Erya pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders as she trudged through the empty streets, her boots scuffing against the uneven stone. The night air was cool, a welcome relief after a long, exhausting day of work, but it carried a certain stillness that didn’t sit right with her. Normally, even this late, there would be at least some movement: a drunken fool stumbling home, a couple whispering in the dark or a few vendors pushing carts of leftovers back to their storages. But tonight, nothing. It was like the city itself was holding its breath.

  She rolled her shoulders, feeling the strain from spending the entire day fixing up her gym. Gods, she should’ve called it a night hours ago, but once she started working, she found it hard to stop. The place had taken a beating, and she had too much pride to let it stay that way. Every dent in the floorboards, every cracked wall, every piece of equipment knocked out of place had been a personal insult to her, and she’d spent the whole damn day fixing it. She should’ve felt accomplished. Instead, she just felt drained.

  When the familiar sight of her inn finally came into view, she exhaled, already imagining the feel of a stiff drink in her hand and the comfort of her own damn bed. Her eyes caught something strange: two figures standing near the entrance.

  ‘City guards.’

  They weren’t just passing by on patrol; they were stationed there, standing with intent, their weapons sheathed but their hands resting close. They noticed her approach immediately, their eyes sharpening. One of them, a younger guy with a tired face and a permanent scowl, stepped forward.

  "Owner of this place, right?" he asked.

  Erya clicked her tongue. "Did the sign outside not give it away?"

  The other guard, older, built like a wall with arms crossed over his chest, huffed in amusement. "Captain wants to speak with you."

  She frowned. "Captain? Of what, exactly? You two with the city watch?"

  "The watch, yeah. But it ain't about some bar fight or a drunk pissing in the alley," the older one said, shifting his stance. "This is serious."

  Erya stared at them for a moment, then sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. She really wasn’t in the mood for this. Not after today. But whatever was going on, she could already tell it wasn’t something she could just brush off.

  "Fine, let’s get this over with," she muttered, stepping past them and pushing open the doors.

  Erya let the door shut behind her, the wooden frame creaking as it settled. She barely had time to shake the night chill off her coat before her eyes locked onto the man sitting at the bar. He had the posture of someone who had been sitting there for a while, elbows on the counter, fingers loosely curled around an untouched mug. His uniform was the first thing that caught her attention. He was a city guard, no doubt about it, but unlike the two stationed outside, his looked worn. The deep green fabric was dulled with dust and dirt, and the edges of his sleeves were frayed from years of wear. The faint scent of iron clung to him, and it wasn’t from the drink.

  Krava was at the counter, lazily polishing a glass, but even her usual disinterest didn’t fully mask the way her big eyes flicked between her and the man.

  Erya stepped forward, crossing her arms. “Alright. Who the hell are you?”

  The man didn’t look at her right away. Instead, he lifted his hand, fingers curling slightly as he made a smooth, almost lazy motion in the air. At first, it seemed like nothing, but then, right before her eyes, his fingers bent in an impossible way, not broken, not forced, just effortlessly shifting joints and tendons in a way no normal person could.

  Erya’s breath caught in her throat for half a second before realization hit her like a brick.

  No way.

  A slow grin crept across her face as she tilted her head, placing a hand on her hip. “You bastard,” she muttered, amusement lacing her voice. “It’s been a long time, Milo.”

  The man finally turned to face her, and despite the deep lines carved into his face, despite the streaks of gray threading through his hair, his eyes held the same sharpness she remembered.

  “Thirty years,” he corrected, his voice carrying the weight of those years, steady and measured. “You look exactly the same.”

  Erya barked out a laugh, shaking her head. “Time flies.”

  Milo smirked, but there was something unreadable behind it. He exhaled through his nose, tapping a finger against the counter. “You know, I try not to let jealousy get to me, but damn. I’ve seen some weird shit in my time, but watching someone barely change after three decades?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “That stings a little.”

  Erya, still grinning, gestured to herself with an exaggerated motion. “Well, thanks for the compliment. I like to think I still look pretty damn good for someone over three hundred.”

  From behind the counter, Krava let out a sharp scoff, her bearded face barely shifting as she continued wiping down the glass in hier hands.

  Erya, without missing a beat, shot her a glance and smirked. “Not all of us stay the same, though.”

  Krava didn’t even dignify her with a response, only narrowing her eyes slightly before returning to her task.

  Milo chuckled, shaking his head again as he finally lifted his mug and took a sip. “Some things never change, huh?”

  Erya leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. “Damn right they don’t.”

  Milo let out a long sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. His fingers were calloused, worn from years of duty, and the way his jaw tensed suggested that whatever he was about to say wasn’t good news.

  “Less than five minutes ago,” he began, his voice level but carrying an unmistakable weight, “we found a brothel near your inn. About ten minutes’ walk from here.”

  Erya’s expression flickered. For a brief moment, it was just surprise, sharp and quick, vanishing in an instant. But the anger that followed settled in deeper, twisting her mouth into a scowl as she pushed herself off the counter. “A brothel?” she scoffed, her voice incredulous. “In my part of town?” She exhaled through her nose, eyes narrowing. “I should’ve burned that filth down already.”

  The words had barely left her mouth before she noticed the way the room shifted.

  The inn had always carried an air of easygoing chatter, the kind of casual liveliness that made it a comfortable place for travelers and locals alike. But the moment the word “brothel” had been spoken, something changed.

  A few of the patrons, mostly men, suddenly looked a little too interested, eyes flicking in Milo’s direction, conversation lowering to a murmur. One group at a corner table went silent altogether, leaning just slightly toward the conversation, their mugs frozen halfway to their lips. Even the ones who tried to act disinterested still betrayed themselves with the occasional glance, hoping to catch a location, a hint, something.

  Erya noticed it all, and if she had been pissed before, now she was livid.

  Disappointed, too.

  Milo must have caught the shift in the air as well, because he sighed again and shook his head. “Not something you have to worry about anymore,” he muttered, his tone deliberately vague. “But you might have something much, much worse on your plate.”

  That got her attention.

  Erya’s brow furrowed slightly, but Milo didn’t elaborate just yet. Instead, his eyes flicked across the room, scanning the gathered patrons, some of whom were still subtly straining their ears toward the conversation.

  “Better if we talk somewhere private,” he said, his voice quieter, measured. “No need to start a panic.”

  Erya’s expression didn’t change, but she exhaled sharply through her nose and turned toward the room. She didn’t yell. She didn’t need to.

  Her voice, when she spoke, was firm, sharp and clipped, carrying the natural authority of someone who had owned this place long enough that when she gave an order, people damn well listened.

  “Alright,” she said, clapping her hands together once, the sound snapping through the room. “Time to clear out.”

  A few patrons blinked up at her in confusion, as if unsure whether she was serious.

  “You’ve had your drinks, you’ve had your fun and now it’s the time go home,” she continued, pacing forward a few steps, giving everyone in the room a slow, deliberate once-over. “If you’ve got a room here, upstairs. If you don’t, out the damn door.”

  A few men grumbled, shifting in their seats, but the weight of her stare cut through any objections before they could form.

  Krava, still behind the counter, raised an eyebrow but didn’t interfere. He didn’t need to.

  One particularly slow drunk, a man slumped at a corner table, dared to mutter, “Tch. What’s the big deal—”

  Erya was already moving, stepping toward him with an easy, fluid confidence. She didn’t touch him. All she did was lean slightly against the table, arching an eyebrow as she fixed him with a look that somehow carried more weight than any words could.

  “You want me to repeat myself?” she asked, her voice smooth, dangerously unimpressed.

  The man, suddenly feeling a lot more sober, cleared his throat and scrambled up from his seat, grabbing his coat before making a quick exit.

  The rest of the patrons got the message.

  Chairs scraped against the wooden floor as men and women alike gathered their things and made their way toward the exits, some heading upstairs, others spilling out into the night.

  Erya stood there, arms crossed, watching them all go.

  When the last of them had finally left, a heavy silence settled over the room, making it feel emptier and more oppressive. Now, only three people remained: Milo, still seated at the counter; Krava, leaning against the bar, her arms crossed; and Erya, who turned back to Milo with an expectant look.

  “So,” Erya began, tapping her fingers against the table, “what’s this mess about a brothel? You better not be here because some piss-drunk noble got caught with his pants down and decided to cry about it.”

  Milo exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “No. Not even close.”

  Erya raised an eyebrow, but before she could press him further, he spoke again, his voice lower and more deliberate, carrying a weight she wasn’t used to hearing from him before. “When we got there,” he said, staring at his hands, “the entire place was a pool of blood.” He lifted his eyes to meet hers, dark and unreadable. “Not an exaggeration. We had to wade through it.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The casual smirk that had been playing on Erya’s lips faltered slightly.

  Milo leaned back in his chair, exhaling like the memory itself weighed on his chest. “Based on the state of the bodies—” He hesitated, gathering himself before he continued. “Based on the freshness of it, the bastard who did it was still nearby when we arrived.”

  A slow, amused exhale escaped Erya as she crossed her legs and tilted her head. “Oh, so now we’re calling whoever did this a bastard?” she teased, the corner of her lips curling up. “I honestly don’t mind him tho, I think he did a great favor for the city.”

  Milo’s face remained unchanged, and Erya’s smirk faded completely when she noticed his fingers tapping against the table. The rhythm was slow and methodical, yet unsteady as his hands were shaking. That’s when she realized, this was far more serious then she first tought.

  "You know what?" he said, exhaling. "I too am glad they’re dead."

  Krava, who had been silent until now, let out a slow breath from behind the counter, her sharp gaze never leaving him. Erya studied the man in front of her, tilting her head slightly as the weight of his words settled over the room.

  Then she snorted. "Milo, you sure you wanna say that out loud?" she teased. "It’s allright for me to say it, but you're a city guard captain. People hear you talking like that, they’ll think you've lost your damn mind." Milo looked up, and the way his dark eyes flickered in the candlelight made Erya’s stomach twist in a way she didn’t like.

  “They weren’t just running a brothel,” he said. His voice was quiet. Controlled. But beneath it, there was something deeper, something barely contained. “They were running a flesh trade—a hidden one, right here in the city, disguised under all that perfume and velvet.”

  Erya didn’t react immediately. She simply stared at him, her fingers absentmindedly tapping against the armrest of her chair.

  Milo continued, his voice growing more rigid, more strained. “We found—” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “We found the men. Their bodies were destroyed. Limbs twisted at angles that shouldn’t be possible. Spines snapped completely in half. Eyes gouged out. Some of them—” His voice hitched, but he forced himself to go on. “Some of them were folded. I don’t even know how to explain it. They weren’t cut in half. They were… collapsed into themselves.”

  Erya’s fingers stopped tapping.

  “The women?” she asked, her voice quieter than before.

  Milo closed his eyes for a brief moment, rubbing his forehead. “Hiding. Every last one of them. Locked in a single room. We found them shaking, sobbing. They wouldn’t even open the door at first, thought we were the monster coming back to finish the job.”

  Erya leaned back slightly, arms crossing over her chest. The usual cocky playfulness in her posture was gone now, replaced by something more neutral, more unreadable.

  Milo let out a slow, shaking breath. “Whoever did this wasn’t human.”

  Erya met his gaze, her expression blank. Milo’s fingers twitched against the wooden surface of the table as he muttered, “We’re not dealing with a man. We’re dealing with a monster.”

  Silence hung between them for several long, heavy seconds.

  Krava finally spoke, her voice as dry as ever. “Monster, huh?” She grabbed a glass from behind the bar and started wiping it down with an old rag. “Well, at least that means you don’t have to worry about putting it in a prison cell, right?”

  Milo let out a short, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “No. No prison could hold something like that.” He lifted his gaze to Erya, his face unreadable. “Not that I’d want it to.”

  Erya exhaled slowly through her nose, the weight of his words pressing against the air between them. Milo’s fingers twitched again, and this time, his entire hand clenched into a tight fist as he stared down at the table.

  “There were children there, too.”

  Erya’s entire body tensed.

  Milo didn’t look up. His voice was hoarse, almost distant, as if the words tasted like bile in his throat. “Not just girls.” His breathing was uneven. “Boys, too. I—” His fingers dug into his palm, knuckles turning white. “We should have been there first, we should have found them a lot sooner, and we were too late, far too late.”

  The room was heavy with silence, but it wasn’t the comfortable kind, it was one that settled between old friends when words weren’t needed. No, this was different. This was the kind of silence that sank into the bones, thick and oppressive, like the air before a storm.

  Erya leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, a single finger tapping against her bicep as she mulled over everything Milo had just told her.

  Then she let out a slow, sharp exhale through her nose, shaking her head. "Well," she muttered, tilting her head to the side, "I guess the Right Fist finally got what was coming to them."

  Milo lifted a brow.

  Erya scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Don’t look at me like that." She waved a hand in the air dismissively. "They owned that brothel, didn't they? You think a place like that just exists in this city without the Right Fist knowing? Please. That was their business. Their filth."

  Her lips curled in disgust. "And if someone finally came along and butchered those bastards like the animals they were?" She shrugged, leaning back further in her seat. "Then I say good riddance."

  Milo sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Erya—"

  "Oh, don’t 'Erya' me," she cut in, pointing at him with the same hand she had just waved. "You think I’m gonna cry over a bunch of slavers and flesh peddlers getting ripped apart? Spare me."

  Her eyes darkened slightly, flickering toward the table. "They deserved it."

  Milo studied her for a moment, but whatever he saw in her expression made him keep his mouth shut. Instead, he exhaled sharply, tapping his fingers against the wooden surface of the table.

  "I’d agree with you," he said finally, "if that’s all there was to it."

  Erya tilted her head. "Oh?"

  Milo glanced up at her, his fingers still tapping against the wood. "You’re assuming this was just a case of a bigger fish swallowing a smaller one," he said, voice calm, measured. "That those bastards kidnapped the wrong person and got torn apart for it."

  Erya smirked. "Well, that would be poetic, wouldn’t it?"

  Milo didn’t return the smirk.

  Instead, he flexed his hand, watching as his fingers curled into a slow fist before he relaxed them again. "Maybe. But that’s not what happened here."

  Erya’s smirk faded slightly. "…Go on."

  Milo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, fingers laced together. "I don’t mind criminals killing criminals," he admitted. "Self-solving problems make my job easier."

  "Exactly!" Erya said, gesturing toward him with both hands. "See? Now you’re getting it!"

  "But this wasn’t some criminal settling a score," he continued, voice lowering slightly. "This wasn’t a rival gang making a move. This wasn’t even some poor bastard getting revenge for what they did to him."

  He exhaled, shaking his head. "This… wasn’t a person at all."

  Erya frowned. "Milo."

  "No," he said, shaking his head again, his expression grim. "Nothing human could’ve done that. No man could kill that many people, that fast, in that way."

  His hand twitched against the table.

  "I’ve seen some gruesome shit in my years on the force," he muttered, "but I’ve never seen men folded like that. I’ve never seen ribs punched clean through backs. Never seen skulls split like rotten fruit without a blade involved."

  His eyes flickered to her, dark and sharp. "This wasn’t a person. It was a monster."

  Erya tapped a single finger against the table, thinking. "A monster, huh?"

  Milo nodded once. "Nothing else fits."

  Erya exhaled slowly through her nose, her brows furrowing slightly. "Well," she said, tilting her head, "if it wasn’t something, but someone, then you’d have to be looking at a damn high-ranking Liberator, wouldn't you?"

  Milo didn’t respond right away.

  His fingers twitched slightly against the table before curling into a slow fist.

  "Yeah," he muttered finally, "that’s the problem."

  Erya raised a brow. "What is?"

  Milo lifted his head, locking eyes with her.

  "A high-ranking Liberator has no business being in Arkhold," he said. "This city is the edge of the world, Erya. It’s where people come when they have nowhere else to go. It’s where we went when we had nowhere else to go."

  His jaw clenched. "There’s nothing here for them."

  Erya’s eyes narrowed slightly. Then, slowly, she leaned back, arms still crossed, but her expression more serious now. "Well," she muttered, "looks like we’ve got a problem then, don’t we?"

  Milo didn’t answer. The short silence spoke for itself.

  Milo shifted in his seat. It was small move, barely noticeable to most people, but Erya caught it. The way his fingers twitched against the table, the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the way his eyes flickered downward for just a fraction of a second before settling back into place, like he was holding something back, something heavier than he was willing to put into words.

  Erya wasn’t stupid. She had spent centuries reading people, and Milo, for all his years and experience, was still an open book to her.

  "This isn’t the only thing that happened tonight, is it?" she asked, voice quieter now, but still carrying the same sharpness.

  Milo hesitated, just for a breath, but then sighed, shaking his head. "No."

  Erya drummed her fingers against the table, her brows furrowing slightly. "I figured."

  Milo’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face shifting as he clenched his teeth, clearly frustrated. He exhaled slowly through his nose, his fingers flexing open and closed as he stared down at the worn wood of the table, as if it held answers he didn’t have.

  "I failed," he muttered, voice low. "I failed in my duty today."

  Erya scoffed. "Doubt it."

  Milo’s eyes flickered up at her, but she was already leaning forward, propping her chin up with one hand as she studied him. "Since you were a kid, you've been one of the strongest guards this city’s ever had," she said. "And that's not me buttering you up, that's just fact."

  She smirked slightly, tilting her head. "Only natural, though, isn’t it? What else do you expect from a former Liberator?"

  Milo snorted softly, but it wasn’t a laugh.

  "Former," he repeated. "That’s the key word, isn’t it?"

  "Oh, please," Erya waved a hand, leaning back again. "Once a Liberator, always a Liberator. You lot don’t just shake that off. It’s in your bones."

  Milo exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "I was only ranked as a Heroic Liberator," he muttered. "Nothing special."

  Erya barked out a short laugh. "‘Only’ ranked as Heroic," she repeated mockingly. "Listen to yourself. You know how many people have reached that rank in the last five hundred years?"

  She tapped a finger against the table for emphasis. "One hundred thousand."

  Milo didn’t respond.

  "That might sound like a big number to someone who doesn’t think too hard about it," Erya continued, "but when you remember just how many billions of people have lived and died in that time? You start to see just how damn rare that really is."

  Milo sighed. "I don’t need a history lesson, Erya."

  "No, but you do need someone to remind you that you’re not some washed-up nobody," she shot back. "Because you sure as hell act like it sometimes."

  Milo shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It doesn’t matter."

  Erya’s smirk faltered slightly. "Doesn’t matter?"

  "No," he muttered. "Because none of that changes what happened tonight." His hands clenched into fists against the table.

  "I failed," he said again, voice quieter this time, but somehow even heavier than before. "And because I failed… a little girl was kidnapped right in front of me."

  The weight of those words sank between them, pressing down on the room like a stone.

  Milo didn’t look up. He just sat there, staring at the wood, his shoulders tense, his hands tight, the frustration, the regret, the anger all swirling behind his tired eyes.

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

  "Shit."

  Erya exhaled, dragging a hand down her face. "Milo…"

  Milo exhaled, shaking his head before finally speaking again. His voice was quieter now, but every word carried the weight of frustration, regret, and something else… Something much heavier.

  "She looked harmless," he muttered. "That’s what pisses me off the most. Just this white-haired girl, carrying someone in her arms like a doting older sister. Nothing about her screamed danger, not at first glance. If anything…" His brow furrowed as he replayed the image in his mind. "She looked almost… gentle. Like she belonged in a library or a tea shop, not—" He stopped himself, shaking his head.

  Erya remained quiet, listening.

  "She was carrying a little girl," Milo continued, voice tightening slightly. "Pink hair, small. Couldn’t have been older than eighteen. She was unconscious. Completely limp in her arms."

  Erya’s fingers twitched.

  "At first, I thought maybe she was helping her," Milo admitted. "A lost child? A big sister figure carrying her home? But then I remembered… I’d seen that kid before. I saw her leave the city earlier today, with a man. A dark-haired man. He looked…" He paused, rubbing his chin. "He looked like royalty."

  Erya blinked. Her mind immediately went to the pink-haired girl she had met earlier that day.

  "Aria," she said aloud before she could stop herself.

  Milo’s head snapped toward her. "You know her?"

  Erya leaned back, crossing her arms. "Met her today," she confirmed. "Small thing, big eyes, pink hair, a bit too polite for my taste. She was with a guy who—" She smirked suddenly, her exhaustion momentarily pushed aside by something far more entertaining. "Who looked like a homeless bastard when I first saw him."

  Milo frowned. "What?"

  "His hair was a mess, his clothes were a disaster. Honestly, it was embarrassing. Looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backward and then sat on by a horse." Milo blinked, thrown off by the sudden change in tone.

  Erya grinned, gesturing to herself. "But then I worked my magic. Gave him a proper haircut, tailored his coat, and just like that—" She snapped her fingers. "He looked like he belonged in a palace. Probably could’ve convinced half the nobles in this city that he was some exiled prince."

  Milo stared at her, then, to Erya’s amusement, his eyes lit up. "That’s him," he said quickly. "That has to be him! He came to you for help?"

  "That’s right," Erya confirmed, still pleased with her work. "Both him and the kid have been staying at my inn." Milo looked like a man drowning who had just been thrown a rope. "Then we need to check their room. Now."

  She nodded. "Agreed." The two of them stood, pushing their chairs back as they moved toward the stairs. The room had already been emptied from earlier, the fire in the hearth crackling quietly in the background, casting flickering shadows across the wooden walls.

  But before either of them could take a step toward the stairs, they heard a scream. Not from inside the inn, but from the outside. It was sharp, panicked, and cut short.

  "P-please," a trembling voice stammered. "Don’t step any closer…"

  Milo had already turned toward the door, his hand on the hilt of his sword. His entire posture shifted as his muscles tensed, his stance widened, and his shoulders straightened. The easygoing, tired man from before was gone. In his place stood the city’s guard captain, a former Liberator, a man who had spent his life keeping Arkhold from collapsing in on itself.

  Erya cracked her neck.

  "Looks like our night isn’t over yet," she muttered.