The Not Quite Witch Hunter

"Oi, newcomers gotta pay up, it's the rule around here." the thug leans into my face too close for comfort, "Unless you're looking to get hurt."

Why do I always run into people like these? It's always in the bars as well. Are bars just the natural habitat of these scumbags? Can’t expect much courtesy from the Outskirts I suppose… I'm really not in the mood for this nonsense right now. I spent a month tracking down this elusive Dark Mage, who knows how many people the bastard killed already. 'Phew!' Deep breaths, don't want to botch it now. I need to find that trafficker, he’s my only lead.

"I'll ask nicely once, where can I find Wurn?"

"Dunno." The thug gives a sleazy smile, rubbing his fingers together, "I might recall something if I see some coin."

"Not happening."

"Too bad."

"Are you sure about that?"

The lowlife's grubby hand grips me by the collar, "I've seen guys like you before, acting all tough before-"

'Splat!'

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"

The bar's patrons look at the severed arm in shock. I calmly wipe the blood from my saber, "Feeling like talking now?"

"Like hell I will! You chopped my fucking arm off!" He turns to the rest of the patrons, "Don't let that fucker walk out alive!"

A dozen men stand up, with weapons drawn. One look at this scene and anyone can guess what's about to go down.

No time for this. My revolver clears the coat in one smooth motion, six pulls, six thunderous cracks splitting the air. Bodies crumple before the echoes fade.

Screams erupt. Patrons dive for cover while the remaining goons freeze, staring at their dead. "What are you doing!? He has to reload! Get-"

My saber opens his throat mid-sentence. The rest break from their stupor and charge.

The revolver disappears into its holster as my hand finds a throwing knife. The lead runner takes it in the chest and crashes down. Two more flank from behind, steel rings against steel as I catch their blades. A boot to the kneecap drops one, an elbow to the face staggers the other.

The kneeling thug gasps as my saber punches through his ribs. The blade catches, but refuses to budge. ‘Damn it.’ I release the grip and pivot behind the staggered one, hands finding his skull. One sharp twist. 'Crack!' He collapses like a marionette with severed strings.

'Swish!'

Cold steel cuts the air where my head was a heartbeat ago. I drop low, sweeping the attacker's legs out from under him. A twist to his arm and his shortsword becomes mine. Five rapid exchanges, parry, riposte, counter, thrust, and the last man joins his friends on the blood-slicked floor.

"Now, anyone-"

"What's the meaning of this?"

Oh, come on!

I look to the entrance to see a buff, tattooed bald man with a shirt that barely contains his muscular frame.

"Hey, I'm talking to you. You think you can rough up my boys and get away with everything?"

'Thwish!'

A tiny needle sticks to the bald man's forearm.

"Hah? What was that tiny little needle supposed to do? Sew me a new tattoo?"

The surviving patrons nervously chuckle at the bald man's joke.

"Don't expect an easy death." He plucks out the needle. "You'll be begging for—" Baldy slumps against a table midway through the sentence, but his weight is too great and he ends up shattering it to pieces, collapsing on the ground. "Whot dif u dooth two me?"

‘That tiny needle contains a paralyzing agent. Fight smart, not hard.’

By the time I retrieve my sabre, baldy is already on the ground snoring. Now to interrogate their leader about Wurn's whereabouts… Oh shit, he's the boss around here. Goddammit, I'm running out of time. I need to find Wurn and get the Dark Mage’s location out of him. Who knows if he’s already started making a Pact with Hell.

"You think you can get away with this!? We got the guard in our pockets! You're a wanted man!"

Ah, that guy's been real chatty. Might be able to give me something useful.

"Did you not hear a word I said!? You and your entire family are—"

I remember meeting a sleazy merchant once. Very chatty and irritating, he flaunted his wealth and boasted about how great his supposed connections were. None of that saved him from ending up at the stake, though.

"Oi! Don't ignore me! You're screwed, you know that!? You—"

Doubt he'll reveal anything if I ask politely. Guess I'll have to reveal myself. I take out a badge with a wand and sword crossing, well, a cross, holding it in front of Stumpy's face. "By the authority of the Inquisition, the residents of this town have been found in contempt of the Church's authority and teachings."

"Y-You're an Inquisitor!?"

Everyone in the bar uncomfortably shifts back several inches, trying to worm as far away as possible without me noticing.

'Sigh.' For heaven's sake, why does everyone think- nevermind. "That's right, I'm an Inquisitor acting under the Church's authority. I have shown you all mercy by not dragging you filthy curs to the dungeons." I scrunch my face up to imitate the most intimidating expression I can muster. "If none of you answer, then we'll have a nice little bonfire going tonight."

I lock eyes with Stumpy, who is now quietly shaking on the floor, regretting his life choices. "Let's start over. Where is Wurn?"

"W-Wurn isn't here!"

Are you for real? There's no way scum like him could possibly be this loyal. "Well, where is he?"

"I-I don't know!"

'Click!' I finish reloading my revolver and bring it to his face. "You don't know, or you won't say."

"I swear I'm telling the truth! He hasn't shown himself in the bar the past few days. Been busy on a gig with a shady fellow, but that's all I know!"

"Is that so?"

"Yes!"

'Bang!'

His body falls limp to the floor. No point in handing him over to the guards. If he's telling the truth, he'll probably be let out the next day with just a slap on the wrist.

I look around the bar. Not a single patron volunteers to come forth. Why is everyone like this? Sure, an Inquisitor tortures a few people and holds an occasional burning every now and then. But as a different branch member of the Inquisition, I can't help but feel slighted by the consequences of my colleagues' actions.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Not looking good, anyone else? If not, then you can all burn with him."

Though that's not to say I can't profit off the reputation they've built.

"Now, who wants to be next-"

"The Pits! He's in the Pits!" The portly bartender screams at the top of his lungs.

"What exactly are the Pits?"

"T-they're… um…"

Cold, oily sweat runs down his face. I bring the gun barrel to his face, “They’re what?”

"T-they're where we dispose of… u-unwelcome visitors…"

"Basically, where you dump the corpses of all your victims and where you planned to dispose of my own body?"

"No! We would never! Please spare us!"

I look around the bar. Cutthroats, thieves, conmen, hardly anyone who is worth sparing. Yet I'm running against the clock.

“There won’t be a next time.”

I sheathe my weapons and pull down the brim of my hat, making my exit. Nobody fool or brave enough tries to stop me. Three seconds after the doors close, I can hear the bar erupting into chatter. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your foul lot won’t hurt another soul ever again.

I take out a flask swirling with orange flames. They looked just like the ones from ten years ago. My memories are incredibly hazy, but I could still recall the screams, though they no longer haunt me. I wonder if I had a fraction of the strength I have now, could I have saved everyone back then?

Tossing the flask before the bar, the flames quickly get to work consuming everything in their path. "If there's one innocent man in there, may the heavens spare your soul."

Shortly after, screams of the sinners cry out from the bar. I do not feel a shred of remorse for them. There are many tragedies in the world, and I have grown used to them. Hopefully, one person out there can rest safer with these vermin cleansed.

Amidst the raging flames, one of the patrons manages to crawl out of the bonfire. Half his body is practically ash. He manages to squeeze out a "Why…" before collapsing dead.

"Like I said, there won't be a next time."