A Few Hours Before Sunset
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long fingers of gold and amber across the dense forest that bordered the village's northern edge. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint, acrid tang of chemicals drifting from the hidden drug farm nestled among the trees.
Two figures moved like shadows through the underbrush, their steps silent, their eyes sharp. They were professionals—trained to observe without being seen, to act without leaving a trace. Their bodies moved in sync, barely disturbing a single leaf or snapping a twig. Every breath was calculated, every glance measured.
The farm's defenses—or lack thereof—brought quiet amusement to the scouts. Sloppy didn't begin to describe it. One guard lounged against a tree, cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling lazily into the canopy. Another had slumped over, half-asleep, head bobbing with each labored breath. Their patrols were a joke, their awareness nonexistent.
If we wanted to… One of the scouts thought, exchanging a silent look with his partner. They both knew it—they could eliminate every guard here in under five minutes. But that wasn't their mission.
Their orders were clear: observe, report, nothing more.
Their organization did not tolerate deviations. No improvisation. No personal heroics. The rules were carved into them like scripture:
Don't be a hero. Don't act without orders. Do your job—no less, no more.
And they obeyed.
After thirty minutes of methodical circling, they'd confirmed what they needed to. No traps, no reinforcements, no real threat. Just carelessness and complacency.
The scouts exchanged a final glance before melting back into the forest, their presence vanishing with the deepening hues of dusk.
The wind shifted. Smoke curled faintly in the distance—too weak to notice now, but soon, it would rise.
And with it, chaos.
At the Same Time
Jenkins moved through the village like a panther in a den of rats—his steps light, his gaze sharp. The huts that lined the dirt paths were nothing more than patched-together remnants of better days, their rotting wood and crumbling stone whispering stories of neglect. The people who lived here were just as worn—hollow-eyed, bone-thin, and always watching. Jenkins didn't belong here, and both he and the villagers knew it.
After asking a few carefully worded questions, Jenkins was directed to a hut that looked no different from the rest. The door was warped and splintered, barely hanging on its hinges. He knocked three times—slow, deliberate.
The response was swift.
The door creaked open, revealing a hulking man whose presence filled the doorway. He was bald, with a bandaged eye socket where his right eye should've been, and a face carved by violence and time. Scars crisscrossed his cheeks and brow like war medals. His thick lips were set in a permanent frown, and though his frame was wrapped in a layer of fat, the way he moved screamed muscle underneath. One arm remained behind his back.
Jenkins didn't need to guess what was in that hand.
"Who the hell are you," the man growled, "and what do you want from me?"
Jenkins smiled casually and raised his hands, palms outward. "Easy. I'm not here to cause trouble—just here to talk business."
The man narrowed his remaining eye, scanning Jenkins like a butcher judging a cut of meat. After a tense pause, he grunted and stepped aside. "Come in. But keep your hands where I can see 'em."
The inside of the hut was cramped and poorly lit. Smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the thick scent of sweat, tobacco, and something more sour—old blood, maybe. Jenkins remained standing.
"Just to make sure I've got the right man," Jenkins said, voice steady but low, "you're Adam, aren't you?"
The one-eyed man didn't answer immediately. He turned his back to Jenkins and moved to a small table cluttered with old tools and a rusted lamp. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."
The man nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving Jenkins. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."
"Jenkins," he replied, his smile never wavering. "I'm a gang leader."
Adam raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Gangs have changed since I retired."
Jenkins shrugged. "Like I said, I'm here on business. I want to discuss—"
Adam cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "Drop the act," he snapped. "That fake smile might fool others, but not me. Acting used to be my bread and butter, kid. Get to the point."
Jenkins' grin faded, replaced by a cold, calculated stare. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and tossed a coin toward Adam.
Adam caught it instinctively. His expression shifted from irritation to alarm as he turned the coin over in his palm, examining the symbol etched into its copper surface—two black scimitars crossing through the eyes and mouth of a skull.
"The Dark Scimitar," Adam muttered, almost under his breath. He looked up, his one good eye narrowing. "What's an organization like yours doing in a place like this?"
Jenkins didn't mince words. "We're expanding into the Donovas Marquisate. This village is our entry point."
Adam leaned back, mind racing. "And you came to me because...?"
"We don't necessarily need your help," Jenkins said flatly. "We just need you to stay out of our way."
Adam chuckled dryly. "So, you know about my deal with Diggen." He paused, then sighed. "Fine. The deal's not worth going up against the Dark Scimitar."
Jenkins gave a satisfied nod. As he turned to leave, he asked, "Any tips on who I should talk to next?"
Adam studied him for a moment. He knew exactly what Jenkins was after—the few people in the village who might oppose the takeover.
Leaning back in his chair, Adam's expression turned thoughtful. "If you're talking about the other retired assassins, most of them will fall in line. They know better than to cross your kind. But there's one you should keep an eye on—Brenda. She's… different."
Jenkins raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
Adam smirked. "She's sleeping with Diggen. Not many people know it, but whether it's love or just pleasure, she won't sit quietly if something happens to him."
Jenkins gave a faint nod, mentally filing the name away. "Good to know."
He thanked Adam and exited the hut. The village streets were quiet, lit only by the dim glow of torches. As Jenkins made his way through the narrow paths, two scouts emerged from the shadows and approached him. They gave their report—brief, precise, and troubling.
As he listened, a plan began to take shape in his mind. Slowly, a predatory smile spread across his face.
Thirty minutes later, Jenkins stood before his assembled crew in a clearing deep in the woods. The men gathered around him were a rough mix of hardened veterans and eager recruits, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Jenkins' voice was calm, measured—but every word carried weight. "Here's what we're going to do."
"There's been a change," he began. "We're moving on the drug farm tonight. Our enemy doesn't know we're here, and the farm is an easy target. Any questions?"
One of the men raised his hand. "You said that we should deal with the old timers in the village first"
Jenkins smirked. "Only one of them is really an ally with Diggen—Brenda. The others are just here for business. We'll offer them a better deal, and they'll fall in line."
He paused, his eyes glinting with malice. "But burning the farm isn't our only objective. Brenda is Diggen's weakness. So let me ask you something, boys…" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "Who wants some pussy tonight?"
The men exchanged glances, some grinning, others looking confused. Jenkins clarified with a chilling smile. "While the farm burns, we'll pay Brenda a visit. You can have your fun with her before we finish the job. Just don't get too carried away."
Laughter erupted from the group, a dark, guttural sound that echoed through the trees. Jenkins' men were ready for action, their excitement palpable.
Jenkins lifted his hand silencing his men and said, "Tonight we will send our first message to Diggen and his dogs, a message written with fire, blood, and semen"
His statement filled the place with mocking and sinister laughter again.