He was walking down a rainy, foggy, dim street. Everyone passing by either changed their path or covered their noses because of the foul stench of the street—everyone, that is, except for one person. Lying by the side of the street was a man; as he passed, he saw flies buzzing above him. Clearly, he was dead. Encountering dead bodies in the streets of the city wasn't unusual; the streets were filled with the stench of decay and blood.
Walking slowly through the rain, he entered an inn. Everyone who saw him couldn't take their eyes off him; his muscular arms and the scars covering his face were striking. His hair was unusual: long, dirty but snow-white. Yet, he didn't look very old.
With confident steps, he approached the bartender and took a seat on a stool. The bartender, polishing a glass, asked, "What can I get you, young man?"
"Something strong. And a place to stay," the young man replied.
The bartender set the drink on the table. "Talkative, aren't you? Been through some rough times?"
He took a sip. "None of your business," he said.
The bartender frowned. "Alright, if you don't want to talk, I won't press." Turning away, he grabbed a key and slammed it on the table. "One night, sixteen gold," he said.
The young man took the key.
"I need your name, lad; I can't log it in the register if you don't give it," the bartender said.
He scowled. "My name is Vladimir," he replied.
The bartender wrote it down. Vladimir got up, took the pouch hanging from his belt, and lightly tossed it onto the bar. He went upstairs to his room.
Reaching the door, he opened it and was immediately hit by a foul smell and a filthy bed; strange fluids were everywhere. He threw his dirty, bagged belongings against the wall. He placed his sword beside the bed and lay down.
Rain pounded the windows while moans and bed creaks came from neighboring rooms. Vladimir was used to sleeping in filthy places. He quickly drifted to sleep in the foul-smelling room.
The heavy rain continued. On the wet streets, someone was being carried away in someone's arms. Splashes echoed from puddles behind them. He looked at the man's face—horror-stricken, blood covering every inch. His hair was long, black, well-kept; his face handsome, framed by a neatly trimmed beard.
Suddenly, a woman's scream pierced the street. The man sank to his knees; blood ran from his mouth, tears from his eyes—but he still smiled. He embraced someone and whispered something in their ear. Behind him, a shadowy silhouette loomed.