Arcton.
The village was small, barely even a village. It would be called a hamlet if not for its prosperous crop yield. By day, Arcton served as a trade route for many passing in and out of Oberden. It was just northeast of it, close enough that travelers moving between Castle Winstromme and Oberden could stay there come nightfall. It was safe to assume that most staying overnight in Arcton were merchants, and this was true.
Another fact about Arcton was its lack of soldiers or knights to guard the unwalled village. With the Vorhan Empire now in the depths of war, it would be fair to assume that there were even fewer guardsmen than there had been twenty years ago.
Perhaps that is why it was also a favorite of bandits and thieves.
The Bandit King, Raysor Thayne, had gathered nineteen misfits to sack Arcton. Many in his small army had been spying on Arcton for months, watching the villagers and noting their routines and capabilities. The truth was, it was just a village full of farmers. There were only two guardsmen, and they had already dealt with them before setting out.
Tonight was their night; they could feel it.
"Cheer, men, for the sun will not find us poor sods after tonight!" Raysor Thayne shouted, raising his sword high above his head, leading the steady charge of bandits. "They have supplies for the taking, and those merchants sleeping there? Their wares, their gold, their food—those will be our spoils!"
The men cheered, their voices echoing in the night like rabid wolves.
"Damn right, we've waited long enough," a burly man with a scruffy beard interjected, his voice gruff. "Those farmers won't know what hit 'em! I heard from one of our spies that their women are fine, too."
"The women will be for me, Tormund," Raysor Thayne snickered.
And soon, they emerged from the woods to find Arcton. But they stopped when they heard nothing.
No bells raised, no criers shouting.
Absolutely nothing.
The lamplights outside were out, too.
"They must be sleeping," whispered Tormund.
Raysor Thayne hummed in agreement, but his hand tightened on his sword. Something was wrong—this place should have been awake at this hour. The reports had said they didn't sleep until an hour past midnight. The only explanation was that they'd gone to bed early.
"March around; the main street should do. Search every building, every house, kill anyone you find, and take everything they own," Raysor Thayne smirked.
This also worked in his favor. He was keen on committing a massacre to spread his infamy across Vorhan. Anyone who escaped would spread his tale, and by effect, he'd attract other bandits, bolstering his ranks.
If his party grew large enough, he might even create a new kingdom with himself as ruler.
Wouldn't that be a terrible place to live?
I suppose if a pile of shit grows large enough, it attracts all kinds of flies.
After a while of searching, the bandits found nothing but empty buildings. It was as if they had stumbled into a realm not their own. It was uncanny how quickly everyone had vanished. They regrouped in the main street.
"Did you find anyone?" Raysor Thayne growled.
"N-none, Raysor," Tormund said, quivering slightly from the eerie stillness.
Raysor Thayne's eyes darkened, and he suddenly grabbed Tormund by the neck, lifting him and staring into his eyes as he squeezed the life out of him. When the light in Tormund's eyes began to fade, Raysor snapped his neck and tossed him aside.
"Incompetent fool!"
Then, a sound echoed through the cobblestone streets—a soft whistling. It was the tune of Blue Moon, a song by Frank Sinatra.
Of course, only Henry Savoy would recognize it.
He was an Otherworlder, after all.
"Who's there?!" Raysor roared, raising his sword. "One more step, and you're dead!"
Henry Savoy stopped walking but kept whistling, the moonlight suddenly illuminating his drunken grin. He was holding a nearly empty bottle of Apricia brandy, though they assumed it was Apricia juice.
That caught their attention.
Apricia juice was a luxury, and they knew it.
"You must be rich to drink that so carelessly," Raysor grinned. "So, here's what we're going to do. You drop all your belongings and run. If not, you die."
Henry Savoy drained the rest of the brandy and smashed the bottle against the wall. The bandits flinched, but Henry only chuckled, stroking his clean-shaven chin as though in thought.
"That's…" said Henry, then pointed at Raysor Thayne with a wide grin, "a shitty deal."
"A shitty deal?" Raysor Thayne laughed, soon joined by his men. Their laughter grew louder until they noticed Henry was laughing with them, his laughter malicious and mocking. They fell silent. "You think you can fight us? You're outnumbered, fool!"
"I am," Henry said, shrugging, "but I'd take two more Mes over a hundred of you any day. I'd still win."
"You brat," Raysor roared, raising his sword. "Charge, men!"
Henry raised a finger and clicked his tongue. The men didn't charge—they stood still, like dogs more obedient to a stranger than their own master.
"A bandit king ordering his men to charge a single person? How adorable. If that's the kind of leader you are, I wonder why they follow you," Henry Savoy taunted, holding up a hand as if shushing Raysor Thayne's eighteen bandits. "If you're so grand, then fight me alone. If not, you're just proving my point. You're a coward, and your men ought to make you their—"
One of the bandits started to snicker, and others joined in. Raysor Thayne, red with rage, found his own men laughing at him. Anger gripped him by the neck and had put him in the gallows of humiliation; when he looked at Henry Savoy, his fury burned hotter at the mocking grin on Henry's face.
"You want a fight, you'll get one," Raysor Thayne growled. "Bear arms! We'll fight now."
"No need, Raysor Thayne," Henry Savoy said his name as one might address an inferior, one of his many subtly irritating talents. "Who named you? And what ass did they pull it out of?"
As Raysor's rage boiled, veins bulged on his forehead.
"Must have been a bat's; you're batshit insane if you think you can beat me with that iron toothpick," Henry laughed, clutching his stomach. As I said, he did love his puns.
Raysor Thayne charged, seizing the moment to strike while Henry was distracted. At the last second, Henry stopped laughing, a grin still carved into his face. Raysor Thayne aimed to stab his shoulder, but as he moved, Henry twisted and caught the point of the sword. Still, Raysor Thayne held the advantage; he could pierce Henry's hand with ease, but Henry kept his calm and thought:
Corruption.