As the four gang members made their way back to the village, they walked in silence, each man lost in thought. The boss, especially, was deep in contemplation.
The kid's information was solid… but there are too many loose ends, he mused. Diggen's connection to the commander of Hul Town—that's the real issue. If we take control of the village only to have soldiers march in and purge us, this whole thing will blow up in our faces.
This place didn't pay taxes. It existed in a gray zone—tolerated, but only because someone powerful benefited from it. A noble? A merchant? Someone high up was protecting the village for a reason.
And the key to unraveling it all, he suspected, was Stanley—the loud, unibrowed fat man who screamed every morning like a damn rooster.
And that kid… he's an interesting one. I might just rope him into our cause—he could turn out to be a real asset.
He snickered to himself as he walked away, the thought clearly amusing him.
Meanwhile, inside Stanley's house, the man in question was preparing to head out—an unusual event. His face was gaunt, shadowed by dark circles, and his unibrow knotted in a permanent scowl. Anyone who saw him would know instantly: he was in a foul mood.
Dressed in his usual filthy garb, Stanley stomped out into the village. His heavy footsteps thudded against the dirt path, the stench clinging to him like a curse. Villagers stepped aside at his approach—not just out of fear, but also to avoid the reeking cloud that followed him.
He ignored them all, heading straight toward his destination.
After a few minutes, he arrived at the only true house in the village. Two stories tall and sturdily built from dark timber, it stood in sharp contrast to the collapsing huts around it. Oddly, it had no windows—only a front and back door.
Stanley didn't hesitate. He pounded on the front door like he owned the place.
It swung open almost instantly. A gaunt, ugly-faced man stood on the threshold. He didn't speak, just stepped aside and returned to his seat beside the door like a loyal dog.
Stanley passed without a word and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Shady men loitered in the hallway, barely glancing at him.
At the top, he paused outside a closed door, scowl fading into a more neutral, businesslike mask. Then he pushed it open.
Inside the room were three men.
At the desk sat Diggen—the de facto ruler of the village. A man in his fifties, he had the solid build of a retired mercenary and eyes that were sharp, calculating, and cold. His sleeveless jacket barely contained his bulging arms. Gray streaked his shoulder-length black hair, and a crooked nose hinted at a past filled with violence.
Across from each other on a pair of couches sat Diggen's confidants. On the right: Dan—bald patches, thick mustache, round black eyes, and a soft, pudgy face that masked his lethality. On the left: Teg, known as "the Bull," square-headed and thick-necked, built like a wall of muscle with a buzz cut and a twitchy temper.
Diggen looked up and smirked. "Well, well. Look who finally decided to crawl out of his den. Did we offend you, Stanley? You used to love dropping by for drinks."
Stanley rolled his eyes, but before he could respond, Dan stood up and pinched his nose. "Gods, Diggy, I told you to put in some windows! This fat bastard stinks worse than a dead ogre!"
Without waiting for a response, Dan stormed out of the room.
Stanley stared, mouth slightly open, unsure if he was more offended or relieved.
Teg didn't even look up. He stared at the cards Dan had tossed aside in his rush to leave, his forehead veins twitching. "That coward left 'cause he knew he was gonna lose! Damn it!"
With a curse, he followed Dan out, slamming the door behind him.
Stanley was left standing awkwardly in the silence.
Diggen laughed. "Offended?"
Stanley sighed and dropped into the couch Dan had vacated. "Maybe. Not like you'd do anything about it."
Diggen leaned back, still grinning. "So what brings you here so early? Don't tell me your little brat ran off again."
Stanley's eyes narrowed. "Don't even start. If it weren't for that damn deal I made, I'd have tossed him to the wolves years ago." He paused, then added more seriously, "I've been restless lately. Something's coming. Can you assign someone to watch him?"
Diggen nodded. "Part of the deal, isn't it?" He leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming. "But tell me, Stanley—are you ever going to let me in on who gave you that order?"
Stanley waved a hand dismissively. "Not your business. Trust me, you don't want to get involved with whoever's behind it. I'm only doing it because I like my head attached to my shoulders."
Like hell I will tell you, the last thing I want is you having leverage over me.
Contrary to what he tells everyone, the way Stanley talks about Ethan to Diggen suggests he's hinting at a lucrative deal—just enough to keep Diggen interested, but never enough to make him suspicious.
Stanley's paranoia runs deep; he believes that if Diggen ever learned the truth, he wouldn't settle for a mutual arrangement. He'd use it as leverage—and blackmail him instead.
Diggen didn't push. He was curious, sure—but not enough to invite disaster.
A moment passed in silence before Stanley spoke again.
"I'm not just here about the kid. Got a letter from the merchant. He's coming early this time. Says he's got important news."
That got Diggen's attention.
He straightened slightly. "What kind of news?"
Stanley shook his head. "Didn't say. Just that it's urgent. He'll be here in a few days."
Diggen leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. "Hmm… Maybe it's about the gang that came in recently. Or something from Hul Town. Either way… it might change everything."
He tapped a thick finger on the desk, then muttered, "Better prepare."