With a long, piercing wail, an eagle arrowed down. Below, a frightened lamb was frozen solid, standing dumbly as the eagle’s claws gripped its small body.
“Ah! What the fuck?!”
The crowd gave startled yells, cursing as the eagle flew past their shabby houses. Though, its departure failed to cool the agitated crowd.
Amidst the raging crowd, a cloaked figure quietly slipped between them, his face hidden by the hood of his dark-brown cloak. Then suddenly, the clouds parted, the scorching sun blinding the streets.
The crowd quieted down, scurrying to find cover. So when the cloaked figure kept on walking, his steps unabated, numerous eyes buzzed around him.
Undeterred, Zethir tracked the path to the blacksmith shop. Thinking about it, he couldn't help patting the sword tied to his waist.
It was an iron sword, a gift from his enemy. Why would his enemy give him a sword? Of course, because they were already dead when they gave the “gift.”
‘Good enemies are dead ones,’ he shook his head at the thought.
A few minutes went by in a flash, and he soon found himself standing in front of a blacksmith shop. The door was made of a special metal, though it looked like a brick of iron.
According to the blacksmith inside…
“Those who can open the door can be my customer. Others, scram!”
Sighing, he placed both his palms on the door's surface, digging his heels on the ground. Gritting his teeth, his muscles bulged as he pushed the door with all his might.
CREAAAAK~
The door stood its ground, but alas, after ten minutes, the door was wide open. Catching his breath, a pleasant applause trickled down his ears.
“Ten minutes, to the dot! A second less from yesterday, not too shabby,” a loud, gruff voice spoke up. “Quick, close the door and let's talk business.”
Turning his head, he saw a short man wearing a beige shirt and brown pants standing before him, his arms crossed. The man had soft-looking, short black hair, and his skin was like silky caramel.
Despite his unfortunate height, this man, whose frame was lean at best, was stronger than him.
Zethir gasped like a dog, feeling like his arms were about to fall. But seeing the short man turn and walk toward a table and a pair of chairs, he closed his eyes in resignation. Walking around the heavy door, he once more pushed using all his strength.
This time, it took him fifteen minutes to close the door.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
“Hm,” the short man rubbed his hairless chin, his sharp eyes narrowed. “No improvements there, maybe it's too much to ask. Anyway, little guy, what's your business here?” The short man asked, tilting his head back to maintain eye contact with Zethir.
Zethir looked down, inwardly wondering how he was the “little guy.”
The short man was no taller than five feet, while he was six feet and six inches tall.
‘Whatever. Shortie wants to be the big guy,’ Zethir shrugged.
“Falco, I need my sword sharpened,” Zethir said, walking toward the table and sitting across from the short man, Falco.
“Again? I sharpened it just last week!” Falco slapped the table, glaring at Zethir as he placed his word on the desk, treating it like it was a porcelain artwork.
“Did you break it?” Falco asked, his trembling voice carrying a pointed knife.
Zethir took a deep breath, closing his eyes.
A few seconds later, he sighed, shaking his head. He answered, “No.”
Falco’s left eye twitched. ‘...then why do you look like you were admitting a grave sin?!’
Coughing to clear his mind, Falco said, “It's dull already? Do you not maintain it? Or is your so-called special swordsmanship just a hot bundle o’ scraps?”
Zethir shook his head. “I just want to sharpen it,” he replied, slowly leaning back to the backrest.
Falco opened his mouth, but in the end, he swallowed his words. “Alright. You know how much it costs, right?”
“Ten thousand mitos,” Zethir nodded. That was half a month’s worth of expenses for the average person.
Falco nodded back, hopping off the chair. After unsheathing and inspecting the sword…
“Hm? There's not even chips ‘n nicks in this bad boy. It's perfectly sharp… be honest, why are you here? Do you like wasting money?” Falco looked into Zethir's ruby-red iris.
Even after entering the room, Zethir hadn't taken off the hood of his cloak. Thanks to exercise from opening and closing the door, his sweat made the hood stick to his forehead and one of his eyes. He could've fixed it, but his arms were dying, unable to save his appearance.
Anyway, all dignity and shame could be thrown out when facing your friends.
Zethir’s visible eye narrowed. “I'm here to make sure my blade is sharp.”
Falco sighed. “Alright, fine. I'll sharpen it. It won't take long, so I'll give you a… ninety percent discount.”
Hearing this, Zethir's lips curled up. “Sounds good,” he tapped his fingers on the table. This was his real goal—if he could get the best blacksmith in the city to maintain his sword, why would he do it himself?
Meanwhile, outside the metal door, Augustin was standing in place with a baffled look. The metal door was engraved with the words “push,” so he did.
“UUUURGH?!”
But even after several minutes, the metal door didn't budge. Not even a millimeter!
“What the fuck is up with this door?!” Augustin gasped. “That guy could open it, is there a secret method?”
Thus, he looked around the door for half an hour, finding nothing but a single ant walking on the wall.
Frustrated, he squashed the ant and resorted to banging on the door. Even then, no one answered. He wasn't even sure if anyone heard him—all he knew was that his hand hurts like hell from “knocking.”
“Tsk,” hands tucked in his pocket, he kicked the door a final time before walking away, rain clouds hanging above his head and limping. Just like his hand, his foot started hurting too.
After following Zethir for the entire morning, he had nothing to show!
Meanwhile…
“Are you satisfied?” Falco pushed the sword into Zethir's hands.
Looking at the sharp edge, which seemed to shine, Zethir nodded in satisfaction.
“More than,” he said.
Falco covered his mouth, rubbing his jaw to hide a smile. Seeing Zethir rubbing the sword's surface, he licked his lips for a while before asking.
“Are you going to leave?”
“Yes,” Zethir sheathed his sword, before tying it to his waist.
“... you're a mercenary, right?” Falco smacked his lips, words jumbled up in his mouth.
Zethir blinked at him, adjusting the hood of his cloak to properly show his face—after half an hour of rest, his arms had gotten better. “Falco, do you need a mercenary?”
“Well,” Falco scratched his head, turning his head to the side.
Zethir squinted, seeing a faint red appear on the short man's ears. Falco was not young, he was in his 40s, but he looked like he just entered his 20s. His face didn't even have wrinkles yet.
But still, Zethir felt like gagging when he saw the bashful blush.
“Damn it! I know my rank is 11, but can you help me out here?” Falco slapped his thighs. “I need some fighters, but I need someone I can trust. Though you just entered rank 6… I know I can trust you. And you're good at killing,” he said.
“Alright. Don't worry, I won't charge you—”
Before Zethir could finish, Falco erupted into laughter. “Bullshit! I'll pay you twenty thousand mitos in advance. After you complete the mission, I'll pay you another hundred thousand. Sounds good, right?” He tutted.
Zethir paused, licking the back of his teeth at the offer. He was rich—his money coming from robbing his enemies and dead allies. But one hundred and twenty thousand mitos…
One could live doing nothing for half a year with that much money!
“What's the mission?” Zethir’s face turned solemn, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
“It's simple,” Falco cleared his throat, before walking toward a drawer, opening it. Then, he pulled out a piece of paper, and then a long, brown and black feather.
“I want a bloodbath, and you'll leave this feather in the eye of the strongest person you kill,” Falco said, giving Zethir the feather first before the paper.
