The deafening roars of battle faded to silence, leaving Hutt standing atop a mound of corpses, one boot pressed into the chest of a fallen rival. His left arm had been hacked off at the elbow, blood seeping through a crude bandage. His face, caked in thick, dark brown scabs, flaked with every twitch, dry fragments falling like ash. A dizzying sway threatened to topple him—blood loss had starved his brain of oxygen. Gazing at the death-drenched street, he finally exhaled.

  He’d won.

  A bitter victory.

  In that moment, the absurdity overwhelmed him: he was a beast in an arena, surrounded by crowds cheering for death. Win or lose, the end was the same. He suddenly realized he’d never been happy all these years. He’d thought he would be, but he wasn’t.

  Les lay dying, fingers rigidly clutching Hutt’s pant leg, blood frothing from his mouth. Three sword wounds had torn through Les’s body, fatal and final. As Les lost life, Hutt, who’d lost an arm and might soon lose his own life, stared down at him, then gripped his sword and drove it into Les’s skull. The pain in his ankle faded as Les’s body stiffened, destined to grow cold and become nourishment for the earth beyond Pramisburg’s walls.

  Perhaps decades later, someone would unearth his bones and piece together his story. More likely, scavenging dogs or wolves would dig him up for food.

  “Take me to the Tongda Merchant Guild,” Hutt ordered his most trusted aide, one of his adopted sons. He’d raised five such sons; four had died protecting him in battles or for territory. He’d assumed their loyalty would endure, but fate loved cruel jokes.

  The young, wounded man took Hutt’s sword, strapped it to his waist, and helped Hutt by his only remaining hand, guiding him toward a dark corner. Around them, the dying moaned, whispering for help.

  The two figures suddenly stopped. Hutt clung to the young man, his weak arms trembling as he grasped for life, eyes wide. The young man slowly pulled a foot-long dagger from Hutt’s side, skillfully returning it to the sharkskin sheath at his hip.

  “Why?” Hutt gasped.

  The young man smiled brightly, his teeth gleaming eerily in the dark. “You’ve always told us how you defeated your adoptive predecessor and seized his power. Since the first time I heard that story, I’ve wondered: if power and prestige need blood to thrive, shouldn’t they be fed by the strongest? Only the strongest life can spill the brightest blood and nurture the most vibrant growth!”

  He declared firmly, “From today, I’ll take responsibility for rebuilding the Brotherhood. Rest assured, I’ll do better than you. I’ll lead the Brotherhood beyond Pramisburg, until our flag waves across the entire empire!”

  With that, he pressed a hand to Hutt’s face, shoving him aside. He glanced at the once-feared figure, sneering disdainfully, then adjusted his clothes and vanished into the night.

  Hutt panted heavily, his eyes dulling as life ebbed. In his final moments, he returned to a winter thirty years past, abandoned by a widow and shivering in a city gate, waiting for the cold to claim him. In his despair, a bearded man had reached out, smiling: “Hey, kid, can you stand? I need a helper.”

  He’d struggled to his feet, falling once, then happily taken the man’s warm hand, walking into his future in the cold wind.

  Life was a cycle.

  He’d killed the man who’d been a father to him, and now he was killed by the son he’d raised. Was this karma? Was his suffering retribution? How ironic—he, destined to wield power, was dying wretchedly in an unknown corner…

  It was a fateful night: two prominent figures, driven by coincidence, became a page in Pramisburg’s legendary history. When that page was turned, their stories would fade, their deeds forgotten.

  The night was pitch-black, but Les’s residence blazed with light.

  Harvey scowled, facing Barto, captain of the Sword and Shield Mercenaries, and Kuma, captain of the Wild Sea Mercenaries. Both mercenary groups were ruthless, existing solely for gold. For enough coin, they’d kill anyone—strangers, even family.

  The moment the distant battle ended, Harvey had rushed to Les’s home with his slave catchers, ransacking it until he found what he sought. He silently cursed Les for not fleeing with it: what did property matter compared to this thin deed, a symbol of power and future?

  He hadn’t expected others to move so fast. Before he could leave, Barto and Kuma blocked him in Les’s home.

  The icy mercenaries offered no negotiation, their eyes blazing with greed for the million gold coins. Each man stood ready to kill even family for such a sum, let alone a slave trader.

  “Hand it over and live. Or we’ll kill you and take it from your corpse,” Barto hissed, licking his dagger, his muscles quivering with bloodlust. His small eyes burned with twisted madness, hoping Harvey would resist and give them an excuse to kill.

  In the chilly night, Harvey sweated profusely. His men outnumbered the mercenaries, but his castrated barbarians were no match for the brutal fighters. He couldn’t give up the deed—it meant everything.

  As the standoff neared violence, Pulth and Kent arrived with garrison and city guard troops. Their appearance surprised and angered Harvey and the captains; the prize was nearly theirs, now threatened. They debated whether to yield to the authorities or fight.

  Before they decided, another group arrived—unassuming, polite, yet commanding respect. Though unknown to commoners, their united strength exceeded all factions in Pramisburg.

  They were the wealthy merchants.

  A short, portly, balding man in a floral robe, around fifty, smiled and patted his stomach. “Pramisburg has seen enough chaos tonight. We don’t want a city drowned in anarchy—please stop fighting. We refuse to see another large-scale bloodshed.” He stepped aside, gesturing back. “This is what all of us want.”

  Harvey’s tense face relaxed into a smirk—he was part merchant, after all. The mercenary captains, however, grew solemn.

  In the end, both sides halted the impending fight, moving to the negotiation table.

  Satisfied, the old man chuckled. “You see? We still love this city and won’t let blood stain its beauty. On behalf of Pramisburg’s 310,000 people, I thank you three for your restraint and honor. May the Light God bless you always!”