Matthew strolled through the dusty expanse of a construction site, idly tearing into the meat on his skewer. His other hand rested in his pocket, his gait relaxed despite the blistering midday heat. The sun blazed overhead, casting wavering mirages along the cracked earth, while the clatter of hammers and the murmur of workers echoed across the site.
A handful of mercenaries trailed behind him, their faces unreadable beneath the oppressive sun. Two were archers, their quivers shifting with each step, and the third was a towering figure cloaked in dark fabric as he spoke inaudible words to himself.
Matthew's breakfast was interrupted when one of the archers stepped to him. "I can't believe we have to skip our break to hunt for some bandits."
Matthew raised a brow as he continued eating.
Bandits rarely dared to walk in so boldly. Typically, they blended in, handled their business discreetly, and disappeared before suspicion took root—assuming, of course, they'd paid the right people to look the other way. That was the understanding, or so his comrades had assured him.
"Can you give me a description?" he asked, still savouring the last bit of his meal.
The archer sighed, walking side by side with Matthew. "One's a young man of average height, well-built, fair complexion, brown hair, and dark eyes. The other…" He hesitated for a moment. "A swordsman. There isn't much to say about him, except he wore a straw hat."
Matthew stopped mid-chew. "Straw hat?"
"Yes," the archer whispered, glancing at the others as if reluctant to say more. "And… he knocked out a few of our guards without laying a finger on them. I don't think we're dealing with common bandits."
The heat of the day suddenly felt heavier. Matthew flicked the wooden skewer aside and picked up his pace, his boots kicking up dust as he made for the market.
"I'll get the other mercenaries," Matthew whispered. "You all should go inform Lester. This matter is more serious than we think"
#
Mr. Swordsman and Hudson stood alone on the rooftops, overlooking the bustling streets below. The town's sights were unimpressive—a mix of bright brick buildings, half-dressed fire dancers, and street entertainers. The once-appetizing scent of roasted meat had turned into an overwhelming nuisance for him as well.
"Is it a good idea to leave the others behind?" Hudson asked, his gaze drifting toward the distant figures of their companions.
"Staying with them would only put our plan at risk," Mr. Swordsman replied, his sharp eyes scanning the streets below.
"But if we stick together, we can take Tony out more easily."
Mr. Swordsman shook his head. "That won't matter if we're all seen together. If Pasta, you, and I are caught seen with them. The others will be branded as criminals too. The last thing I need is a rescue mission."
Mr. Swordsman glanced at Hudson's arm, noticing that he had removed the cast—an intentional move to avoid drawing the mercenaries' attention.
"It's fine now, thanks," Hudson said, rotating his arm. There was still a dull ache, but nothing compared to the pain he had endured before.
Mr. Swordsman's turned downward, locking onto someone below. Suddenly, he grabbed Hudson and leapt off the rooftop.
Hudson barely had time to let out a startled yelp before they landed soundlessly in the crowded marketplace.
Mr. Swordsman stayed silent as he strode toward a nearby stall, where an old vendor shouted at passersby, urging them to browse his collection of swords. The vendor's eyes lit up as he spotted them.
"Ah, esteemed swordsman! You have come to the right place. My blades are the finest in all the Nine Realms, unmatched in quality! I assure you, you won't find anything like them elsewhere."
Mr. Swordsman silently picked up a sword from the barrel, studying its sleek surface and the intricate flame-like engravings on the hilt. Something about it felt eerily familiar.
The vendor smirked. "You have a sharp eye, my friend. That blade has endured centuries of war and hardship. Its fiery essence is a testament to its strength."
Mr. Swordsman ran his fingers along the edge before returning it to the vendor. "Not quite what we're looking for. The edges are too blunt for my companion, right, Hudson?"
Hudson blinked, then quickly nodded. "Y-Yeah… Yes. We should keep looking."
The vendor, mildly disappointed, leaned in. "I have more weapons in the back. Just wait here, and I'll bring out something special."
Mr Swordsman's gaze flickered to the corner of the stall, where he spotted multiple identical flame-bladed swords hidden behind a crate. Without another word, he turned and walked away.
Hudson hurried after him. "What's wrong?"
Mr. Swordsman didn't answer. The moment they stepped deeper into the market, he noticed a change in the air. Despite the bright sun overhead, an unnatural shadow seemed to loom over the town.
A familiar aura as strong as his.
It surged through the streets with intense speed. The townsfolk remained blissfully unaware, but Mr. Swordsman felt it, leaving a bitter taste in his tongue. His steps slowed, his eyes narrowing.
The storm clouds he had seen the previous day were closing in, casting long shadows over the once-lively marketplace.
Mr Swordsman stopped, staring at the skies.
Something—or someone—was coming.
#
Pasta arrived at Meaty Maniacs, an eatery so obsessed with meat that even the wooden tables were covered in pieces of flesh and grease. The mouthwatering aroma of sizzling beef, slow-roasted pork, and perfectly charred sausages filled the room, making his stomach growl like an angry beast.
With a gleeful glint in his eyes, he made a mad dash for the counter—only to be yanked back mid-stride by a waiter's firm grip. The man silently pointed at a sign beside him that read in bold, almost mocking letters:
"NO SWORDS ALLOWED."
With a sigh, Pasta dropped his sword at the entrance, bowing his head slightly before dashing to the counter as Mary followed.
Meanwhile, his eyes were glued to the kitchen door as his mouth watered at the mere thought of what awaited him.
Mary turned to him. "So, Pasta, right? What brings you to Pyrovile?"
Little Bobby, ever vigilant, stood guard by the entrance, resting against the wall.
Pasta leaned back, cracking his neck. "Oh, just helping out a friend. Nothing major."
"Oh, I don't mean to pry, but what kind of help?"
"It's a secret," he said with a smug grin.
Pasta casually slid a glass of water toward her, raising an eyebrow as she politely declined.
"You're a nice girl," he mused, taking a sip from his glass. "Maybe too nice. You're even offering to pay for my meal and all."
"No worries. Anything for a visitor of Pyrovile."
Pasta's eyes glittered. He had finally found her—the rarest creature of all. A girl nicer than the two demon queens he had been travelling with. Overcome with emotion, he dropped to one knee and stretched out his hand.
"Marry me."
"H-HUH?!" Mary stammered, her face turning as red as the kitchen flames.
Little Bobby glared daggers at him as he unsheathed his blade slightly.
Pasta, now remembering he valued his life, swiftly returned to his seat. "Just a joke," he chuckled, sipping his water as if nothing had happened.
"O-Okay then…" Mary mumbled, grabbing her own glass to cool herself down.
The server arrived, placing a colossal platter in front of Pasta.
"Thanks," he said, his eyes practically sparkling.
The restaurant fell silent. Every customer's gaze locked onto the towering mountain of meat before him—beef, sausages, pork, skewers, ribs, and more, all piled into one glorious, carnivorous masterpiece. It was less of a meal and more of a divine offering to the very gods of Pyrovile.
Mary sat across from him, her forced smile betraying the terror in her eyes. Sweat dripped down her face as she struggled to breathe as she imagined the price tag for such a meal. Gordon's going to kill me!
The doors swung open, and Matthew strode in with other mercenaries.
"Looks like our sources were right. There's a peculiar guest here," he said.
His gaze flickered to the notice on the wall, and he let out a sigh. "I forgot we're here," he muttered. "Alright, boys, drop your weapons."
Little Bobby met his eyes with a steady glare. "What brings Lord Tony mercenaries to a place like this?"
Matthew arched a brow. "Huh? Can't a man have breakfast anymore?" He waved a dismissive hand. "I got interrupted earlier, so I'm in no mood for questions, servant."
Pasta was about to drown himself in his meal when his senses flared. Three—no, five men had him surrounded.
Matthew pulled up a chair next to him, grinning. "What's your name, Bandit?"
Pasta blinked. "Oh, I get it. You guys are hungry."
Matthew frowned. "What does that have to do with what I just said?"
Pasta nodded, taking a slow bite of his food. "Oh, my name? Well… I don't have one."
Matthew chuckled darkly. "You really are like that man, aren't you?"
"So you know Mr. Swordsman, huh?" Pasta said, reaching for another bite. "That's nice. Pretty weird fellow, though. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm trying to enjoy my breakfast."
Matthew turned to Mary, who ignored him, sipping from her glass of water, then back to Pasta. "Do you think this is some kind of joke?"
Bobby took a step forward, but the mercenaries stopped him as more of them slipped inside, sealing off any escape.
Matthew leaned in. "You know why I'm here. So, are we doing this the easy way or the hard way?"
Pasta chuckled, plucking a sausage from his plate. "You really are hungry, aren't you?"
Matthew's patience snapped. He gestured sharply, and the guards moved in. But before they could grab him, Pasta bent over, dodging their arms and tossed the food into his mouth.
He vaulted onto the counter, knocking over plates as he went.
"Dammit," one of the mercenaries hissed.
Pasta weaved through them, leaping from table to table, dodging hands that reached for him. Dishes shattered, chairs toppled, and customers scrambled to get out of the way.
Mary remained seated, watching the show unfold.
The chef, unfazed by the wreckage, strolled to the entrance and flipped the sign from "Open" to "Closed." As long as no one broke his one rule, he wouldn't interfere.
But the fun came to an end when Pasta found himself cornered.
"Nowhere left to run," Matthew taunted.
Pasta grabbed a handful of forks and butter knives and hurled them at them. They flinched but held their ground.
Matthew stepped forward, irritation lacing his voice. "Enough. Stop your little games and tell me where he is."
Pasta shrugged. "You're the ones trying to fight me for no reason. Why shouldn't I defend myself? Just sit down and have a meal with me."
"You don't get to negotiate," Matthew snapped. "Now, where is he?"
Pasta narrowed his eyes. "Who again? Or are you making things up because you can't afford a meal?"
Filled with rage, Matthew lunged around the table, but Pasta darted to the other side. The two of them circled around the table, matching each other's movements.
Matthew abruptly vaulted over the table—only for Pasta to slide under it, popping up on the other side and bolted for the exit.
He picked up his sword, placed two fingers against his forehead and gave a mock farewell.
"Leaving already, Bandit?" Matthew sneered, dragging Mary toward him, his fingers dangerously close to her eyes.
"Let her go!" Bobby yelled, only to be restrained once more.
Matthew's laughter rang out as he held Mary tighter. "If you want to save your dear friend, I suggest you stop playing around."
Pasta reached the doorway. He should leave. The mission was more important—hundreds of lives were at stake. One life… wasn't worth the risk.
So why can't I walk out? He wondered.
With a sigh, he let his sword clatter to the floor. He turned to face Matthew—only for a sudden impact to send him into darkness.
#
"Lord Sparrow, a delivery has arrived," a guard announced.
Sparrow reclined on his plush couch, lazily running his fingers through the soft fur of a white kitten while savouring the crisp bite of a red apple. Morning sunlight bathed him in a golden glow, and with a sly glance at the guard, he raised a single finger to his lips before offering a casual wave. The guard bowed in response and promptly exited the room.
"Tony, what a pleasant surprise—and at such a perfect moment, too."
The double doors swung open, and Tony strode in with the guards at his heels. "And that's exactly why you never get to have surprises, Sparrow," he said. "Still as perceptive as ever."
"I appreciate the compliment. It isn't common for you to visit me, so what's the special occasion or dolmen"
Tony settled beside him, idly tapping the rim of his glass. A nearby maid responded instantly, filling it with deep crimson wine.
"Rumours," he said.
Sparrow quirked an eyebrow. "Rumours?"
Tony took a slow sip, savouring the taste before setting the glass down. He let out a tired sigh. "He's here. In Pyrovile."
Sparrow's fingers drifted along the kitten's fur as a smirk played on his lips. "I would appreciate it if you didn't beat around the bush at the moment. Anticipation for your news has driven me slightly mad"
"The one who's been the major topic these days. The one we never thought we'd have to deal with"
Sparrow released the kitten and leaned back in his seat, eyes tracing the intricate patterns on the ceiling.
"The Weeping Swordsman has arrived in Pyrovile."
Tony exhaled sharply, downing the rest of his wine. "So you already know," he muttered. "This is going to be a problem."
"Undoubtedly," Sparrow whispered, his gaze drifting downward as the once-bright room darkened as heavy storm clouds swallowed the sun.
The doors creaked open once more as the guard returned, carrying a sleek black suitcase. He placed it onto the table and flicked open the latches with a soft click.
Sparrow's eyes gleamed. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he whispered. "Before you is a weapon. One capable of the killing the Weeping Swordsman"
#
Pasta's eyelids fluttered as he slowly regained consciousness. His head throbbed, and the murmurs around him melded with the shuffle of footsteps, making his ears ring.
"They say he's immortal."
"He's not human, that's for sure."
His vision was still hazy, shapes blurring together in the dim light. He caught sight of Little Bobby, dashing away with Mary cradled in his arms.
Further ahead, Matthew stood frozen, his glare locked onto something in the distance. His body trembled, beads of sweat rolling down his face.
Pasta shifted slightly, only to feel the cold bite of metal against his wrists. Handcuffs. He was powerless.
Then, through the fog of his sight, he saw him—an enigmatic figure standing at the centre. A straw hat cast a shadow over his face, and in his grasp was a black blade.
Pasta's breath hitched.
"Mr. Swordsman...?" He whispered, falling unconscious.