Midnight has passed, for the dawn has taken over. Lightning spotted in the sky—thundering and rumbling from the far northeast region, where a colossal, ancient castle standing, carried a malevolent aura surrounding the building. The Gothic style design elevates the dreaded atmosphere, black—cold—stone in gradient of dark grey giving an illicit air. Vast barren land with red soil is a home for the castle lies. Its rotten stench is a testament of corruption which has plagued the land; the never-ending fluid of crimson leaked when a single step entered this damned place. On the other hand, clearly see various hanged dead bodies, some even skeletons, on stakes near the bay. People refer to this place as The Sanguine Cove.
"Come here, my servant." A rigid voice calling over someone.
Then a man in mysterious black clothing with a hood hides his face—bowing just like an obedient dog, ready to do any of his bidding without questions.
"I have come here, my lord." The servant then looked up at his master, who is a pale man in extraordinary features. Bloodshot eyes with small-dark pupils, long silver hair over shoulder; his right hand holds a golden chalice filled with blood, dressed in a true noble yet sinister look. He snarls. "How dare you look at me, vermin!" He throws his chalice on the servant's head, making him blood soaked. He lowered his head to the ground, clenching his fists subtly.
"Forgive me, my lord." He murmured, bowing lower still, his mind burned with the fury of rebellion.
"My dog has died because of someone. I believe it was a vanguard who did it, no?"
"Yes, his name is Garran."
"Hmm... a pest, try to join my game without being invited? Very well." He stood up, walking and facing the kneeling servant. "I want you to get rid of him, understand?" He speaks with a harsh tone—lifting the servant's body by its neck.
He choked, his face sweating, his breath restrained, his legs shuddering. "Y-yes...my lord." He was hurled backwards, hitting a wall. Slowly he gets up, holding his neck that has turned into reddish striped. "I swear, one day I shall kill you; I shall make you pay for what you've done to my people, my brother...my family." He mutters under his breath, cursing the very being he hates, yet he serves.
Meanwhile, in Osvern, Garran is currently resting to recover his wounds in a Drakovian army barracks. After the expedition, the cave takes a great toll on them, but at least it's successful. He lies on a bed in a small room, his hand and shoulder bandaged, leaving him bare chested, showing a muscular body with a lean build emphasizing endurance over brute strength. On his back, a huge rune carving embedded in flesh, a marking of every vanguard's painful Runification process to protect their body from dark magics, scarring the surface with an awfully intricate design made by a sacred dagger.
After some time, the door creaked, a slender—beauty figure step i; it's a nurse. She brought his medicine but immediately fluttered, seeing him wearing nothing. Garran noticed her reaction, immediately switched his position, slowly while avoiding making any sudden move that could affect his fresh injuries, then sit and lowered his gaze.
"Just put it on the table. I can handle it myself."
"But you're badly injured." She replies with compassion.
"Thanks, and don't worry, it will heal quickly."
"You, sure?"
"Yes, I am."
She nods and puts the silver tray on the table beside his bed. Leaving him alone. Garran reaches his utility belt, looking something from the pocket and turns out he pulled out a small, tied leaf, then he unties it—squeeze it gently. A white substance leaks out and applies it to his battle-scars. His wounds burn and cold at the same time. It helps to faster the recovery. Shortly, someone else stepped closer to his room. It was Edric.
"Hello there. How are you doing? Feeling good? Don't worry about everything; it's on me." He spoke.
"I'm fine, thanks for everything," Garran rose, wincing slightly as he moved. He put on his white shirt and tucked it inside his trousers but slightly loosen, securing his belt, then put on a vest. Not finished, he dons a leather chest armor adorned fur trim, brown gloves and finally a rolled-sleeve black jacket draped over his shoulders, concealing much of his gear. Didn't forget to secure his sword on the back.
"Woah, easy there, a moment ago you just look like a person who's about to die." Edric laughs, but Garran is not.
"I think I shall go now."
"Wait, here's your payment, as I promised." Edric tosses him a pouch of Krons.
"Thank you, and farewell."
Edric nodded as Garran walked past him towards the door and outside Barracks. He would see the day of Osvern, filled with a vast market as its primary income. Merchants are busy selling their stuff while buyers try to bargain. Overall, the town is quite good if there's no thug and drunkard freely roaming around since yesterday. He continues his way to the gate, once again venturing in the wild. But unbeknownst to him, someone followed behind.
Long story short, he almost arrived at the next destination. But he stopped his movement; something is wrong, as a crushed twig was heard.
"Who's there!?" Garran shouted, his voice echoing through the forest. A shadow emerged from the woods, stepping into the faint sunlight. Clad in light armor, the figure exuded an air of danger. His face was visible beneath his hood, eyes glowing white and pupil-less, with dark, tainted markings etched around them.
"Who are you? Why are you following me?" Garran demanded, gripping his sword hilt tightly.
The man didn't answer, only muttering incoherent phrases about gates and rituals. Garran's expression hardened. "Dark magic, huh?"
Without warning, the figure lunged forward, dual daggers flashing in the dim light. Garran sidestepped the attack, drawing his sword in a fluid motion. The blades clashed in a clash of steel, the assassin's relentless strikes meeting Garran's defensive parries.
The attacker leapt into the air, aiming a precise downward thrust. Garran rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike as the ground where he had stood cracked under the impact. Rising swiftly, he faced his opponent. Their blades collided again, a series of rapid strikes and counters ringing out like a battle cry.
Garran saw his opening—a low slash aimed at the man's legs—but the assassin countered with a cross slash, his blade grazing Garran's hair while Garran's sword found its mark, splattering blood from the man's thigh. Wounded but undeterred, the assassin acrobatically, evading Garran's follow-up strike and landing on his feet like a predator.
With a flick of his wrist, the assassin hurled two daggers. Garran deflected one, but the second grazed his cheek, leaving a shallow cut. His temper flared. "Enough of this!" Garran roared, surging forward. He unleashed a powerful downward swing. The assassin raised his dagger to block, but the sheer force of Garran's strike left him stunned. Seizing the moment, Garran slashed across the man's torso and drove his sword deep into his abdomen.
The assassin gasped, blood dripping from his lips, his glowing eyes fading back to normal. "P-please... don't kill me," he stammered, his voice trembling. "I'm... a bounty hunter."
"Did they put a price on my head?!" He snapped, his voice is cold and unyielding.
"N-no, I was b-brainwashed by s-someone... P-please help...me." He pleaded in pain.
"Who did this to you?" He demanded.
"I-I don't—" he coughs some blood. "... know."
His anger flared. Without a word, he twisted the blade, ending the assassin's suffering in one ultimate act of merciless efficiency. He withdrew his sword, letting the body collapse to the ground.