The carriage rattled as it edged closer to Pyrovile, its creaking wheels punctuating the otherwise quiet landscape. Mr Swordsman admired the view outside as the others were still awestruck by Tori accomplishments. Tori being an S-Class adventurer was hard for him to believe, and he didn't care enough to test her claims. She must have her reasons for lying, he thought, his mind clouded by memories that surged forward and brought a sharp pain to his head.
He recalled other S-Class adventurers he had encountered during his travels with Bloodborne—individuals who served directly under him, clad entirely in black. Their lifeforce was overwhelming, almost impossible to suppress. But Tori... she didn't fit that mould.
Mr. Swordsman sighed, resting his head on his hand as he tried to unravel why these memories surfaced now. His thoughts wandered to Bloodborne, who also possessed a gift. Why now? He wondered in silence. Shaking his head, he resolved to let the memories fade. It wasn't his place to share such information with the siblings anyway, and with that, he cleared his mind and returned to enjoying the ride.
"So, you're an S-Class adventurer?" Hudson asked, his eyes practically sparkling. "That's so cool!"
"Right?" Tori said, striking a triumphant pose with her hands on her waist. "S-Classes get a ton of benefits. We can travel to any nation without a pass, eat free food at guilds, and even get access to ancient dungeons and lairs. Perks of being awesome, you know?"
Hudson and Emilia sat there, wide-eyed, admiration pouring out of them. Tori basked in their attention like a cat in a sunbeam, soaking up every ounce of their awe. She was practically glowing—faster than a pope devouring offerings on a fasting day.
"So," Mr. Swordsman said dryly, his arms crossed, "why are you with the old man?"
She chuckled, clapping her hands. "He's my grandpappy, of course!"
"Grandpappy?" Mr. Swordsman's brow furrowed.
Outside the carriage, Andy's hearty laughter rang out. "Yup, I'm her grandpappy! Hoo-ha!"
"You just came to pay a visit?" Hudson asked, curious.
"Not exactly," Tori said, her smile softening. "My crew and I were sent on a mission by the guild. I can't share the details, but we split up into teams. Honestly, I went solo because I wanted to take a detour and visit my grandpappy—I hadn't seen him since I was little." She turned to Mr Swordsman. "But then, the Weeping Swordsman ambushed my group. They escaped, but not without serious injuries. I was lucky no one died."
Hudson nodded solemnly. "That must have been so hard for you, hearing about what happened to your friends."
"You've been through a lot," Emilia added, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve.
Mr. Swordsman sighed. "If she's strong enough to wander around alone, she should've stayed with her team. They wouldn't have been ambushed in the first place."
Emilia's face turned crimson as she glared at him. "Why do you always have to be so heartless?!"
"No one died, so it's fine, you jerk!" Tori joined in, pointing a finger at him.
Mr. Swordsman's patience wavered causing him to finally break. "Hey! Watch your tone, you grandpappy girl!"
From outside, Andy bellowed, "GRANDPAPPY!"
Tori narrowed her eyes. "Huh?! You're an insensitive idiot! I bet you're single!"
"Tell him, Tori!" Pasta muttered in his sleep, snoring loudly.
Mr. Swordsman sighed again, his gaze drifting back out the window as he attempted to tune out the noise.
Hudson straightened up, his voice taking on a self-righteous tone. "A human should bear a heart of grace, not of the infernal. Mr. Swordsman ought to change his ways!"
Emilia gave him a subtle nod of approval while Tori returned to her seat, flipping her hair. "Well, anyway, grandpappy is off delivering some materials, so I'll stop by on the way and go solo from there. Now you know why I'm tagging along."
Hudson turned to Pasta. "Still out cold, huh?" he asked, glancing toward the snoring lump of a boy.
"Hungry… hot… hungry…" Pasta mumbled, drooling as the carriage bounced over the uneven road.
#
The towering walls of Pyrovile loomed ahead, casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. The town appeared formidable, its stone barricades stretching endlessly, with guards stationed along the top, their polished armour reflecting the light. Armed with spears and bows, the sentinels kept watch, their eyes scanning every inch of the horizon.
At the colossal gate, a line of carriages inched forward, each one stopped and scrutinised by soldiers who checked for contraband and unauthorised travellers.
"Is it just me, or is it getting hotter?" Tori asked, wiping sweat from her brow as she fanned herself with one hand.
Hudson chuckled nervously, his gaze darting toward the guards at the gate. "Pyrovile has a reputation for being warm," he replied, though his unease was evident. His thoughts raced—Tony might already be on the lookout for him. How would he make it past the stringent security?
Mr Swordsman, silent as ever, adjusted the brim of his hat and shot a glance at the checkpoint. Without a word, he leaned out of the carriage, scooping up a drowsy Pasta.
"Wha—?!" Pasta's half-asleep form jerked awake, his scream of terror echoing across the open road.
"Wait! What are you doing?!" Tori shouted, blinking in disbelief. Hudson and Emilia exchanged wide-eyed glances, utterly baffled.
Mr Swordsman landed gracefully on the ground, his grip on Pasta firm as the boy squirmed in his arms. "Stay low and stay quiet," he whispered, throwing the boy a piece of cloth. "Cover your face and listen to me"
Pasta stared at the swordsman, his eyes half closed as he nodded.
As the carriage rolled closer to the gates, Hudson sat rigid, his body tense, ignoring the nagging discomfort of his cast.
"Hello there," Andy greeted a guard cheerfully, his smile wide and welcoming.
The guard returned the gesture with a warm grin. "Old man, mind if we check your carriage?"
"Not at all," Andy replied.
Another guard, stationed by the entrance, called out with a groan. "Hurry it up! We've still got that drink to get to, man. I'm parched!"
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," his comrade muttered, stepping toward the back of the carriage to inspect the mineral-filled bags stacked neatly there. He gave them a cursory glance, then chuckled nervously as a wooden slat creaked under his weight.
"Quite the ride you've got here, old man. Delicate, isn't it?"
Andy let out a hearty laugh. "Got it from the fifth realm. A fine trade, if I do say so myself."
The guard twirled his spear as he moved to the carriage's side, peering inside. He noted the two women: one, an adventurer with a small bag slung across her lap, and the other, a foreigner dressed in shorts and a snug top that revealed more than modesty might allow. On the far side of the carriage, he spotted a familiar face turning away.
"Hey, you," the guard barked. "Come out."
Huson didn't reply.
"Can't you hear me? Come out this instant!" The guard's voice grew sharper as he pointed his spear at the door.
Emilia and Tori exchanged strained smiles, trying to defuse the tension.
But the commotion had already drawn the attention of other guards, who began surrounding the carriage.
"Open the doors now!" the guard ordered, his spear poised.
Suddenly, a loud voice rang out. "Mighty Pasta!"
From the bushes sprang Pasta, landing a flying kick squarely on the guard.
"Hand over all your goods!" Pasta declared, his makeshift cloth mask slipping to the ground as he finished, his grin turning sheepish.
The group collectively smacked their foreheads in exasperation.
Meanwhile, Andy hummed a tune, nodding his head to an imaginary beat.
"Bandits at the gate? Are they idiots?" one guard sneered.
"Take him down!"
Arrows flew toward Pasta, who quickly unsheathed his blade, taking a defensive stance. But before they could reach him, a figure moved with blinding speed from the treeline—Mr Swordsman. His strikes were flawless, slicing through the arrows with a grace that left onlookers awestruck. Landing atop the wall, his cloak billowed as more guards scrambled to confront him.
"Burst," he murmured. A shockwave rippled out, sending several guards flying unconscious while the rest hesitated, retreating to call for reinforcements.
Mr. Swordsman landed on the other side of the wall and made his way toward the lever controlling the gate. Just as his fingers reached for it, a fiery arrow whizzed past, embedding itself in the stone beside him.
"Hold it right there!" a voice growled from behind.
Mr. Swordsman froze, his eyes narrowing as he slowly turned to meet the guard's gaze.
"Don't move," the guard commanded, his hands trembling as he readied another flaming arrow. "Drop your weapon now."
Mr Swordsman remained silent as he glared at the guard as if daring him to take the shot.
Before the guard could release his arrow, the small flicker of fire on its tip erupted into an inferno, engulfing the man in seconds. His screams were short-lived, his form reduced to ash as the flames consumed him.
Mr. Swordsman watched, his expression unchanging as the fire sputtered out, leaving no trace of the guard. With a swift pull of the lever, the gates groaned open, and the carriage rolled into Pyrovile's walls.
Pasta walked alongside the carriage, his hands resting behind his head. "Did you see that, Tori? I knocked that guy out with just one hit! Nothing's impossible for the Mighty Pasta!"
Tori sighed, barely sparing him a glance. "Don't get cocky over something so trivial," she said, her tone flat as she turned to Mr Swordsman. "Now, he took out over twenty without breaking a sweat."
Andy continued humming his tune, seemingly oblivious to the chaos as they passed through the gate.
Hudson's eyes drifted to the faint pile of ash on the floor near Mr. Swordsman. The swordsman's dark gaze caught his for a fleeting moment—a silent warning that sent a chill through him. Hudson quickly looked away, his unease only deepening.
#
Upon passing through the grand gates of Pyrovile, the town of flames immediately lived up to its name. Ornate structures rose tall, many with intricate carvings of dragons, phoenixes, and flames, each detail illuminated by the glow of the town's iconic torches. Statues lined the streets, some holding blazing torches and wearing wide-brimmed hats, others gripping weapons that gleamed in the fiery light. Even the elegant lampposts seemed crafted to mimic tongues of flame, casting a warm orange glow over the granite-paved streets.
The heat hit like a slap—oppressive but strangely invigorating. The air carried a cacophony of sounds: the rhythmic banging of hammers, the grunts of labourers, and the occasional holler from merchants hawking their wares. It was no surprise that construction was constant in Pyrovile; it seemed like half the town was perpetually building something new while the other half watched with a knowing shrug.
The residents matched the town's bold personality. The men worked shirtless under the scorching sun, muscles glistening with sweat, while the women donned scandalously revealing outfits that left little to the imagination—airy fabrics perfect for surviving the heat and turning heads.
The aroma of seasoned meat drifted through the streets, an irresistible force that teased their senses and weakened their resolve. Every corner seemed to promise sizzling skewers, tender roasts, and bubbling stews.
"Meat!" Tori and Pasta screamed in unison, their voices tinged with desperation. The scent, the godly scent of cooked meat seemed to bypass reason, plunging straight into their primal instincts. Rumours had it that one bite from Pyrovile meat could grant an eternal life filled with joy and prosperity.
"This smells illegal," Pasta whispered, his eyes glazing over as if he'd already sold his soul for a single bite of whatever masterpiece was roasting nearby.
"We should head to Cumbleton's place first, right?" Andy suggested, wiping sweat from his brow. "Then we can get some food."
Mr. Swordsman's eyes darted across the bustling streets, his aura scanning for any signs of trouble. The carriage had blended in seamlessly among the others.
"Yeah, yeah. We should split up," Tori said, wiping a trickle of drool from her chin. "Hudson and Pasta can go with Grandpappy to... Cumbleton workshop and the rest of us can grab breakfast."
"Breakfast? I want meat too!" Pasta whined, sticking out his tongue.
Tori crossed her arms, smirking. "Why would I let you tag along? You're trash."
Mr. Swordsman sighed, already regretting his life choices. "No. Pasta, Emilia, and Hudson will come with me. You and Andy can handle yourselves."
Tori's jaw dropped. "You're ditching us? You heartless monster!"
Emilia frowned. "Why are you like this?"
Mr. Swordsman's expression remained stoic. "There's no need for them to accompany us. We're grateful for the ride, but this is where we part ways."
"Part ways?" Tori shot back, jabbing a finger in his direction. "No way! You got us into trouble with your little stunt back there. Now we're fugitives!"
"Little stunt?" Mr. Swordsman raised an eyebrow. "You mean doing what had to be done? And last I checked, it was Pasta and I who handled the guards while you lounged in the carriage."
Tori scowled. "So what? You're still obligated to take care of us!"
"I don't have time for this," he muttered. "Hudson, Emilia, Pasta—let's go."
"No, it's not right," Emilia said firmly, her voice tinged with disapproval.
Pasta edged closer to him. "We can't just leave them," he said as Hudson nodded in agreement.
Mr. Swordsman lowered his gaze. "You do realize she's an S-Class adventurer, right? She doesn't need babysitting."
The group's unyielding expressions made it clear they weren't backing down. Resigned, Mr. Swordsman cast a glance out the window toward the volcano that loomed in the distance.
"Fine," he conceded, exhaling sharply. "We'll all go meet Cumbleton, and then we'll eat. But no more distractions!"
Pasta grinned. "Meat, here I come!"
Tori turned to him with a frown. "Stop shouting you imbecile!" she yelled at Pasta who met her gaze and kept screaming about meat.
Mr. Swordsman muttered under his breath, wishing for a quieter journey as they rode to meet a friend of Hudson.
#
Cumbleton's workshop sat tucked away in the quieter eastern edge of Pyrovile, where the hustle and clamour of the town softened just enough to let one's ears stop ringing. The warehouse itself was a hodgepodge of carriages in varying states of repair and horses neighing in irritation as workers bustled about. Sections were neatly divided—horses to the left, carriages to the right—but the air was a disarray of clinking tools, shouted instructions, and the faint, ever-present smell of hay mixed with grease.
Cumbleton, a portly man with a shiny bald head that glistened under the workshop's lamps, stood in the middle of it all. He was adorned with a gaudy gold chain that looked like it weighed more than his dignity, and in his hands, he clutched a crumpled chart. A younger man stood beside him, pointing at the parchment.
"Master Cumbleton," the assistant said nervously, "the alignment is all wrong. It could break!"
"Bah!" Cumbleton dismissed with a wave of his hand. "If it hasn't fallen apart yet, it's not that wrong."
Then his eyes caught sight of the group entering the workshop, and he froze, the chart slipping from his fingers. His jaw dropped, and in an instant, he was rushing forward with surprising speed for a man of his build.
"No, it can't be!" he cried, his voice trembling with emotion. He threw his arms around Hudson in a bear hug that could have crushed a lesser man. "Master Hudson! I thought you were dead!"
Hudson winced, trying to pry the man's vice-like grip off his shoulders. "Cumbleton, my arm! You're killing it!"
"Oh, apologies, Master!" Cumbleton let go, stepping back to inspect him. "I heard about what happened at the manor. Are you alright? Injured? Starved?"
Hudson grinned. "I'm alive, so that's a start," he said, turning back to the group. "Iwas saved by a band of adventurers"
Cumbleton, relieved, turned to the rest of the group and offered a deep bow. "Thank you for taking care of Master Hudson," he said earnestly before turning back to Hudson. "Have you told the others of your return?"
Hudson shook his head. "No, and I'd like to keep it that way for now."
"Understood, Master," Cumbleton replied solemnly, straightening up like he'd just received an order from a king.
Meanwhile, Mr. Swordsman stepped forward, shoving aside the drooling Pasta and the daydreaming Tori. "You trust Hudson a lot," he said, raising an eyebrow, "even after everything that's happened."
Cumbleton let out a hearty laugh. "Of course! Master Hudson would never do something so… so… un-Hudson-like!" He turned to Hudson with a conspiratorial grin. "And I bet the other workers still think the same."
Hudson nodded, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. "Thanks, Cumbleton. For now, I need you to store our carriage somewhere safe. The authorities might come sniffing around."
"Say no more, Master!" Cumbleton waved over his assistant. "Take their carriage and tuck it into one of the free slots. And no, not near the one that smells like cabbage, or we'll never hear the end of it!"
As the assistant hurried off with the carriage, Emilia furrowed her brow. The quiet felt unnatural, like the calm before the storm—or worse, before Pasta did something stupid.
"Wait, where's Pasta?" she asked, scanning the area.
Hudson also looked around, but still no Pasta. "He was right here a second ago."
Tori snapped out of her meat-fueled reverie, looking down in horror to see that Pasta was no longer beside her. All that remained was a small puddle of drool. Her face turned an alarming shade of red as she growled, "That idiot!"
Mr. Swordsman sighed, rubbing his temples. Pasta's been improving his ability to hide his life force… a pity he's using it to skip out on responsibilities.
"He's growing stronger," Mr. Swordsman said under his breath. "But for all the wrong reasons."
#
In the grand theatre room of Tony's mansion, a troupe of entertainers performed an elaborate play. The scene depicted a fabricated tale of rebellion in the Ninth Realm, one that twisted the truth for dramatic flair.
Tony reclined in his seat, a cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers, the faint trail of smoke curling upward as he watched. The play narrated a false history—a supposed riot where the realm's chiefs and their families had plotted to seize power. According to the tale, the chiefs' betrayal was exposed, leading to a violent purge. Disguised soldiers had massacred the chiefs' allies and their families, presenting the survivors as gifts to a decadent foreign empire known for their extravagant and outrageous lifestyle. What the play omitted was that the so-called "riot" had been a calculated ruse, orchestrated by the Lord and his trusted few. Tony knew the real story, but that only made the performance more entertaining.
His lips curled into a bright smile as he chuckled at the exaggerated death scenes.
"Lord Tony," a guard interrupted, bowing deeply.
Tony exhaled a plume of smoke, his expression shifting to mild annoyance. "Yes? What is it?" He raised his hand slightly, clenching his fist—a silent command for the performers to pause. The other guests, sensing the shift in mood, busied themselves with idle chatter and refreshments, waiting for the play to resume.
"There was an attack at the gates this morning, my lord," the guard reported.
"Bandits?" Tony inquired, tilting his head as he tapped ash into a tray beside him.
"Yes, my lord."
Tony stroked his beard thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing. "Hmm... send the mercenaries. Have them sweep the town. I want every corner searched."
The guard bowed again. "It will be done, my lord." He turned and left swiftly.
Tony leaned back, his smile returning as he gestured for the performance to continue. The play resumed, and he laughed heartily at the chaotic and bloody scenes unfolding on stage. His amusement at the violence left some of the guests uneasy, though none dared voice their discomfort.
#
Pyrovile's market buzzed with life, a chaotic symphony of shouting merchants, clinking coins, and the occasional squawking chicken escaping its cage. The air was thick with the scents of exotic spices, sizzling meats, and just a hint of too many unwashed bodies crammed into one place. Pasta stood at the centre of the crowd, scratching his ear, his blade swaying precariously at his waist.
"I have absolutely no idea where I am," he said, spinning in circles. Surrounding him was a sea of humanity—people jostling, bartering, and yelling over the din of creaking carts. "Pyrovile sure is cramped," he grumbled.
Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and plunged into the throng. "Sorry, excuse me, whoops—sorry about your toe! Let me through, I'm sorry—was that your child?!" His apologies came rapid-fire as he zigzagged through the crowd, his direction dictated entirely by chance and desperation.
Then it hit him—the unmistakable, glorious aroma of meat. His nose twitched like a hound catching a scent. Raw, boiled, fried, roasted—it didn't matter. Meat was meat, and it was calling his name like a sweet voice of an angelic mother calling him for supper.
"Finally." he whispered, his eyes shining with hope.
Pasta let the tantalizing scent guide him, weaving through stalls selling everything from exotic herbs to suspicious-looking potions that promised eternal youth. The strong smell of spices and charred charcoal made his stomach churn momentarily, but the thought of a juicy steak drowned out any discomfort.
The promise of meat spurred him forward, his imagination painting vivid pictures of a steaming bowl of rice crowned with a perfectly seared steak, drizzled in a rich sauce that oozed flavour. Maybe there'd even be some sake—if he could convince someone else to buy it. His mouth watered so profusely he was practically drooling a trail through the market.
Fueled by hunger, Pasta sprinted toward the source of the scent, his tongue flapping in the breeze like a flag of culinary determination. He didn't even notice the terrified expressions of people diving out of his path.
And then—BAM. His face smacked into what felt like a brick wall wrapped in iron, sending him sprawling onto the dusty ground.
"Hey! You're in my way!" Pasta snapped, rubbing his sore nose as he glared upward.
The "brick wall" turned out to be a man—no, a giant of a man, towering even taller than Mr. Swordsman. The stranger wore an armour, and a massive sword strapped to his back like it was no heavier than a loaf of bread. His aura was so overwhelming Pasta felt like a twig in the presence of a hurricane.
The man glared down at him, his piercing eyes like twin daggers. "Watch where you're going, boy!" he said, his deep voice reverberating like a thunderclap.
Before Pasta could muster a comeback—or run for his life—a young woman dressed in a pristine maid's outfit appeared, carrying a basket of groceries that seemed far too heavy for someone her size.
"Now, now, Little Bobby," she said with a sweet smile, her tone disarming. "Don't be so hard on him."
"Mary, he was the one who ran into me, so I'm not at fault here," Little Bobby grumbled, crossing his arms.
Mary handed the basket to him, ignoring his protests as she bent down to help Pasta to his feet. "I'm so sorry for the trouble," she said, her voice warm and genuine. "Are you alright?"
Pasta stared at her, momentarily stunned. Between the looming giant and the apologetic maid, he had completely forgotten about the meat. His stomach growled loudly, betraying his priorities.
Mary giggled softly. "I'll take that as a yes."