying him any mind. Satisfied, he reached into his coat and retrieved a mask. It was plain and unadorned, its black surface reflecting no light.
Sliding it over his face, Rayliar adjusted the straps before stepping into the alley.
___________
Kandahar was a city of layers, its layout resembling a set of concentric circles. At its core lay the noble district, a place of unparalleled opulence and excess. Here, the rich and powerful lived in splendor, their marble-clad estates guarded by gilded gates and armed sentries. Even the air seemed cleaner within its boundaries, the stench of oil lamps replaced by the faint aroma of perfume.
Beyond the noble district was the city proper—a bustling hub of commerce and activity. This was where the majority of Kandahar's population resided, their lives revolving around the endless cycle of trade and labor. Shops and stalls lined every street, their wares as varied as the people who sold them.
And finally, there was the outermost ring—the slums. A sprawling, lawless expanse where the city's outcasts and criminals congregated. Here, the buildings were little more than shacks, their walls patched together with scraps of wood and metal. It was a place where hope went to die, and only the strong—or the desperate—could survive.
Rayliar's destination lay within this desolate ring.
___________
The stench of the slums was overpowering, even through Rayliar's mask. Rotting wood and unwashed bodies filled the air with a foul miasma that clung to everything it touched.
As he made his way through the narrow streets, the sound of his boots echoed softly against the cobblestones. His axes, slung loosely at his sides, swayed with each step, their polished blades gleaming in the dim light.
Sitting in the shadow of a crumbling wall, a vagrant cradled a bottle of liquor like a precious jewel. His sunken eyes widened as Rayliar approached, the sight of the masked figure sending a shiver down his spine.
"Where can I find Kruger?" Rayliar asked, his voice muffled by the mask.
"Y-you're…" the man stammered, his grip on the bottle faltering.
"I asked you a question," Rayliar said, his tone sharp.
"S-straight ahead! The red-light district!" the vagrant blurted, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "P-please, don't kill me!"
"Thanks," Rayliar said simply, tossing a coin toward the man before continuing on his way.
The vagrant caught the coin, his trembling hands clutching it as if it were a lifeline.
"With this… I can buy the best liquor in town!" he exclaimed, his fear momentarily forgotten.
Still, I'd better get out of here if The Gravedigger is around…
He thought, staggering to his feet.
___________
The red-light district was a cacophony of noise and color. Neon signs buzzed faintly above the entrances to brothels and gambling dens, their gaudy lights casting the streets in a garish glow.
As Rayliar walked, the whispers began.
"That's him…!"
"It's The Gravedigger! Run!"
Former mercenaries and addicts scattered at the sight of him, their fear palpable. Even the women who worked the streets shrank back, their painted faces pale with dread.
Spotting a young woman trembling against a wall, Rayliar approached her. His axe gleamed as he raised it, the blade resting lightly against her neck.
"Where's Kruger?"
The woman's voice was barely a whisper. "H-he's usually at the Red Rose."
"Thanks," Rayliar said, his voice soft. Flipping her a coin, he stepped back.
"T-thank you!" she stammered, clutching the coin tightly.
"Don't mention it."
___________
The Red Rose loomed ahead, its weathered sign depicting a naked woman draped in thorned roses. Faint red light pulsed from its windows in rhythmic flashes.
Without hesitation, Rayliar pushed open the doors.
Inside, the room was thick with the stench of sweat and cheap perfume. A group of men sat around a table, their attention fixed on a dancer who moved with practiced grace.
"Which one of you is Kruger?" Rayliar asked, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.
One of the men looked up, his expression twisted with disdain. "And who the hell are you supposed to be?"
Here we go again…
In the blink of an eye, Rayliar was upon them.
Splat.
A red line appeared across the man's neck, his head rolling to the cushioned seat behind him.
"Now," Rayliar said coldly, his axe dripping with blood, "do the rest of you want to answer, or should I ask again?"