in which bandits attack but they actually win for once

During his second month at the soup kitchen, as Topaz poured broth for a soldier, he could only ignore the man’s broken expression for so long. “Good fight today,” Topaz said.

The soldier nodded, taking the soup.

“Tired?”

The soldier nodded, taking a spoon.

“Well, here you go—extra meat.”

“Thanks.”

“If you keep giving it away, the rest of them will have zero meat,” the kitchen girl beside him, Garnet, said.

“Nah. I already requested more.”

She scoffed. “ And you think they’ll listen?”

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t they?”

Not only did they not listen, but Topaz got reprimanded again. He was burning through resources, they said. That he had to ration the food lest they run out of it faster than they already were. That he was no longer a jewel boy, but a peasant. That he had to face reality.

Funny—they all assumed that Topaz’s family had fallen into ruin, which it had, just not in the way they’d expected. If anything, they’d become too successful at exploiting the war for profit; if they ever remembered that family reunions were for warmth and not sabotage, he’d rejoin them. Until then, he’d be fine taking menial jobs of the sort.

Hours later, as Topaz did the dishes on his own—apparently a reprimand had not been enough—he whistled, then sang, then stopped as someone approached him. “If you want extra broth,” he said, “There’s some left on the barrels behind me. Don’t tell them I told you.”

“Thanks. That’s a nice voice you got.”

Topaz grinned.

It was the soldier from earlier. After pouring more broth for himself, rather than leaving, he sat on an empty crate nearby. “Go on, keep singin’. I’ll give you a turtle.”

“...eh?” Then Topaz remembered the name of the local currency. “Ah. No need. Just clap and compliment me once I’m done.”

The soldier did neither. Between songs and sips, he asked, “Why are you a kitchen boy? You got strong eyes. Well, eye.”

Topaz winked with the one that hadn’t been violently stabbed by a sibling. He wore an eyepatch for the other one, mostly because the scar was stupid and ugly.

“Why haven’t you joined us yet?”

“I like it here.” Because it meant no killing.

“What a waste.”

They kept saying that. Waste of what? Potential? Potential for what? Still, Topaz turned to face him as suds slid down his arms.

Encouraged by this, the soldier went on: “Strong arms are easy to get. Strong eyes aren’t, because they mean hope. Hope is what makes us survive. A lot of them give up and tell me, Beryl, please don’t die. And then they do just that. Selfish pieces of shit is what they are.”

Beryl… so he was from the gem villages, too. “Oh, um. My condolences.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll… think about it?”

“You won’t. You’ll let others do the killing for you, let others make peace, then complain about the result. Cuz it’s easier than doing the work.”

To be fair, Topaz’s family excelled at whining. They were never rich enough. It was always someone else’s fault.

“Keep singin’.”

“I will. I just. You kill gods… but also their disciples, right? Some of them get conscripted if they’re from city-states ruled by gods… so in the end, aren’t mortals just killing each other again?”

“They choose which side to fight on.”

Since it was clear that Beryl ignored what conscription entailed, Topaz dropped it after that. He’d been taught that, since energy could not be created or destroyed, true death wasn’t possible. How convenient…

“And even if they can’t, they’ll reincarnate.”

“Of course.”

“That’s why priests pray on the battlefield. They pray for opposing sides, too. No one deserves to stop existing.”

“Not even gods?” Topaz asked.

Beryl shook his head. “No one.”

Hatred made it easy to kill—so Topaz thought. Who could’ve known that it was only a factor? The thought of being reborn beside one’s enemy was almost… beautiful. “Is there any proof that reincarnation is real, though?”

“Obviously. The world would’ve run out of creatures otherwise.”

So Topaz let it drop again.

Others came and went before he could get acquainted, which proved to be a blessing in disguise, because to get attached in a battlefield was akin to self-harm. Still, selfish as it was, Topaz would always hope for the return of those who survived for long enough.

An unimportant amount of time later, as they added thickener to a broth that was little more than salt and water, his co-worker Garnet said, “I think I’ll join them.”

“Oh, dear. Don’t.”

“Don’t you think that it’s selfish to stay here while they fight for us?”

Topaz groaned. “Which of them convinced you?”

“No one, dumbass. It’s just something I’ve been thinking. Recruits keep getting younger, resources thinner, my family’s dead. Will anyone miss me?”

“Me.”

“Will anyone important miss me?”

“Fuck you.” But Topaz laughed. It came out humorless. This could very well be the last time they spoke. “Seriously, fuck you…”

Days later, he joined—it was either that or leaving the army altogether. They could no longer afford a cook. He couldn’t afford to lose a place to belong again.

For decades, he’d lived a life of luxury because his family sold weapons. Did he not have blood on his hands by association? Wasn’t he just letting others die for his sake again?

The imaginary strength in his eyes kept him alive, kept him sane against the first kill and the hundredth, against the death of everyone around him, friend or foe, to a conflict that had long since lost meaning. Still, it did little against loneliness.

“Selfish,” he said as Beryl finally stopped breathing.

And it was.

He could finally rest.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊⊱·✶·⊰₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

With Frell being dead weight thanks to his antics and Alpherson being a family man, Pebble had no option but to drop the stick as Topaz pointed at it, then the floor. The alternative would’ve been to break her no-kill rule.

The bandits were dead—all of them but their puppeteer. “Good,” Topaz said. As he spoke, he held what looked like a piece of chipped metal between his fingers. “I was thinking I’d have to blow up this cave with all of you inside. Follow me. Beryl, stab the woman if she tries anything funny.”

A short, middle-aged man raised a broken lance at her. The worst part of a necromancer’s puppet were always their eyes, half-lidded and unfocused. There was no one in there anymore, sure, but there was a reason why throwing dolls away was harder than an ordinary piece of fabric.

“I said follow me, you dumb fucks.”

The rest of the puppets began to walk. They pushed past Alpherson and Frell as though they weren’t there. “Frell,” Pebble whispered. While scratching his arms, he shook his head, still carried by Alpherson as though he were a bride. Translation: I can’t break his spell right now. Can’t teleport myself to safety. Can’t even heal the allergy away. Awawa.

“...ugh.”

Alpherson was very unsubtly avoiding eye contact. Pebble couldn’t decipher the intention behind it, but it didn’t matter; he was too good to be here in the first place, participating in this stupid, delusional scheme that had failed to consider the “greater good” being worse than the other side.

Lest either of them get hurt, Pebble walked out of the cave, surrounded by people whose bodies were tools, even in death.

As they made their way down the muddy, slimy hill, one of the bandits slipped. With no reflexes or self-preservation, it would’ve dropped like a doll had Topaz not caught her in time. The rest of them walked, unbothered, as he helped her back up. The bandit pushed past him, almost making him stumble, and for a moment, he was a person again.

Soon, however, he was laughing and walking beside them again. “I’m telling you, I hadn’t heard about that legend in decades. Pretty good scam, I’ll admit. It filters anyone with common sense.”

The bandit beside him did not respond.

“What’ll we do with the ransom? I was thinking… I don’t know, I really need a new knife. This one’s getting rusty.” He twirled it between his fingers.

Nothing.

“Right? Talk about a recession indicator—even Saints are scammers now. Next thing you know, they’ll start talking to dead people and kidnapping other scammers for money.”

Pebble grit her teeth. “Easy,” Frell whispered as she reached for her hairpin. “Let’s follow along for now.”

“For how long?” Asked Alpherson.

“Until we figure out who’s behind it. That piece of metal he’s carrying is from a divine blade. Peb? What do you think?”

Absentmindedly, she nodded. As he spoke, Topaz “watched” them above his shoulder, but he did so with the blind eye. The stupid, delusional part of her wished to find meaning in that, but by this point she knew better. Sooner than later, they’d get out of this mess. They’d capture Topaz and send him to jail. They’d capture whoever had given him the god shard. Justice would be served and stuff.

“...Peb?”

“It is. So what? Do I take it?”

“Hmm… I’d like to see who’s behind it, but it’s not like we have time to lose.”

“To lose? So, what, helping them is a waste of time?”

Frell raised his eyebrows. “Them? Oh, you mean the bandits? I thought dead bodies were just objects to you? That the person stops existing once they die?”

“Will you help or not?” She asked. Her tone made him stifle a snort, but she continued anyway. “If you won’t, then don’t bother me.”

“Do allow me to assist you, Saint Pebble,” Alpherson said. “Perilous as our main quest might be, we must not turn a blind eye to evil, for those who do so become accomplices; how fitting it is for a Saint and a god, predisposed to be foes, to cast aside prejudice; how noble a digression it is to save a brigand from his fractured mind.”

Pebble stared at Alpherson.

Frell stared at Alpherson.

Topaz stared at Alpherson.

“Thus I ought to lend my aid—for a broken soul, too, is part of the world. I must thank you for believing in fractured minds: in this day and age, they won’t, for they cannot anymore, for they are not allowed to. By whom, one must wonder?”

“Hey, Alpherson. Sorry to… interrupt, but we’ve arrived.” That was Topaz. “Also, fuck off.”

They’d reached the foot of the mountain (again). Between never-ending rain and plantless cliffs stood a shack with markedly different architecture—wood instead of clay, wide instead of tall, with a triangular roof instead of a flat one.

Despite his dismissal, Topaz stopped talking alone after that. One by one, he herded them inside, both puppets and prisoners. Its main hall had a fireplace, a wooden table with a half-finished card game, and a circle of chairs certain bandits were instructed to sit on. “Try anything funny and I’m blowing this place up,” Topaz said. He looked and sounded like he meant it. “Beryl, take Pebble and Alpherson to the cell. Awawa is coming with me.”

Frell did not take kindly to the nickname, yet when Alpherson took a one-armed fighting stance while the free hand held him, he said, “It’s fine. I’ll go. Pebble.” She’d taken off the hairpin. “It’s fiiine. There are some things I’d like to ask.”

“Yup. So hurry up,” Topaz said, “Or the god of evil will take over again! Oh no!”

Frell could barely walk and Alpherson knew this, which was, ostensibly, why he opted to delete common sense from his brain and hurl Frell towards Topaz. The latter barely managed to catch him, for he tried not to stumble; if he did, he’d land on one of the bandits.

It was as good a time as any to attack, yet Alpherson said, over Frell’s panicked cry, “Let us make haste. After all, Topaz is right: the god of evil looms nigh.”

“What.” But Alpherson joking would be like Frell not being a reckless fool, so Pebble supposed that the legend hadn’t died yet.

Lucky.

Beryl poked the lance at her back until they reached the “cell”, which was just a room with bars made of ice.

Lucky him.

What kind of cushy life could make someone so naive?

The room had a night table and a bed whose covers had kittens sewn into them. As she traced along the patterns of one, Pebble asked, “If the god of evil looms nigh, why give Frell to Topaz in the first place?”

Instead of another soliloquy, she got silence. Alpherson stood by the bars, watching the dead. Those who were told to sit sat. Beryl poked at a wall; so he would continue until told otherwise. It made Pebble’s skin crawl. Topaz had said that he wanted to be an ice specialist, but that obviously had been a lie. If he cared about his friends, why keep them around as weapons? Wouldn’t they be safer in a graveyard?

To rid herself of the increasingly morbid thoughts, Pebble mumbled, “Fine. Don’t answer me. Men always ignore me anyway…”

“Which reminds me,” Alpherson said. “Your taste in men is questionable.”

She should’ve cleared that up when she had the chance… “I’m not… whatever. Sure. Let’s go save Frell before this gets any worse.”

“We shall, but… for now, let’s see if a broken mind can be mended; I believe the god of apples is trying to save Topaz.”

“Frell isn’t…” Pebble trailed off. The disturbing, playfully sadistic version of him came to mind. Back when they were still enemies, as she prepared an ambush, she caught him sharing a piece of bread with a girl he had probably orphaned. That about summed up a god’s morality. “...sure.”

“Let us wait.”

“Why? Isn’t it a waste of time?”

“Would it be a waste of time if Topaz was an ally?” Alpherson asked. “A friend, or a family member? Is a Saint’s duty not to protect the weak?”

Pebble would’ve curled her legs to her knees, but she was soaked and would stain the cute bed covers more than she already had. Like it mattered. “It is.”

“Then let us wait. Please.”

Funny—he’d been a lot less interested in her well-being back when she’d posed as a thief. There was something else at play there, but far from alarming her, it was comforting, almost. He, too, had something to prove. Maybe he also yearned for a world where the bad guys lost, the good guys won, and… no.

No.

Pebble wanted a world where the bad guys became good guys.

But that wasn’t possible. “Five minutes,” she said. “That should be enough to snap Topaz out of it, if that’s what Frell wants.”

Alpherson’s laughter startled her. “Oh, if only it was that easy.”

And just like that, he was a person, too. Pebble found herself toying with the button of her tailcoat. “Once the five minutes are up, if they’re still going at it, we’ll apprehend Topaz. You’ll go for Frell, and I for the puppets.”

“Pardon me?”

“Topaz’s friends,” Pebble corrected. The look Alpherson gave her was neutral, yet it embarrassed her anyway. “...anyway. I’ll start counting now, but if I hear so much as a scream, I’ll go. I wouldn’t say those two are discussing theology over tea.”

“Green or black?”

“...eh. They’re all the same to me.”

“The audacity,” Topaz mumbled as he brewed two cups of green tea. “How about you, Garnet?”

Garnet did not respond.

“Green it is. River?”

River did not respond.

“Sorry, no coffee. That disgusting thing is banned. Here you go, Awawa.”

“Frell,” he corrected as Topaz placed a cup before him. The room was cozy save for the blood on the walls and the torture instruments. While still a bit dizzy, he managed to take a sip. “It’s good… aside from the poison.”

Topaz sat across from him, instructing other bandits to do the same. Frell tried, and failed, to keep a straight face, but a tea party where most guests were dead was too macabre for his taste. “To you, that’s just extra flavoring, isn’t it? I know the demon king thing is a farce, but the mark on your neck is real. I don’t remember there being a god of apples, though.”

Frell could technically call himself that without taking the spot away from anyone else, so he replied, “Some of us aren’t well-known. The weak ones, I mean.”

“Hm. Right. And that rosary? Is it real?”

“Huh?” It’d been centuries since anyone had referred to it as such. Reflexively, Frell reached for it. Even those with good schooling tended to think of rosaries as “collars ancient priests used”. This guy had probably done a good amount of research. “It is.”

“If you are a god and a priest from the age of religion, then you know what I’m about to ask you.”

“It was a common myth at the time, too.” Topaz’s eyes narrowed as soon as Frell said that. “Even archaic magic can’t bring them back. If you know about that… age, then you know what gods really are.”

“Frauds, yeah, but very powerful ones. Listen, just tell me how much you want. My original plan was to pay a different god with the ransom money. This is actually a best case scenario: you get rich, I get my loved ones back.”

“Divinity, money, hope, love… all of that is powerless against death. I’m sorry.”

Topaz’s expression unsettled him; concealed wrath was wrose than the alternative. “Whatever,” he mumbled. “Garnet. Needle.”

“Holy—wait!” Frell reached out to stop her, but it was like pushing a wall. Even without Lou’s… prank… murder attempt… or the seal, he wouldn’t have been able to get her to obey; that without a soul was unbound by divine commands. “Please!”

“Waiting.”

“I-I’ll do it!”

Topaz waited until Garnet had sunk the needle—a giant nail—into Frell’s thigh anyway. “Good,” he said. “Then I suggest that you start before she turns you into a cactus sculpture."