Three days had passed since Diomede left the farm he once called home. Now, he stood atop a gentle hill, overlooking the riverside village of Blue Stream — a name given by the youngest child of the village's founder, Cage Kain. At five years old, Cage had confused a river for a stream, and the name had stuck.
The evening sky draped itself over the village in soft shades of blue and pink, blending like a watercolor painting on a canvas. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of wildflowers mixed with the fresh water nearby. For a moment, the peaceful scene seemed untouched by the troubles Diomede carried.
Strangely, the village buzzed with unexpected life for its small size. Curious, Diomede made his way down the hill and into the village. He stopped a weathered man with a crooked grin and missing teeth. "Which way to the tavern?" Diomede asked.
The man chuckled, pointing down a dusty street. "It's called Pinky Toe."
Diomede raised an eyebrow.
The man laughed again, showing gaps where teeth once were. "Name's from the owner bein' born without pinky toes!"
Perplexed, Diomede made his way to Pinky Toe. The tavern's wooden sign creaked softly in the evening breeze.
Inside, the low murmur of voices blended with the crackle of the fireplace. Several figures sat scattered across the room, their faces shadowed and worn from time. Diomede slid onto a stool at the bar, his back to the crowd.
From behind a curtain emerged the bartender, a stout man with a bushy beard and twinkling eyes. As he tied his apron, he greeted Diomede warmly, "Ah, another new face. We've had more newcomers lately than usual."
Without missing a beat, the bartender began pouring a drink. Diomede raised a hand, stopping him. "No ale. No beer. Just water."
The bartender smiled knowingly. "I figured as much. Clean water... and answers, eh? That's what most travelers here want."
Diomede eyed the glass: clear, cold, and pure — far better than he expected.
"How'd you know?" Diomede asked.
"Many adventurers pass through here. Most ask for water first, then the rumors. They usually pay up too," the bartender replied with a grin. "But by the look of you... I'm guessing the coin's tight. Your gear's seen better days, and you smell like you've been through hell."
Diomede smirked, then leaned forward. "What do you know about attacks by the holy knights of Umar?"
The bartender's jovial smile vanished. He leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper. "Whatever's driven you to ask, let it go. Those knights aren't to be trifled with — especially now, with war brewing against the Boarkar Lords."
"War with the Boarkar?" Diomede echoed.
"Yes," the bartender said gravely. "Some say the Boarkar carve through the Dyken and Nesfundur lands seeking more territory. Others blame the Blood Tusks' uprising stirring rebellion among them."
Diomede absorbed this, realizing how much the world had changed since his quiet days on the farm.
The bartender gripped his shoulder firmly. "Please, lad, steer clear of questions about the knights. They protect us from worse threats."
Diomede removed the man's hand and looked around the tavern. "Why?" he asked. "Because the holy knights of Umar are sitting right here?"
The room fell into stunned silence. Slowly, the patrons rose, their forms shifting and armor glinting under the firelight — golden plates and polished weapons revealed beneath cloaks and worn clothing.
A young knight with short blond hair drew his sword, stepping forward. "I don't know the reason for your questions, but your tone carries threat. Time for you to leave, stranger."
Diomede finished his water, standing tall. He gave the knights a steady once-over, noting their youth — barely twenty, maybe less.
"I'm not leaving," he said. "And I'd like you to make me."
The knights tensed, weapons ready. Slowly, they closed in, surrounding Diomede. He tapped the twin axes at his belt, turning to the blond knight at the front.
"When this starts, forgive me — I haven't fought in a long time, and I'm rusty," Diomede said flatly.
The knights wavered, weapons poised but hesitant. Diomede's voice rang clear, emotionless and cold.
"When I draw my weapons, I intend to kill my enemies. Are you prepared to be my enemy?"
Their armor rattled as uncertainty swept through them. The blond knight yelled for an attack — but no one moved. Slowly, weapons clattered to the floor. All but the blond knight fled.
Still trembling, the young knight gripped his sword tight. Diomede approached, towering over him, and with a casual slap, knocked the weapon from his hand.
"Don't be ashamed of fear," Diomede said. "It's what makes a fighter strong. Pain warns you of damage. Fear is your body's alarm when you're outmatched."
He kicked the swords on the floor. "But to overcome that alarm... takes courage. And not pissing yourself facing someone like me — that's rare."
The bartender, finally recovering from shock, stumbled and spilled water on the floor.
Diomede sat and faced the knight. "You have heart and conviction. But I fear they're misplaced, serving an unworthy order and kingdom. I hope your morals are your own."
The knight stared at his sword, fear etched deep in his eyes. Then, with sudden desperation, he charged and stabbed Diomede in the chest.
In shock, the knight met Diomede's gaze — cold as midwinter.
Diomede calmly withdrew the blade, wiped it clean, and handed it back. The knight, stunned, didn't move. Diomede set the sword beside him.
"I did say you'd never faced anything like me," he said quietly.
Turning, Diomede poured another glass of water.
The knight slowly rose, sword sheathed, shame weighing on his shoulders. "You could've killed us all in an instant," he murmured.
"Yes," Diomede replied, setting down his drink.
The knight left, defeated. Outside, fellow knights ran up with reinforcements.
"Clayton, what happened? Did you kill the stranger?" one asked.
"No," Clayton replied, gathering himself. "His blood wasn't worth it."
The knights looked confused.
"Then what happened?" another pressed.
Clayton shrugged, leading them through town. "I spared him. Just an old drunk trying to live like the glory days."
The knights mocked the stranger's name and skills.
"Clayton's the best swordsman here. That old man never stood a chance."
Reaching the barracks, surprised knights welcomed the group back, singing Clayton's praises. Questions about missing weapons went unanswered, but a knight mentioned the bartender would return them.
Yet, Clayton's mind raced. Who was that man? Where had he come from? How could he fight like that?
Before answers came, the barracks shook violently. A massive tree crashed through the roof, crushing dozens of knights beneath.
A guttural roar echoed as a Gultonk — a towering beast with twisted black and brown teeth, reeking of decay and draped in animal skulls — burst through the wall, killing more knights.