The knight snapped the diary shut with a soft thunk that somehow echoed through the wrecked tavern. "That," he announced, dusting ash from the battered cover, "concludes tonight's lesson on the absurd majesty of magic."
Dead silence.
A gang member finally whispered, "Wasn't he… supposed to tell us a story?"
Another voice hissed back, "Yeah. That was… that was just him asking weird questions."
The knight turned his helmet toward them, visor hiding everything but the sly curl of his white-bearded grin. "I will continue the story," he said pleasantly. "Tomorrow. It's late."
A collective blink. Then a ripple of disbelief spread through the room. "Tomorrow?" someone croaked.
The word traveled like a plague. "Tomorrow?" "Did he say tomorrow?""You mean we sat here for almost an hour after being beaten for what half a story?"
Several gang members sagged with audible sighs of relief at least he was stopping.But as the meaning settled in, faces tightened in horror.
"Wait," muttered a burly woman near the back, "does that mean… we have to come back?"
The knight rested an elbow on his knee, visor tilting just enough to catch the lantern light. "Of course. A tale worth hearing demands endurance. You'll all return tomorrow night."
A shudder ran through the room. They'd survived the explosions, the flying leaders, the sudden philosophy but another round?
One of the younger gang members whispered what everyone else was thinking: "…We have to suffer again?"
The knight's grin widened beneath the shadowed helm. "Indeed," he said, rising to his full, battered height. "And that is only the beginning."
A dry cough came from the doorway. The scrawny tavern owner the same poor soul the knight had ordered to drag the unconscious leaders inside shuffled forward, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He stopped dead when he looked up at the jagged, star-lit hole in his roof.
"Uh… about the roof," he said carefully, eyes flicking from the splintered beams to the armored intruder. "Who's… who's paying to fix that?"
The knight turned toward him with the slow creak of battered plates. "All of them can fix it," he said, gesturing broadly to the gang. "Send me the bill."
The owner brightened a fraction. "It'll cost quite a bit," he ventured, almost hopeful.
The knight nodded solemnly. Then, with deliberate ceremony, he reached to his belt, unfastened a worn leather pouch, and let a single coin drop into the owner's palm.
A lone copper clinked against the man's skin. Silence fell like an anvil. Every gang member blinked.
"…Is that… one copper?" someone muttered.
Another whispered, "That's… not even enough for a nail."
Sein stared at the coin, then at the knight.
The legendary hero of Soloris… is broke?
A thought passed like wildfire through the room.
The Hero Knight is penniless.
The knight gave a brisk nod, oblivious or uncaring of their looks. "That should suffice," he said. "Good craftsmanship is priceless, but roofs are not." The tavern owner mouthed something that might have been a protest, then thought better of it. He simply pocketed the coin with the slow resignation of a man who valued his life over his savings.
The knight clapped his gauntlets together. "Excellent. Tomorrow night, then."
The tavern owner's eye twitched. A vein pulsed so hard on his temple it looked ready to burst."One copper?" he said, voice climbing. "That's not enough for a bandage, let alone a new roof!"
The knight tilted his head, visor catching the lamplight. "Hmm. A fair point."He turned, surveying the crowd until his gaze settled on the heap of sleeping gang leaders."This one looks prosperous," he said, pointing at the bald man with only a pair of wrinkled pants and a belly like a prize hog. "Let him pay."
As if jolted by a lightning spell, the man's eyes snapped open. "Wha—HEY!" He scrambled upright, rubbing his head. "Why me?"
The tavern owner folded his arms. "This man already has a tab the size of the river and haven't paid a single coin, Bron."
Bron's piggish face flushed crimson. "You dare! You dare accuse Bron, leader of the Laundry Gang, of unpaid debts?!"
The knight didn't move, but the temperature in the room dropped a degree.Bron felt it first: a pressure at his back, cold and heavy, like the breath of a predator.He turned and froze.
Through the narrow visor, a gleam of perfect square white teeth smiled at him.
"A warrior," the knight said, voice low and velvet-smooth, "must never leave a debt unsettled."
It was a statement, but it rolled across the tavern like a threat.
The tavern owner raised an eyebrow. "You heard the hero."
Bron opened his mouth to protest, but his eyes flicked to the knight's sword.Even in the dim light the blade's edge caught a wicked shimmer, and Bron's mind replayed the memory of flying head-first through the tavern roof like a human missile.
He swallowed hard.
Slowly, with the air of a man attending his own funeral, Bron pulled a bulging purse from beneath his sagging waistband.His hand trembled as he dumped every last coin into the owner's outstretched palm.
"T-take it," he muttered, eyes glossy with reluctant tears.
The knight clapped Bron on the shoulder, the sound ringing like a judge's gavel. "Excellent. A warrior who pays his dues is a man of honor."
Bron whimpered. The tavern owner weighed the purse, grinning for the first time that night. Coins clinked into the owner's pouch, a metallic melody that sang of Bron's humiliation.
From the back of the room came a muffled snicker."The mighty has fallen," someone whispered.
Another voice joined in, barely suppressed. "Yeah… the great bald Bron, slayer of unpaid tabs."
A ripple of quiet laughter spread like a guilty breeze.
Bron's head shot up, veins bulging. "WHO SAID BALD?!"
The tavern froze.
A gang member with long black hair and broken glasses behind a table tried to sink lower, as if the floorboards might swallow him."I-I meant bold," he stammered. "BOLD Bron. Totally said bold."
Bron's eyes narrowed to furious slits. "Sounded like bald to me."
He then coughed loudly. "Echo in here. Roof hole. Weird acoustics."
The knight chuckled softly, the sound echoing inside his dented helm like distant thunder."Bald or bold," he said, teeth flashing in the visor's shadow, "at least he pays his debts."
Bron deflated with a huff, clutching the sagging waistband of his pants and glaring at everyone in sight.
The rest of the gang ducked their heads, biting their tongues to keep from laughing out loud because one glance at the knight's gleaming sword reminded them how easily they could become the next projectile through the roof.
Bron was still grumbling when the knight's voice cracked through the tavern like a thunderclap.
"Silence, you arrogant sacks of—" he paused just long enough for the room to tremble, "—shit!"
The effect was instant.
Every whisper died. Every stool scrape froze. Dozens of heads snapped forward as if yanked by invisible strings.
Sein bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. The speed of their obedience was almost… elegant.
The knight remained standing, white teeth gleaming behind the visor's shadow, his posture loose yet predatory like a hunter casually sizing up a herd.The grin didn't waver; if anything, it grew.
A cold sweat broke across the room. Even the lantern flames seemed to shrink.
Somewhere on the floor, the second leader Lard, famous for his crooked teeth and a vocabulary of mostly grunts gave a groggy moan. Still unconscious, but somehow sweating, too.
Sein's chuckle slipped out before he could stop it. He quickly covered his mouth, eyes watering from the effort.
The knight let the silence stretch, gaze sweeping over them one by one, as though deciding which of these "sacks of shit" might make the best example next.
The knight's eyes swept the silent room once more.Then, almost casually, he asked, "And what do you arrogant sacks of " he caught himself with a sly grin, " people call yourselves?" A nervous voice piped up from the back. "Uh… we're the Laundry Gang, sir."
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then the knight threw back his head and laughed. Not a polite chuckle but a deep, belly-rolling roar that shook the rafters and made mugs rattle.
"Laundry… Gang?" He wheezed between peals of laughter. "You… you wash socks for glory?"
The gang stiffened as one.
Bron, still rubbing his bald head, jabbed a thick finger in the air."Oi! Name might sound funny, but we're proud of it!" A chorus of agreement followed.
A scar-nosed woman near the wall finally spoke, her voice low and steady.She was the gang's lone female member, somewhere in her thirties, with sharp green eyes that missed nothing. The pale scar cutting from the corner of her brow to her jaw only highlighted a face that was still striking pretty in a way that carried warning signs.Every man in Laundry Town knew better than to mistake that beauty for softness.More than one drunken fool had tried, and each had ended the night limping and clutching what remained of his pride… and, if he was lucky, the rest of his reproductive organs.Smartest blade in the room and as deadly as any, she'd been watching the knight since he stepped through the door and, unlike the others, had recognized immediately that this was one fight she could not win. So she simply leaned back, arms crossed, and let her two idiotic leaders and Thorus take their turns as human missiles.
"Aye," she said, breaking the tense quiet. "We're from Laundry Town itself. Name's our home, and we wear it like armor!"
The knight planted his hands on his hips and let his grin stretch wider.He slowly turned, meeting every glare in the room like a man savoring a fine wine.
"I like it," he said at last, voice ringing with amusement."All those angry eyes. Proud of your ridiculous name. Good."
A ripple of uneasy confusion passed through the gang.
"Excellent," he went on. "Because tomorrow at dawn there will be a training session. For every single one of you rough bunches."His visor gleamed as he added, "No exceptions. Not even the man tied to a stick. Not even the flame-mouthed cat."
Heads swiveled toward the orange tabby in the corner, which, disturbingly, burped a tiny spark.
Ednar, still lashed to the support beam, let out a muffled groan.
"Training?" a wiry thief near wearing a black robe that covered his face in the back squeaked. "What… what kind of training?"
"A warrior's training," the knight said simply.
A beat of silence.
"…Why?" the female gang member asked
"Because," the knight replied with a shrug, "I want to."
The gang exchanged panicked looks. From his corner, Thorus scowled. "I'm not waking up early for some stupid training."
The room collectively sucked in a breath. Before Thorus could blink, the knight was standing right in front of him, visor inches from his nose.
"Would you prefer," the knight asked softly, "an early session? Right now?"
Thorus froze, every memory of being hurled through ceilings flashing before his eyes.He thought of his uncounted coins, his imaginary wife, the dream of someday learning to count higher than two. All of it felt suddenly precious.
"…No, sir," he croaked, bowing his head.
"Good lad," the knight said with a brilliant, toothy smile. He clapped Thorus on the shoulder hard enough to rattle the daggers on his belt. Around the room, no one dared breathe too loudly.
Just then Ronald, the other leader, jerked awake, hair sticking up like a startled porcupine.Blinking, he squinted at Lard's glittering stash and demanded in his famously garbled English,"Tis wer arr aour mune went to, ye sly bastard?"
Silence fell like a dropped anvil.The gang stared at Ronald in collective deadpan, each quietly wondering how a man could speak their language that badly and still be considered in charge.
"Why," the scar-nosed woman muttered, "do we always understand him? It's unnatural."
Lard drew himself up with unexpected dignity."I haven't embezzled a single copper," he said firmly."I just… keep the books. Someone has to."
He held the purse like a badge of honor."I track the gang's income and outflow laundry fees, monster-bounty bonuses, even the cost of busted chairs. I separate necessities from luxuries and, when we're short, I cut spending and stash the surplus for lean months. That's called good accounting."
The room went very still. A few mouths hung open. Their brains was still computing what Ronald just as their faces frozen in shocked how their leader might actually be competent. Even the knight tilted his head a fraction.
"…Huh," murmured a masked thief. "He… actually plans budgets?"
Thorus scowled, counting on his fingers as if testing a rival."Show-off," he grumbled. "I know i have 8 fingers"
"Ten" the man besides him corrected followed by a thanks.
Ronald scratched his chin, eyes narrowing. "We barely scrape three silver a month," he said in his thick brogue. "How in the frost d'ye end up wi' a king's ransom, eh?"
"Saving," Lard replied simply, as if it were obvious.
The knight's gauntlet closed around the purse with a crisp shink. "I'll hold this," he said, visor glinting. "Purely for safekeeping while we… investigate."
Lard opened his mouth to protest, but the knight cut him off with a grin sharp as a blade."It's only right the safest hands keep the money. Mine."
Lard sagged and gave the purse a mournful pat."Goodbye, my sweet coins," he whispered.
The knight laughed, a booming sound that rattled the rafters, while the gang sat in dazed silence confused, a little impressed, and suddenly aware their chubby second leader might secretly be the smartest one among them. The knight dusted his gauntlets and stretched, the purse jingling in his hand."Oh and I'll need a room," he said casually. "Give me one with the biggest bed."
Every head in the tavern turned in unison toward Lard. The chubby second leader froze, then let out a faint, despairing groan. The knight's grin widened. "Ah, perfect. Thank you for your generosity."
It sounded so polite it was almost insulting. Lard slumped forward, muttering a new farewell. "Goodbye, my coins… goodbye, my bed…" The knight clapped him on the shoulder with mock warmth. Turning to the tavern owner, he added, "Show me to his room and bring my dinner up there."
The owner gave a half-hearted bow more a shrug of surrender and led the way. The knight's armored boots clanged on the stairs, the sound fading until only the creak of floorboards remained.When the door upstairs shut, silence settled over the room below like a dropped curtain.
Sein sat among the motionless gang, the night's events swirling in his head. The hole in the ceiling still smoked. Their leaders still groaned. And the purse of coins their supposed fortune was gone.
Was that really the hero knight?The thought gnawed at him. The strength was undeniable, the presence overwhelming. But… it didn't make sense.
A chair creaked.Thorus leaned back, arms crossed and daggers glinting in the lamplight."Well," he said, breaking the hush, "now that the knight's gone… who else thinks he isn't the great hero Wilhelm?"
Hands shot up like startled pigeons—every single one, including Sein's.Even Ednar, still tied to the support beam, gave a little shrug as if to say me too, though the rope held his arms tight.
Lard groaned dramatically. "Forget who he is—I've lost my fortune, my bed, and my dinner. That's theft, that is!"
Ronald swung a heavy fist and thumped Lard's shoulder. "Aye, ye embezzlin' sow," he said, brogue thick and triumphant. "We ken now where the gang's silver went, ye sly pocket-stuffer."
Lard winced and rubbed his arm. "For the last time, I was saving, not stealing!"
From the far wall, the scar-nosed woman stepped forward, arms folded across her chest.Raiyna Lard's older sister, though few ever believed it given the chasm between her lean, battle-hardened grace and Lard's round comfort spoke evenly. "I doubt he's the hero too," she said. "Why come to an outback town like ours? And why target our gang in particular?" Murmurs of agreement swept the room.
Thorus twirled a dagger. "Maybe," he offered, eyes narrowing, "he's with the Black Mountain Bandits." The name landed like a hammer. Conversation died; even the fire seemed to crackle more softly.
Ronald scratched his chin. "Aye… them wicked men," he muttered, accent curling like smoke."If we dinnae act, that knight'll wipe us oot by mornin' whether he's one o' them or nae."
Sein swallowed and found his voice. "But… he promised a story and some sort of training. Why bother, if he meant us harm?"
Raiyna's sharp green eyes pinned him, and he felt a jolt like a blade's edge."Could be a ploy," she said. "Get us to lower our guard while he calls in the rest of his crew."
Across the room, Lard balled his fists. "I hate those bandits," he said, voice low for once. "Always have. If I could, I'd deliver vengeance myself."
His gaze drifted to the tavern's back wall where a single dagger hung, the initials S.L. carved deep into its hilt. The room followed his eyes and fell into an eerie, heavy silence.
The fire popped. No one spoke. For a long, uneasy moment, the whole gang just stared at the blade and the shadows it threw. Thorus broke the silence first, voice low but urgent. "We can't just sit here waitin' for dawn," he said, leaning forward until the firelight carved shadows across his sharp face. "Hero or bandit, that knight'll gut the Laundry Gang if we do nothin'. We need a plan tonight."
He looked around the circle, eyes catching each of theirs."If we don't act," he added, a sly undertone threading his words, "the sun'll rise on a gang that no longer exists."
A ripple of uneasy agreement passed through the room. "Aye," someone muttered. Then another.Soon heads were nodding, chairs scraping as the gang gathered closer around Thorus. Raiyna crossed her arms, green eyes narrowing. "Fine. You've got everyone spooked. Do you have a plan, or just doom to sell? As you all saw he took you three easily without any effort"
Thorus's grin widened. "It's time," he said, "to use the Book of Garland."
Gasps broke out like a sudden gust of wind. "The Book?" whispered one of the younger cutthroats. Ednar, still bound to the beam, jerked upright as far as the rope allowed. "No!" he barked. "Not with your abilities. That book isn't a toy. None of you can handle it!"
A dry chuckle came from the back. Advin, the gang's lone mage, stepped forward. He wore a threadbare robe stitched so many times it looked like a patchwork map, and he leaned on a scuffed staff that had seen too many brawls.
"Don't underestimate me, Ednar," he said, voice rough with pride. "I'm a Second-Class mage two full magic circles in my core. More than enough to open that book." Ednar strained against his bonds. "You're a fool. The Book of Garland holds Third-Class spells at minimum. High mages risk their lives with it."
Advin tapped his staff on the floor, sparks flaring faintly. "I've already studied it," he said, chin lifting. "There's a powerful Second-Class incantation within perfect for the knight."
Before Ednar could argue, a flash of steel sliced the air. Thunk! A dagger embedded itself in the tavern beam an inch from Ednar's head, neatly skewering the apple that had sat on a nearby shelf. Raiyna's gaze flicked to the knife, then to Advin. "You can really pull this off?" she asked. Advin's mouth curved in a thin, confident smile. "Yes."
Raiyna turned her sharp stare back to Ednar. "Then we do what we must to survive," she said quietly. "Do you understand that?"
Ednar sagged against the ropes, despair clouding his eyes. "I…understand," he whispered, though his voice carried no conviction. Raiyna let the silence stretch, her scar catching the lantern light like a slash of silver. "All right," she said at last, her voice steady and commanding. "We're agreed on this plan yes?"
A low chorus of "Aye" and murmured assent rolled through the tavern like distant thunder.Every hand went up…except one. Sein sat apart, the flicker of the dying fire painting half his face in shadow. He wasn't looking at Raiyna or Thorus he was staring at his own open palms.
The knight's words echoed in his head: What is magic? What is mana? The questions gnawed at him like a splinter he couldn't reach.He turned his palms over, studying the faint traces of mana that pulsed beneath his skin. Magic…just there, yet somehow not.
For a heartbeat, the tavern's noise dulled to a distant hum. Then, slowly, Sein curled his fingers into fists, tightening until his knuckles ached. Survive first, he told himself. Answers later. If Raiyna and Thorus were right, hesitation meant death. "I'm in," he said, voice quiet but firm. Raiyna's sharp green eyes met his and gave the faintest nod.
From the far side of the table, Ronald lurched to his feet, wobbling a little but grinning wide."Aye, we strike 'im at the crack o' dawn," he declared, his words rolling out in that peculiar, broken brogue that somehow everyone understood. "When yon knight's snorin' like a bloated goat, we'll put the fear o' Laundry in 'im!" Several gang members blinked, then exchanged baffled glances. One finally whispered, "Why do I actually understand him every time?"
No one had an answer.
"Aye, dawn it is," Thorus said, his voice dark with anticipation. The decision settled over them like a heavy cloak. Chairs scraped back, and the entire Laundry Gang huddled close, whispering sharp strategies and wild ideas daggers flashing in lamplight, scraps of parchment pulled out to sketch the tavern's layout.
Above them, the knight slept or so they hoped. The plan to bring down the so-called Hero Knight was set in motion, the quiet rustle of conspiracy carrying into the cold Novarian night.
Upstairs, the knight eased the heavy door shut until it clicked. A soft metallic snick followed as he turned the key in the lock. Moonlight seeped through the single narrow window, a pale river of silver cutting across the floorboards.
He unlatched his helmet and lifted it free. The steel gleamed faintly as he set it beside the steaming dinner the innkeeper had delivered. The light never reached his face only a suggestion of dark hair and the edge of a strong jaw before the shadows swallowed the rest.
With a quiet sigh, he leaned his sword against the bedside table, the polished blade catching a sliver of moonlight. From beneath his cloak he drew a weather-worn diary. The leather cover was dark, its corners softened with age. He turned it over in his hands, fingers tracing the small scars in the hide and the faint scent of old smoke baked into it. The gold-tinted title across the front read in delicate script: A Moment of Life – by Wilhelm.
For a heartbeat he simply stared at the letters. Then a whisper slid through the silence not from the room, but from memory.A low, familiar voice, blurred by time and distance: You can be greater…
The knight let out a sharp scoff, half a laugh, half a curse."So I listened to you," he murmured under his breath, the words rough and self-mocking. "Stupid idea, that."
He opened the diary, pages catching the moonlight like thin silver leaves, but paused again head tilting ever so slightly. Downstairs, muffled through the wood and stone, came the unmistakable murmur of plotting: hurried whispers, chairs scraping, the creak of floorboards. Every word of the Laundry Gang's conspiracy reached him as clear as if they sat beside his bed.
"Ohhh, a third class grimoire by that Archmage bastard Garland huh? Maybe this will be even more interesting than I thought, just like you said" He spoke soft to himself.
A slow, delighted grin spread across his unseen face.
"Try your best," he said softly to the night, the grin curling wider, almost feral. "Because if you don't…" He looked out through the window toward the dark sweep of the Black Mountain Forest, its trees etched black against the silver moon as that grin never leaving his face. "…you'll suffer the consequences." The moonlight glinted off the sword's edge, and the room fell silent again, holding its breath for dawn.