Ozymandias

Two weeks.

Two weeks of hell.

The Black Forest is nothing like the woods near the Lachius mansion. The trees here are tall, gnarled, and suffocating, their canopies so dense that even during the day, the ground remains wrapped in an eerie twilight. The air is damp, thick with the smell of moss, rot, and something feral lurking just beyond sight.

At night, the real nightmare begins.

The howls of unseen creatures echo through the darkness, their voices long and hungry. Glowing eyes blink between the trees, watching, waiting. Sleep is a luxury I can’t afford. Every rustle, every snap of a twig, sends my heart into overdrive.

And then there are the attacks.

Giant insects with razor-sharp mandibles, snake-like creatures that drop from the trees, wolves that stalk us from the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. Every time I think we have a moment of peace, something new tries to kill us.

Valtheria, of course, barely reacts.

She walks through the forest like it’s just another road, moving with eerie confidence, never flinching when danger approaches. And when she fights? It’s brutal, effortless.

She doesn’t waste energy on unnecessary movements. A single precise stab, a single swift cut— and the creatures fall.

Meanwhile, I struggle.

I can use magic, sure. I can cast spells. But spells need time to charge, and these monsters don’t wait patiently while I cast a spell.

Valtheria makes that painfully clear.

“If you rely on magic alone, you’ll die.” Her voice is always so flat, so uncaring, as if my survival is just a mild curiosity. “Learn how to fight with your hands.”

I don’t have a choice.

She forces me to use a dagger, mocking me when I struggle with my grip, laughing when my swings are sloppy. She doesn’t go easy on me. If I lower my guard, she attacks me herself.

I have bruises to prove it.

“You were trained with a sword, weren’t you?” she remarks one evening, watching me rub my sore wrist.

I nod. “Mara tried to teach me.”

She exhales sharply, as if the very memory of Mara annoys her. “That maid of yours was an idiot.”

“…Excuse me?”

“No child can wield a sword properly. You should’ve been trained with a dagger from the start.” She tosses me one of her own knives. “A blade is only useful if you can actually swing it.”

And so, I learn.

I learn how to hold the dagger properly, how to slash instead of stab, how to predict movements instead of blindly swinging. She teaches me where to cut, where to aim if I want a clean kill.

And worst of all?

She forces me to understand my necromancy.

At first, I avoid using it.

But when we get surrounded by monsters one night, I don’t have a choice.

I kill a wolf. A single, clean stab through its throat. And when its body collapses, a purple glow appears above its corpse.

Valtheria sees me hesitate. “Don’t just stand there. Use it.”

I swallow hard. “Use what?”

She gestures toward the glowing purple orb. “Your power.”

I don’t want to.

But I touch it.

And just like before—the wolf stands up again.

Its fur is black as the void, its once-red eyes now glowing violet. It moves with the same predatory grace as before, but now… it’s unnatural.

And it listens to me.

Valtheria watches with quiet intrigue. “It obeys your will.”

“…Yeah.”

That’s when I realize something.

When I dismiss the wolf later, it doesn’t come back.

I try to summon it again—but nothing happens.

That’s when it clicks.

I can only keep an undead creature active as long as I continue feeding it my Mana. If I dismiss it? It’s gone. Forever.

“It’s just like a summoner,” Valtheria muses when I explain it to her. “Their creatures drain their Mana the longer they remain active.”

Except this is different. Summoners can resummon their creatures whenever they want.

I can’t.

It’s a terrifying realization. Every undead I create is a choice I can’t undo.

Two weeks of hard lessons, no sleep, and constant life-or-death fights.

And now—we finally reach the edge of the forest.

The first thing I notice is the sky.

It’s gray, lifeless, and heavy, casting a permanent shadow over the city below.

The streets are crowded, narrow, and filthy, packed with people who move quickly, avoiding eye contact. The buildings are stacked unevenly, some leaning at odd angles, like they were built without any real planning.

And the smell. Salt, fish, smoke, and something bitter. Something rotten.

This place is alive, but in the way a disease festers in a dying body.

This is Cradena.

At the forest’s edge, Valtheria stops.

I turn to look at her.

She’s standing there, staring at the city with her usual blank expression. But there’s something off. A hesitation.

That’s when I realize—this is it.

We’re parting ways.

“…So this is where we say goodbye, huh?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

Valtheria nods, then pulls out a dagger.

She flips it in her hand before offering me the hilt.

“Take it.”

I frown, hesitating before I finally grab it. The blade is sharp, well-crafted. Not fancy—just practical.

“You saved me a few times,” she says. “This makes us even.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t remember saving you.”

She shrugs. “Take it anyway.”

Then—she reaches with her hand on her back.

She pulls out a mask out of nowhere.

It’s black, smooth, with intricate gold detailing. In the center, right between the eyes, is a small violet gemstone.

I take it from her hands, turning it over. “What’s this?”

“A second gift.”

Valtheria crosses her arms. “That gemstone in the middle suppresses your Mana trail. No mage—no matter how skilled—will be able to track you when you wear it.”

I go still.

“That’s… insane.”

“If you want to survive here, you need a new identity. This will help.”

I grip the mask tightly.

A new identity…

A way to hide. A way to fight without being recognized.

Valtheria watches me carefully. Then, without warning, she steps forward and hugs me.

I freeze.

“…I enjoyed our time together,” she murmurs.

I exhale. “…Me too.”

We shared fears, struggles, and a strange, unspoken connection.

I hug her back, squeezing tightly before finally letting go.

Valtheria steps back, her red eyes unreadable.

“Find a bar. Get a job. And don’t die,” she says before disappearing into the crowd.

***

It feels strange, slipping the mask on. It fits like it was made for me, snug against my face, hiding everything I don’t want the world to see. I take a deep breath, steady myself, and walk into Cradena’s bustling streets. The weight of the mask isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s something I’ve got to get used to. It feels like a second skin now, part of me.

I look around, scanning the crowded streets. People throw glares at me as I walk by. It's not unusual, I’ve seen it before. I suppose it’s the mask that bothers them. Or maybe it's my hair—rare as hell around here. Black hair, the kind you don't see often in this city full of people from every race imaginable. Human, elf, orc... hell, there are even some lizardfolk hanging out by the corners of the street.

I keep my head low, trying not to catch too many eyes. I’m not here to make friends. I’ve never been one to talk much, even in my past life. The only thing that comes naturally to me now is keeping to myself.

I find my way to a bar eventually. It’s not much, just a rickety place with a badly painted sign swinging lazily in the wind. The runes on the sign are scratched and faded, hard to make out, but the noise spilling out from the doors tells me enough. Laughter. Yelling. The smell of booze and saltwater in the air. It’s a place where people come to forget. And that suits me just fine.

I take a step inside, and the door creaks like it’s about to fall off its hinges. My heart beats a little faster, and I almost want to turn back. But I force myself to stay. I don’t like being around too many people, never have. But I need to start somewhere.

The place is dark and smells like sweat and old wood. There are men, mostly, scattered around the tables, some slumped over drunk, others arguing over cards. They all pause and glance at me as I make my way through. I don’t care what they think, though. I’m not here to make friends.

The mask feels heavier now. Not physically, but in a way that settles deep in my gut. I step into the bar, taking in the stench of sweat, booze, and sea salt. It's not the worst place I've been, but it’s close.

My eyes adjust to the dim lighting as I push through the tables. A few men glance my way, then back to their drinks. They don’t care. No one in this city cares unless you’re worth something.

I make my way to the counter, where a bald dwarf stands, wiping down a dirty mug with an even dirtier rag. He doesn’t look up right away, focused on his work like the place isn’t falling apart around him.

“Welcome,” he says in a gruff tone. “Name’s Torak. Owner of this fine establishment.”

I don’t waste time. “I need a job.”

Torak finally looks up. His brown eyes scan me, his forehead creasing when he takes in my height. The realization is instant.

“A job?” He snorts. “Kid, I don’t know what kind of place you think this is, but we’re not hiring barmaids—”

“Not at the bar,” I cut him off. “Something that pays. And pays well.”

Torak tilts his head, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of low chatter and clinking glasses. He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice.

“Kid, the kind of work that pays well around here ain’t the kind you walk away from clean.”

I expected that. I nod.

Torak studies me again, then sighs, jerking a thumb toward the wall behind him. “See for yourself.”

I step closer, scanning the worn-out papers pinned to the wooden wall. The ink is smudged on some, others are barely hanging on by a nail. These aren't regular job postings. They're bounties.

Each one is a death sentence waiting to be signed.

People looking to have someone silenced. Debtors who owe too much. Betrayers who crossed the wrong people. The kind of jobs that don’t get recorded in official records.

I swallow hard.

This is the reality of Cradena. If you want to survive, you have to be useful. And the easiest way to be useful in a city like this is to be willing to stain your hands with blood.

I should walk away.

And I almost do—until my eyes land on one paper.

It’s different from the others.

Most of the bounties are written in blunt, businesslike wording. “Kill this man.” “Make this one disappear.” Cold and impersonal.

But this one reads like a desperate plea.

A father’s plea.

I scan the words carefully. A missing daughter. A nobleman in Garthram suspected of running an underground trade involving children. The details are scarce, but the pay isn’t—5,000 gold. A fortune.

Torak must notice me hesitating because he leans in. “That one’s different, huh?”

I don’t respond right away. My fingers tighten around the edge of the paper.

There’s a weight to this that’s different from the others. Killing someone because they owe money? That’s just business. Killing someone because they prey on children?

That’s justice.

I pull the paper from the wall and set it down on the counter.

“I’ll take this one.”

Torak doesn’t react at first. He just stares at me, then at the paper, then back at me.

“…You’re serious?”

I nod.

He scoffs, rubbing his face. “Listen, kid, I don’t know what kind of death wish you have, but this? This is big leagues. You understand that, right? This ain’t just some thug in the streets. You go after a nobleman, you’re making enemies in high places.”

“I know.”

Torak shakes his head. “No, I don’t think you do. You mess up a job like this, you don’t just die. You get erased. No burial, no body to find. They make examples of people who go after their own.”

“I don’t care.”

It’s the truth. There’s nothing left to lose.

Torak watches me for a long time before sighing in frustration. “Fine. What name do I put on the contract?”

I pause.

A name.

Not Castiel Lachius. That name belongs to a dead boy.

Something else.

My eyes drop to the paper in front of me. The poem of Percy Bysshe Shelley flashes in my mind.

“…Ozymandias.”

Torak raises an eyebrow. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

I shrug. “Does it matter?”

Torak lets out a rough chuckle, shaking his head as he scribbles the name onto the contract.

“Alright then, Ozymandias,” he mutters. “Let’s see if you’ve got what it takes to survive.”

I take the paper and step away from the counter, shoving it inside my pocket.

First job. First kill.

No turning back now.

I step out of the bar, the weight of the bounty notice still heavy in my hand.

The desperate plea of a father searching for his missing daughter. A high noble involved in child slavery. A reward large enough to change my life overnight.

It all sounds unreal.

But this is Cradena, the city of criminals, smugglers, and people who couldn’t care less about anyone but themselves.

If there’s one place where something this disgusting could happen in broad daylight without anyone batting an eye, it’s here.

I need information.

So, I do what any rational person would—start asking around.

“Hey, have you noticed anything suspicious around the bay?”

The old man I ask, sitting on the steps of a rundown shack, lets out a dry chuckle, barely looking up from the bottle in his hand. “Kid, this whole damn city is suspicious.”

I try another person. Then another. Then another.

Same response.

Cradena is built on corruption and crime. Everything that happens here is suspicious, so nobody really gives a damn about something as small as a few missing kids.

I click my tongue under my mask, frustration creeping in. I should have expected this. Nobody’s going to hand me a direct answer. If I want to find the bastards responsible, I need to start thinking like them.

So, I lean against a nearby wall, arms crossed, and watch.

The docks stretch out before me, lined with ships swaying gently with the tide. Some are pirate vessels, others are merchant ships, and most—at least on the surface—are just simple fishing boats.

I tap my mask, lost in thought.

In my past life, I remember reading about the transatlantic slave trade. How people were stuffed into cargo holds, crammed together like livestock, shipped off to foreign lands, never to see home again.

It was cruel.

It was efficient.

And what better place to do the same than here? A city filled with pirates, fishermen, and mercenaries? A city where nobody asks questions?

I scan the ships, trying to find something—anything—that looks out of place.

Problem is, nothing does.

I can’t just barge onto every ship and demand to see their cargo. And if they really are smuggling people, they’re not going to make it obvious.

I briefly consider another plan. If they’re targeting orphans and homeless kids, maybe I should act like bait. Play the role of a helpless child wandering the streets alone, let them snatch me up, then strike from the inside.

But that plan has one big flaw.

My clothes.

Even though I look like a street rat right now, my navy blue sweater and black pants are still made of quality fabric. I'd probably be in more danger if they noticed I was Castiel Lachius.

Damn it.

I let out a slow breath. If I want answers, I’ll have to find them myself.

No more talking. No more asking.

I need to observe. Watch the movements around the bay. See who’s coming and going.

And if I stay long enough, maybe—just maybe—someone will slip up.

I leaned against a wooden post, arms crossed, eyes sharp. The thick fog rolling in from the bay clung to the streets like a second skin, turning everything into a hazy blur. The sky overhead was the same dull gray as the sea, a colorless void that made it impossible to tell if it was morning or afternoon.

Around me, the docks were as alive as ever—fishermen shouting over each other, trying to sell their catch before it spoiled. Dockhands grunted as they hauled crates from ships, their boots sloshing through the damp, uneven planks. The smell of salt, rotting wood, and dead fish hung heavy in the air. It was the kind of place where nobody asked questions. Where everyone minded their own business.

And yet—

One ship stood out.

Or rather, it didn’t.

No shouting. No selling. No desperate calls for customers.

It just sat there, half-hidden in the fog.

And guarding it? A tall, tanned man with a scimitar strapped to his waist. His black hair was tied into a neat ponytail, his stance relaxed but deliberate—like a predator conserving its energy before the kill. His eyes moved slowly over the crowd, scanning, watching.

I tapped the edge of my mask. That’s not normal.

Then things got even weirder.

A man in a deep red coat, lined with gold trim, walked straight up to the ship. Even through the mist, I could tell—this guy didn’t belong in a place like this. Boots polished to a shine, slicked-back hair, a clean-shaven face untouched by stress or hardship. Wealth. The kind of wealth that didn’t waste time on fish markets.

The guard barely hesitated before stepping aside. No questions, no exchange of words—just a silent nod of respect. Like this man’s presence was expected.

The noble disappeared onto the ship.

I frowned.

A simple fish sale wouldn’t need secrecy. Wouldn’t need a guard with a blade. Wouldn’t involve a noble sneaking aboard like he was making some backroom deal.

No, this wasn’t business.

This was something else.

And I had a feeling I wasn’t gonna like what I found.

I exhaled through my nose, rubbing my thumb against the hilt of my dagger. It’s pretty obvious this is some shady business, I thought. But the real question is—if it's so obvious, why the hell isn’t anyone doing anything about it?

People here weren’t blind. They weren’t stupid. They had to know.

Which meant there was only one explanation.

Someone powerful was making sure this ship remained untouchable.

A big shark in the waters of Cradena. Someone too important, too connected, too dangerous to piss off.

And judging by that noble’s attitude, he was either the shark himself… or feeding the damn thing.

I let out a slow breath, watching it curl into the cold air.

This was deeper than I thought.

And if I wasn’t careful, I’d drown before I even got close to the truth.

***

The night falls.

The fog thickens, rolling in from the bay, swallowing the docks in a dense, murky haze. The damp air clings to my skin, and the salty scent of the sea mingles with the stench of rotting fish and wet wood.

Perfect cover.

I move silently, my boots barely making a sound against the worn planks of the pier. The ship sits there, unmoving, like a hulking beast lurking in the dark. The guards at the front remain in place—too relaxed. They don’t expect anyone.

Good.

I keep low, weaving between wooden crates and barrels, inching my way toward the ship. The hull is old, the planks weathered and cracked—perfect for eavesdropping.

I press my ear against the damp wood.

Muffled voices.

Then—whimpering.

I freeze.

A man speaks, his tone calm, almost businesslike.

"Four girls. Three boys. All between eight and twelve. The buyer will come tomorrow night. Make sure they’re cleaned up—last time, one of them was covered in bruises. We can’t have that again."

A second voice chuckles. "What does it matter? They’ll be bruised soon enough."

Something inside me shatters.

I knew it. I knew these bastards were dirty. But hearing it—hearing those words, spoken so easily, so casually—

My hands curl into fists. My nails dig into my palms, hard enough to break the skin.

There it is. The truth.

This isn’t just suspicion. These bastards are real.

And they don’t deserve to live.

I don’t think. I don’t hesitate.

I move.

Like a shadow, I slip through the fog, making my way toward the lone guard stationed near the entrance. He’s tall, muscular, standing there with his scimitar tied at his waist, completely unaware of the fate creeping toward him.

I draw my dagger.

One step. Then another. My pulse is steady, my breathing controlled. I’ve killed before—but this time, it’s different. This time, it’s a man.

I reach him. He doesn’t even notice.

The blade slipped across his throat too easily.

For a moment, I expected something—anything. A struggle, a final gasp, maybe a desperate plea for mercy. But the man simply stumbled, fingers clawing at the open wound as red gushed down his chest.

His body slumped forward onto the wooden dock, dark blood pooling around his twitching hands.

I stood there, dagger in hand, feeling the warm liquid drip onto my fingers.

…I just killed someone.

It wasn’t like before—with the wolf. This was different. This was a man, a person.

My stomach twisted, bile rising up my throat.

I’m no different from them.

The assassins who killed my family. The mercenaries who slaughtered without question. The bandits who treated life like it was disposable.

I just did the same thing.

My hands shook as I swallowed hard, trying to keep myself from throwing up. My mask felt tight, suffocating. For a second, I thought about running. Just leaving this entire mission behind and getting as far away from this ship as possible.

But then I saw it.

The purple glow hovering above the dead man’s body.

It pulsed softly, drifting above him like a dying ember.

Necromancy.

I had a choice.

I could leave him here to rot, let his death be nothing more than another stain on the already blood-soaked docks of Cradena.

Or I could give his death meaning.

I took a breath and brush my fingers on the orb.

The purple glow sank into the corpse.

The body twitched.

A low, guttural snarl rumbled from the newly dead man's throat as his skin darkened, turning black like the abyss itself. His pupils vanished, leaving only two glowing violet lights in his hollow sockets. The gash in his throat sealed itself, but the scar remained—a twisted reminder of what I had done.

His scimitar clattered to the dock as he rose to his feet.

I stared up at him, chest tightening.

Is this really okay? Am I really okay with this?

I clenched my fists.

I don't have a choice.

This world doesn’t care about morality. The people who took my family’s lives didn’t hesitate. And the bastards on this ship sure as hell won’t either.

I pulled my mask tighter over my face and pointed at the ship.

"Kill them all."

The undead lurched forward, each step heavier than the last as he moved towards the wooden ramp leading up to the ship.

At first, there was silence.

Then, screams.

Steel clashed against steel. Flesh was torn apart. Panic. Chaos.

The guards inside had no idea what the hell was happening. One of their own had just turned against them, and it was too late for them to figure out why.

I took the chance. Moving quickly, I dashed up the ramp, slipping past the carnage as my undead guard slaughtered everything in his path.

No one even noticed me.

I slipped inside the ship’s interior, heart pounding.

It was worse than I expected.

Cages. Dozens of them. Lining the walls of what should have been the captain’s quarters. Children inside, some barely older than three or four. Some human. Some demi-human. Some elves.

A few were crying, others just stared blankly, their eyes void of emotion.

And at the center of it all—

The nobleman and the slave dealer, standing over a desk piled with documents and gold.

The captain of the ship, the bastard in charge of all this, drew his cutlass the moment he saw me.

I had no time to react before he swung at me.

I barely dodged, the blade missing my head by inches. My heartbeat slammed in my ears as I jumped back, gripping my dagger tight.

The man lunged again, his movements quick and brutal. His eyes were wild, the kind of man who had killed more times than he could count.

Shit—he’s fast!

I didn’t hesitate. Ventocaptura.

A gust of wind shot forward, hitting him square in the chest. He stumbled, his balance thrown. That was all I needed.

I surged forward, jumping onto his back before he could recover. My dagger plunged into his shoulder, but the man roared in rage, throwing his entire weight back against the wooden wall.

Pain shot through my spine, knocking the breath out of me. I gritted my teeth and twisted the dagger, feeling it cut deeper into flesh.

The captain let out a choked gasp, his struggles weakening.

I pulled the dagger out—then drove it back in.

Warm blood splattered onto my clothes. Onto my mask. Onto my hands.

The man finally collapsed, his body twitching before going still.

The room was dead silent.

Except for the ragged breathing of the nobleman.

I turned to him.

The bastard was trembling, his fine clothes stained with sweat.

I stepped forward. He flinched.

"You're from Eryndor, aren't you?" My voice was cold.

The noble shook his head furiously. "I—I don’t know what you’re talking about—!"

I grabbed his collar, slamming him against the wooden desk. "Who ordered the attack on the Lachius family?"

His face drained of color.

I could see the moment he realized who I was.

"Pl—please, I swear, I—I had nothing to do with that—!"

I pressed the dagger against his throat.

He choked on his own fear. "The order—it—it came from the crown! From King Martin Aikahn!"

Something inside me snapped.

The screams from the ship’s interior had stopped. I knew what that meant. My undead soldier had finished his work.

This noble—this disgusting waste of life—was whimpering like a child.

I leaned in. "You're filth. You prey on children. You steal their futures and sell them like cattle. And now you beg for your own worthless life?"

For a brief second, I felt something… wrong.

Like a part of me was fading.

Like I was losing something I could never get back.

I ignored it.

With one swift motion, I sliced his throat.

Blood poured onto the desk, staining the documents that recorded the lives they had stolen.

I finally turned to the cages.

Some children were crying. Others were frozen, too terrified to move.

I took a breath.

"...You're free."

I moved forward, breaking the first cage open.

Then the next.

And the next.

***

The children are free.

I stand there, gripping the bars of the last cage as I watch them scatter. Some run, their bare feet slapping against the wooden deck, desperate to get as far away as possible. Others limp, weak and malnourished, barely able to move.

I wait.

The ship is silent now. No more screaming. No more fighting. No more sobbing.

One by one, the children disappear.

And then—I am alone.

The salty sea air does little to mask the overwhelming stench of blood.

I exhale, my breath shaky.

Slowly, I turn my gaze back to the bodies lying at my feet.

The nobleman.
The slave dealer.

Both lifeless. Both gone.

For a moment, I just stare at them. The dim lantern light flickers, casting long shadows over their motionless forms.

My grip on my dagger tightens.

I’ve come this far... It’s too late to run.

I swallow down the bile rising in my throat.

With a silent whisper of mana, I cast Aquablade—a thin, razor-sharp layer of water coats my dagger’s edge.

It’s the highest-level spell I’ve ever used. An intermediate spell. More than enough for what I’m about to do.

I take a step forward and kneel beside the nobleman’s corpse.

Then—I cut.

The blade slices through flesh, tendons, and bone with terrifying ease. The wet, sickening sound of it lodges itself into my skull. I force myself not to look away, even as nausea twists my insides into knots.

The nobleman’s head separates from his shoulders.

For a moment, I don’t move.

I just… hold it.

The weight of it feels heavier than it should. Or maybe that’s just the weight of my actions sinking in.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t—

I swallow hard and stand, forcing my legs to move.

As I step through the ship’s corridors, the full extent of the carnage unfolds before me.

Bodies.

Some slumped against the walls. Others collapsed on the bloodstained floor.

All dead.

All because of me.

I exhale sharply through my nose, shoving the thought aside.

Then—near the exit—I see him.

The undead soldier.

He stands there, still as a statue, waiting.

His skin—once tan—now black as the abyss. His eyes glow a dim violet, empty of anything resembling humanity.

For the first time, I really look at him.

I don’t even know this man’s name... Yet, I made him submit to me.

A sick feeling claws its way up my throat.

What kind of monster am I, anyway?

I lift my hand, palm open. “You can go now.”

The undead soldier’s body dissolves into a thick, swirling black mist—vanishing as though he had never existed.

And just like that—he’s gone.

I step out onto the dock.

The fog is thicker now, rolling in waves over the water. But despite the late hour, the streets of Cradena aren’t empty.

A crowd has formed.

Men, women, even children—all staring.

Some whisper, others just stand there wide-eyed.

And I know why.

A lone figure, stepping off a ship, soaked in blood, holding a severed head.

A child, masked and cloaked, emerging from a place of slaughter.

I tighten my grip on the nobleman’s head, forcing myself to move forward.

Don’t let them see you hesitate.

I weave through the crowd. People part like the sea, stepping away as I pass.

The murmur of voices follows me—soft at first, then growing louder.

"Who is that?"
"Is that a kid?"
"What the fuck happened on that ship?"

I keep walking.

Through the damp streets, past the flickering street lamps, the overwhelming stench of fish and smoke thick in the air.

And finally—

I push open the door to the bar.

Laughter, the clinking of glasses, the heavy scent of booze and unwashed bodies—the usual filth of Cradena.

But as I step inside—

Everything stops.

A few drunken men pause mid-drink, their eyes fixating on the bloody figure standing at the entrance. Others—the more sober ones—straighten up, their expressions shifting from amusement to cautious curiosity.

I step forward.

My boots echo against the wooden floor as I cross the room. The severed head in my grasp drips onto the floorboards, leaving a crimson trail in my wake.

I reach the counter.

Torak is there.

The dwarf blinks, eyes flickering between me and the bloodstained mess I’ve become.

A thick, heavy silence fills the room.

And then—I speak.

"Listen up."

My voice cuts through the tension like a guillotine.

"My name is Ozymandias."

I let them see me. Small, young—but standing in a room full of killers without an ounce of fear.

"Etch it into your fucking skulls. Burn it into your memories. Spread it through this city like wildfire."

I lift the severed head by the hair, letting it drip onto the floor.

"This is what happens to those who prey on the weak."

The room is dead silent.

The men who were laughing before? Not anymore.

Some exchange glances, shifting in their seats. Others grip their weapons just a little tighter.

They understand. They feel it.

A storm has entered Cradena.

And his name is Ozymandias.

I turn back to Torak.

He stares at me, wide-eyed, his fingers twitching on the counter.

"Connect me with that girl’s father."

My fingers press into the wood, knuckles white.

"I want my five thousand gold. Tonight."