The Harsh Reality

The man collapsed backward, his grip on the woman’s wrist finally loosening as he crashed to the ground. The woman staggered, almost falling herself, but I caught her just in time. She was trembling—her breath shallow, her skin clammy. I could feel her pulse fluttering wildly like a trapped bird.

Behind me, the drunkard’s companions shouted in surprise, one of them stepping forward, but Sebas was already between us. His hand remained on the man’s arm, and with an almost imperceptible twist, he sent the would-be attacker crumpling to his knees, gasping in pain.

The onlookers, who had initially only murmured, now openly whispered and pointed.

I ignored them. My focus was on the woman. She was young, maybe in her early twenties, with tangled hair and bruises blooming on her wrist where the drunkard had gripped her.

The woman staggered free, but instead of thanking me, she flinched away, her eyes wide with terror. She shrank back as if I were about to hit her too.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said softly, stepping back to give her space.

But she didn’t move closer. Her trembling only worsened, her gaze darting wildly between me, Sebas, and the growing circle of onlookers.

They’re afraid… of me.

Not because they knew who I was. Not because of my armor or strength. But because in this place, help wasn’t free. Kindness was rare. And more often than not, it came with a price—or a trap.

Sebas’s quiet voice cut through the murmurs. “My lord, we should move on. The mayor awaits.”

The mayor. Of course. That was why I’d come here in the first place. To confront him about the neglect, the corruption, the decay I was seeing firsthand. But this scene—this woman’s terror—seared itself into my mind, deeper than any speech or accusation I could prepare.

I turned back to the woman. “Do you have someone you trust? Somewhere safe to go?”

She hesitated, then whispered, “N-no… I… I’ll manage…”

Her voice was brittle. Her eyes darted past me, toward the alleys and shadows.

“Sebas,” I said quietly, “find someone to escort her home safely.”

He inclined his head and moved to speak with a few bystanders who lingered cautiously at the edge of the scene. Eventually, a hesitant older woman stepped forward. She glanced at me warily, but Sebas assured her quietly, and together they guided the young woman away.

As they left, I stared after them, my jaw tightening.

The drunkard groaned from the ground, his companions helping him up. One of them spat on the dirt in front of me. “You’ll regret this, stranger. This is how it’s always been here.”

Without a response, I turned and strode toward the mayor’s residence, my armor creaking softly with each determined step. Sebas followed silently at my side.

The weight of what I’d just witnessed settled heavily on my shoulders.

This is what the town has become. This is what the mayor has allowed. This is what I now must manage. My responsibility...

And it was up to me to change it.

***

The crowd dispersed slowly, but their eyes lingered. Some stared in stunned silence, others with veiled hostility. No one thanked me. No one even acknowledged that what I did was right.

Their silence said it all.

“Come, Sebas,” I said, breaking away from the scene. “Let’s go.”

We resumed our walk through the town, but something had shifted. The buildings seemed smaller now, as if hunched in shame. Walls cracked from age and neglect leaned against each other like drunkards. Roofs sagged. Rot claimed the woodwork, moss bloomed along crumbling stone.

The further we walked, the worse it became. Children sat barefoot near corners, faces smudged, eyes dull. One of them eyed the pouch on my waist—not with curiosity, but calculation. 

A few steps later, I saw two women arguing over what looked like moldy bread. A small crowd had gathered, but no one intervened. Even the baker, behind the stall where the bread had fallen, didn’t bother to reclaim it. He just sat slumped against the wall, arms folded, a bitter scowl on his face.

“What happened to this place…” I muttered under my breath.

Sebas walked beside me, hands clasped behind his back, unreadable as always.

“Decay,” he said simply. “Neglect breeds rot. This town has not had a leader for a long time. Not one who cared.”

I caught sight of a sign hanging crookedly above a closed shop. “Healer’s Supplies”, its windows shattered, shelves inside empty and gathering dust. No potions. No herbs. No help.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a man limping toward the alley with a bloodied cloth wrapped around his leg. No one offered aid.

“What about the mayor?” I asked, my voice low.

Sebas’s expression barely shifted. “He remains comfortably within his walls, as he always has. His hands are clean, but only because they’ve never touched the dirt.”

My hands curled into fists.

We passed a small temple next. The doors were shut, the incense pots long since dry. An old priest swept the steps, but with the same hollow gaze I’d seen in everyone else. Like he was performing a ritual for a god who had long since left.

A whisper reached my ears as we passed a pair of shopkeepers leaning against a post.

“Another self-righteous idiot in armor,” one of them said.

“Probably just trying to impress someone. He’ll disappear like the rest.”

I kept walking.

The main road widened as we neared the mayor’s estate, and the atmosphere changed. The rot of the outer town gave way to pretentious order... trimmed hedges, clean cobblestones, and an almost insulting neatness.

I hated it.

The filth and despair we had just walked through clung to me like soot. The woman’s hollow eyes. The laughter of the guards who did nothing. The drunk’s mocking sneer. It all burned inside me.

And now… these idiots.

Two guards stood at the gates of the mansion, posturing like they were guarding a king’s treasure. Their uniforms were tailored and spotless, a sharp contrast to the dirt-caked faces we’d passed minutes ago.

One of them stepped forward and looked me over, unimpressed.

“Hold it right there,” he barked. “State your business. This isn’t the part of town for... riffraff.”

Sebas said nothing, waiting. I clenched my fists.

“We’re here to see the mayor,” I replied flatly.

The other guard scoffed. “You? What, you think just anyone in painted armor gets an audience? Move along, black tin can. This ain’t a costume contest.”

The heat inside me flared.

Literally.

A low hiss whispered from under my collar. The familiar tingle spread from my neck as the ghostly flames roared to life. I could feel them licking at the inside of my armor, responding to my fury. My helm stayed in place, but the space where my neck met the armor glowed faintly... an eerie, blue-white line of fire.

Sebas shifted slightly beside me but didn’t intervene. Not yet.

I took a slow step forward.

“Say that again,” I growled, the voice echoing slightly inside the helm.

The flames swelled with my anger, the temperature rising beneath my chestplate. It wasn’t painful, not to me... but I could feel the metal warming, almost warping from the heat.

The guards tensed, instinctively reaching for their weapons.

“Back off,” one warned. “This is your last—”

Sebas moved then, like mist through flame. Calm. Fluid. He placed a gloved hand gently on my pauldron.

“Sir,” he said softly, voice like water on fire. “Allow me.”

He stepped forward and, with practiced grace, withdrew a scroll from within his coat—sealed in green wax and embossed with the crest of our manor.

The guards’ eyes widened. The seal wasn’t just familiar—it commanded.

“That’s…” one stammered. “That’s the mayor’s seal next to it…”

Sebas nodded once. “A formal summons. Delivered by the lord’s own retainer.”

The guards fumbled over themselves to open the gate, their bravado vanishing like smoke.

“S-sorry! We didn’t know—please, right this way!”

I walked through without a word, the flames still simmering under my skin, the heat making the plates of my armor hiss faintly as they cooled.

They didn’t know who I was.

They still didn’t know.

And yet now, they scrambled.

It made me sick.