People tend to avoid the truth. To preserve their delusions of happiness, they surround themselves with like-minded individuals. Others drown themselves in the temporary pleasures of alcohol and substance abuse, succumbing to their destructive and pleasant desires.
That greatly increased for the people of Beret Despotate.
After all, their king is a despot, an unreasonable tyrant deaf to the needs of his people. Hence the nation's title. But that was until he took things to a whole new level; declaring war on the world's favored country…
***
As usual, Cynic wandered the morning streets, loitering around. He seemed bored; his hands behind his neck, taking long and slow strides.
A lot of people leave to work early in the day, so the streets were somewhat crowded for a short period of time. It also meant the pubs are closing soon, signaling his first activity of the day.
Wasted drunkards getting kicked out! Thought the fifteen-year-old, leaning against the street walls watching it play out. It was a habit of his on most days. Something to keep him occupied and entertained.
Ever since the king declared war, foreign trade vanished; the price of grain doubled, and meat became a once-in-a-week commodity for commoners like Cynic. In addition to that, the region's duke imposed extra tax to further finance the king's military campaigns, which put a lot of pressure on the already struggling city workers.
Here we go again. He mumbled to himself. This time, the drunkard willingly left. Not drunk enough, huh?
It was Ol' Bilad. A middle-aged man of hulking figure. For someone his age, he has a well-defined body.
Cynic watched the man from across the street. After all, he was the type to cause trouble, and trouble is Cynic's amusement.
Ol' Bilad grumbled something to the pub owner that made him look really worried as the middle-aged man started staggering somewhere.
After the drunkard! Cynic followed, taking the same side street as Ol' Bilad. From the looks of it, they were headed towards the city center, where goods from nearby towns and villages were sold. It also featured the Privileged Passage—three bridges that extended over a wide river and connected the noble district.
Privileged Passage had at least seven guards present at all times since the increase of prices. That is because the lack of imports did not raise the prices itself; but the greedy nobles who wanted to maintain their profits, and did so at the cost of the lower class. And because of the recent protests and attacks from the working class, only nobles and their servants were allowed to cross.
What are you doing, old man? Cynic asked himself, not taking a step further now that Ol' Bilad seemed to have gone insane to dare and step on one of the bridges. You're going to get yourself killed!
A crowd began forming over at the boy's side, attentively watching as two guards from the noble side stood atop the bridge with the old man opposing them.
"Off the bridge!" The two guards shouted. "This is your last warning!"
Ol' Bilad appeared to not listen, continuing to take unwavering steps forward. He stopped swaying around like the drunkard he was earlier. His clothes tightened around his sides.
A portion of the crowd began cheering the old man on. Even some of the audience joined him, flipping the odds of winning in his favor. Meanwhile, Cynic stayed put and enjoyed the show; the highlight of his week.
An old woman joined the crowd of spectators somewhere near Cynic; Bun-braided gray hair and wrinkled skin. Cynic took an impression that she's well over her seventies.
"It started!" Someone in the crowd shouted as Ol' Bilad grabbed his shirt and tore it apart, and the crowd shouted with louder cheers.
"Idiots." Cynic heard the old woman mutter to herself. "Bilad's a military champion." She scoffed and left.
The boy turned back to watch the fight. On a closer look, Ol' Bilad's back seemed to be full of multiple lines…
Scars!
A spear-equipped guard launched himself at the old man. Ol' Bilad didn't falter and grabbed the spear by the tip, snatching it from the guard with no effort. Followed by a hit to the guard's chest, although it looked like a blur on impact.
The guard flew meters backwards before tumbling and hitting a building's wall over at the nobles' district. "Who's next?" Ol' Bilad finally spoke, making a pulling motion with his fingers at the remaining guards.
And just about when the two sides were going to engage each other.
Boom!
Windows shattered at the sound of a thunderclap. It rattled the bridge, for it came above it. Ol' Bilad leaped off the moment he heard the thunderclap, and stood over at Cynic's side.
Coward. Thought the fifteen-year-old.
They all tilted their heads to check the sound's origin. Everyone was shocked to see a man standing over them on the sky, floating over their heads like air was a tangible thing to stand on.
Dark hair, brown eyes, and a white shoulder cape with "Disaster" written on it. He had an air of seriousness around him, looking down on them like they were ants.
Disaster Control. All observers froze thinking, not daring to move a single muscle.
One of the guards tripped trying to move and fell off the bridge. The floating man quickly casted his hand in the guard's direction. And in an instant, he got suspended in the air and was moved to the nobles' side.
The floating man gazed somewhere else on the horizon before leaving crowd's view in a flash and at the speed of sound—Mach speed.
Seconds after the man had left, people erupted into chattering.
"That was Disaster Control!"
"What are they doing here?!"
"Did an Aero become a Disaster?"
"Their clan is too powerful…"
Apparently, it was Nox Aero. The newest member of Disaster Control, and the Aero Clan's first-in-line successor. What is Disaster Control? Cynic pondered, walking over to ask Ol' Bilad.
The middle-aged man sat studying the guard he had harmed from afar, watching for any indications that he's only unconscious and not dead. Ol' Bilad noticed Cynic walking up to him and said: "Hey, kid. Ya think he's out or gone?"
"Out." Cynic answered before asking his question. "What is Disaster Control?"
"A bunch of do-gooders that run around playing hero. I oughta teach 'em they ain't shit!" said Ol' Bilad, balancing the spear he took on the tip of his thumb.
Yeah sure, old man. Next time, don't get cold feet.
"Don't listen to that geezer, kid." An adult man's voice sounded behind him, and the middle-aged man turned away frowning. "He kept challenging one and miserably lost each time."
It was the pub owner. A thirty-four-year-old that Ol' Bilad frequented for drinks and chatted with.
"Disaster Control is a group of handful individuals that prevent natural and magical disasters from taking great numbers of lives." The pub owner explained. "They work on a global scale, and their pure power puts them above governments' control."
"What does Nox Aero do?" Cynic asked, a bit curious. "Why was he here?"
"I heard he deals with most of the storms and hurricanes, and moves other members of the group with his speed and flight." He answered. "As for why he was here. I don't know, probably patrolling."
Cynic was fascinated and wanted to ask more, but the number of guards on the other side of the bridge tripled and seemed to be preparing to arrest anyone who was present during the brief attack.
Cynic sprinted out of the scene and hid somewhere where he could watch it play out without getting caught. Although he doubted they would think a fifteen-year-old had something to do with the attack.