Though as disgusting as they sounded, the directions from the nature's abomination known as the Lamia were accurate. When he reached the end of the road, passing through the open stone gates, his mind wandered to the thought of destroying them. Just a punch in the centre, and the collapse of that shameless architecture would not only cause the necessary bloodshed, but it would also sow fear and doubt among these pathetic creatures.
The town square was somewhat more tolerable than the market. Less screeching. More of the earthy smell of wood and dirt. But the arrogance here—it was at its height.
At least from what he had seen. Magically illuminated billboards, the garish colourful structures, and the patient-looking slaves standing outside the shops. They only looked patient, though. He was certain that if given the chance—a taste of liberty, a sense of power—they'd be the first to set fire to the very structures they slaved inside. It wasn't hard to see it—their dead eyes and forced smiles were enough for someone like him to sense the suppressed hatred. The smell of rotting fruit hung inches above them, a stench only the trained nose could pick up.
His eyes swept the area and quickly found the entrance to the back alley, just as the slithering foulness had described. To him, it was the avoided corner—the place that held the truth behind this living lie surrounding him.
He moved, stopping in the middle of the road to let the lizard-pulled cart pass. One driver apologised for its reckless speed, and after a few more steps, another cart halted. The covered, hut-like structure suggested it carried someone wealthy—surely a human. The other kinds weren't allowed such wealth.
"Hey, watch it! You beggar! If you wanna die, go jump in someone else's cart!" the brown bear-kind sneered at him.
"Huh…?" He gasped, not removing his cowl, just looking with soft eyes, letting the driver see only the shade around his eyes. He slowly moved toward the scaly animal pulling the cart, its body adorned with red and blue feathers, decorated with unnecessary ornaments. The animal began fidgeting as he approached, wanting to run but knowing it couldn't.
He gently pressed his hand on the animal's long scaly neck, feeling its shivers and rapid heartbeat.
"Oh, dear sir, I don't want to die… because…" His voice was soft before pausing. Then suddenly, the lizard began choking—not just from fear, but from the hand that had been feeling its neck, now tightening around it.
It would take him less than a minute to crush its skin, muscles, bones, and windpipe.
"Oh dear sir, I am looking for something to kill."
He raised his voice just enough to pull the driver out of his stunned arrogance.
He smiled as he saw the sweat bead on the driver's ears, the droop of those furry ears, the flicker of its nostrils. Then came the shaky nod from the driver, at which point he loosened his grip on the animal—his fingers barely closed to begin with.
He flicked his gaze around, ensuring there were no unnecessary onlookers. In the next moment, the animal and cart whooshed off, the air of their departure barely brushing against him.
He smiled, watching them go. He knew that, if not from the driver's haste, the urgency came from the animal—an animal that had just escaped death's grip. Because it knew the meaning of true power, true control.Animals understood it better than humans and these so-called sentient abominations.
He turned and made his way toward the passageway, his steps clicking against the stone pallets of the alleyway, laid across the entire town square—something designed to give a false perception of development. Not that he believed in such things. To him, advancement and development were better reflected in the inhabitants of the city, something much more judgeable than cold, hard stones.
And in that regard, this city, this capital, this country would pass. As his passage through the alley was silent, unseen. Not a single failure of this society lurked here—no one with their back against the wall, dazed by thoughts of escaping the society they lived in. Walls that should have been painted yellow, red, and blue with urine, hatred, and rebellion were as clean as could be. Then again, there was a reason for their proclamation: tranquillity incarnate. All the more reason for his disgust. Nothing is perfect. Perfection itself is flawed, a sign that something deep within is broken.
And that's why he had arrived here, standing before the bar the Lamia had mentioned. Sloped roofs, wooden structure, a billboard supported by two thick, black-painted pillars. It read, "The Fairyland." Disgusting.
He stepped inside, and even before entering, the stench hit him—bad breath marinated in cheap alcohol. At least, that's what these peasants called it. Sharp, bitter, with little to no effect for someone like him. Might as well drink piss. Or maybe it was just because he was different. Better than them all.
The big wooden door swung open, before he pushed through the small flaps of wood as he entered. It was a cramped place, tables pushed close together. Hardly any humans—mostly the other kind. Beastmen, Lamia, Lizardfolk, and Orcs. Filthy Orcs. Each one drinking from wooden mugs, hardly a glass vial with a colourful drink in sight. No wonder this place smelled of cheap alcohol—what was it called again? Remi. Yes, Remi. And the bad breath, all of it coalescing into the stench of sour milk, suppressed desires.
He held his breath as he moved through the tables with ease. He had expected one of these drunken scum would try to bite off more than they could chew. But nothing.
He finally reached the wooden countertop, where a sign hovered, outlined in a purple aura. Magic. It smelled bland. Weak. The sign read, "Sale. Any drink, two Fervoirs." The broken corners and peeling paint on the letters suggested age, filth and truth.
Taking a small breath, hesitant to swallow too much of the failure-filled air, he sat down on the wooden stool in front of the countertop.
His eyes glanced around, noticing the white silhouette of a man beside him, cowled like him. A figure with dull magical dust rising and falling around it, floated behind the counter.
Behind it were rows of bottles—small, short, long, big, gooseneck, heavy, large—all empty. Whether out of arrogance or ignorance, he couldn't tell. But more revolting than the bottles was the fluttering waste of life before him. Heavy arms and even heavier legs, puffed cheeks that suggested she was holding onto a bite of something disgusting. Its breast and belly, just two slabs of skinned meat pressed, head slumped forward, blonde hair tied into a bun with bangs falling over her face.
Its dress barely fitting, doing it a favour by holding together at all.
A fairy? More like a dwarf with wings.
The thought briefly made him question the claim of that snake, but he was too far in now. He couldn't have come to this rotten place, leave without getting what he wanted, and let it see another day. That would be an insult to his own self.
"Welcome to Fairyland. What can I get you, stranger?" the abomination with wings asked, fluttering near him. One of its eyebrows rose high, revealing early wrinkles. He could see its cracked lips and smell its sour milk breath, even stronger up close. Yet its expression was one of confidence, as though it was satisfied with its pathetic life. A lie. He wanted to spit on it, but he didn't. Not because he needed it—not it or its abilities right now. But because it wasn't even worth it.
"Ah... thank you," he said, removing his cowl and smiling at it. Its raised eyebrow lowered. "I would like an Orini with ice," he said, keeping his smile. Orini—one of the few things labelled as alcohol that he could tolerate. He remembered it as a blend of high-class Remi and exotic grape juice, one of the top-shelf drinks in this country. He knew they would have it, even if it didn't serve it to everyone else, it would serve it to him.
For a moment, it remained silent and stunned, eyes wide, mouth slowly closing as he turned his gaze away, looking around, not giving it the attention it sought. Because if it got his attention, it would make it more difficult to get what he wanted. After another moment, it turned and fluttered down.
He heard the sound of a bottle being opened, the clink of a glass, a pour, then a fizz, followed by something dropping into the liquid. Within the next moment, it presented the glass vial—not a tumbler, but a gooseneck, small transparent vase. It held a fizzy purple liquid, with a hint of brown at the top, in which floated a rapi fruit poked with a wooden needle.
It smiled at him as he examined the drink, before glancing at it with a smile of his own.
Then he saw the color rise in its cheeks—perhaps a sign of interest, but to him, it was merely a cue.
"Hmhmm... Nice." He picked up the vial, sipping slightly, before setting it down, his cheeks raised as he quipped. Inside, he felt disgust—both from the act and from the taste of the poorly made drink. But he wouldn't waste it. It's not logical to waste food. So first, his tongue would check for poison. It's easy to detect. It tastes and smells bland, slightly citrusy. Nothing in this world smells and tastes the same. Finding none, he gulped it down quickly to move his plan forward.
"Thank you, darling. If you need anything else, just smile," it quipped back, attempting a seductive smile.
"Well, I guess you can, my lady. How about some of this?" he replied, smiling as he placed the card on the counter. His eyes casually scanned the room, ensuring there was no unwanted attention, while it surveyed the card, expressionless. He turned his gaze back to it with a smile, as it raised its eyes with knitted brows and a small grin.
"You sure you want that, sweetie? Not everyone can handle it," it said, turning toward the empty bottles and fluttering down.
"Try me," he said, his voice a little tighter and louder. It didn't reply, but fluttered back up. The drunken chatter in the background grew louder, and the man in white beside him seemed to have moved away. Something smelled mixed and bland.
"I hope what you want is my address, my young horse," it said seductively, winking as it poured something into his vial—something white. The bland stench grew stronger.
He knew what it could be, what he could expect after drinking it. But that wasn't his concern. It only confirmed his suspicion, his direction. The scent of the strand he had been searching for was starting to grow stronger.
"And I hope I'll get it," he said with a smile, before reaching for the vial and gulping it down in one go.
The stenches ceased, then the irritating loudness of drunken chatter. He turned and, for a moment, saw the man in white blur before everything went black.
Within the next second, his eyes opened to see mist. Thick, heavy mist, carrying an awful odour—the stench of excrement, the foulest kind. The odour of shallow pride. He tried to move his legs but couldn't. Lowering his eyes, he saw shackles made of leather and golden buckles, tightened around his body. He was seated on a chair, his hands bound behind him.
The mist seemed endless but not real. Fake to his trained eyes. It was too forced, an attempt to seem natural, but it wasn't. Though it carried the same foul odour, there was a blandness to it. Magic. But he had expected that.
"Oh... my darling. Such smooth skin, a chiselled jaw, sharp and young deep blue eyes with barely any facial hair. Oh, you are just a dream, aren't you?"
Suddenly, a voice came from behind him. He didn't move, didn't startle, though he was certain it wanted him to. It was the same abomination from the bar, it flew before him.
Now, it was tall with slender, smooth legs, soft, clean hands, puffed but sharp cheeks, perky breasts, and large, shining eyes. Draped in a shiny one-piece outfit, it floated in the air with translucent wings fluttering behind her.
"So, darling, what do you want to know? And don't say my address, because by the end of this, you're definitely going to have it as my payment." It smiled widely, brimming with supposed confidence.
He smiled back.
"Is this how you see yourself?" he asked, calm but loud.
"Oh, sweetie, this is who I am. And more," it said, leaning in, fluttering closer to his face. The stench of sour milk breath made his lips curl in disgust—disgust for it and its lie. A clear, white lie.
"What is this place?" he asked, averting his eyes and looking around.
"This... this is my heaven. My sanctum." It replied, fluttering back, spinning once, inhaling the mist around it.
"No. Really, what is this place?" he asked again, keeping his tone the same, looking directly at it.
It stopped, crossing its arms. Raising an eyebrow, one corner of its pressed lips lifting,
"Why are you asking so many questions, huh?" It suddenly closed the distance between them, its hand feeling his face, its purple lips just inches from his.
"Why don't you tell me why you came here? Heard about my abilities? My skills? Or my beauty? Ask me anything. I'll tell you whatever a sweet face like yours wants to know."
"Hm... I have, but this place looks more interesting right now. So why don't you tell me first—where are we?" His sharp eyes flicked around the surroundings again before locking onto its deceptive gaze, his tone tightening slightly.
"Ohhh... you know, you're asking a lot of questions. Taking advantage of my niceness." It quickly fluttered back, its smile turning into a frown, eyebrows tightening. Crossing its arms again, it floated as it continued in a sharp tone,
"Don't think just because you look nice, I'll spare you for your rudeness. If I wanted, I could torture you, smother you, even kill you here."
His gaze hardened into a glare, and his smile deepened into a grin. Its voice faded into the background, the stench beginning to recede as he slowly closed his eyes. Darkness enveloped him for a moment before he felt his fingers again. When he opened his eyes, he saw red darkness, thick smog—thicker than that awful mist. And before him, lower on the darkened ground, it shivered, dirty teeth clattering, a fat arm clutching its ball-like head, fingers tangled in frizzy blond hair. Its heavy legs folded beneath it, lifeless, powerless. Eyes wide, twitching.
"Wh... wh... what happened?! What happened?!" It stammered at first before screaming, looking at him helplessly. Then, suddenly coughing, its shivering eyes locked on him again.
He sat calmly on a throne of lava—still, red, burning, lava. His head tilted, resting on his fist. Legs folded. The air filled with nothing but the fragrance of fresh, raging fire—the smell of his power, his control.
"Where am I?!" It screeched again.
"We were in your head before," he said, his tone firm, his voice loud without effort. He paused, watching its shivering lips, the teeth grinding underneath. Its eyebrows lowered with frustration, fear, and confusion.
"I know that!! But what did you do?! What happened?! Where... where are we n—"
"And now we're in my head." He grinned, rising from his throne. Slowly, he began to walk down the steps toward its cowering form.
"Fascinating trick you have—taking people's minds into yours. Perfect for incognito conversations. But I wonder... how would it look from the outside?" he said, jumping from the mid-stair and landing directly in front of it. It crawled backward, lips trembled even more.
As they should. It was cowering before a god, no less. Arrogance would get it killed instantly, whether it fulfilled its purpose or not.
"But before that, let's get to the question I came here for. Hmph!" In a swift motion, he crouched down, making it jerk backward, nearly bringing its filthy heart into its throat. He leaned closer, his now-dark eyes locking onto its shaking ones.
"Remember the one you kept asking about, again and again and again...? Now tell me. What do you know about... The Silencers?" He spoke each word as slowly as possible, making it clear that he wouldn't repeat himself. His eyes, the slow lean-in, the movement of his lips—everything demanded immediate comprehension.
"Th... Th... The Silencer... s...?" It stammered, its fingers reaching its mouth, pressing against its teeth like a child ready to wet itself.
"I... don't kn—"
"Now, now..." he interrupted, slowly standing up with a simple smile that didn't reach his eyes as he began to circle around it.
"See, I don't have much time. As much as I'd love to play with you, to torture every detail of your life out of you, I just don't find it all that interesting right now." He stopped behind it, making it turn its shivering, now shaking head. Its big, dirty eyes were ready to spill tears of fear. One tear even escaped when he crouched down again, placing his gloved hand on its head, speaking slowly.
"So before you start talking, make sure you're telling me exactly what I want to hear. Because, believe me, I couldn't care less how it affects anything outside. But if you say a single word that displeases me, I will twist your neck so hard that the blood may not come out... but you'll feel burning nails drilling into your throat before your soul finds its long-awaited salvation. Understand?"
She didn't reply. Because she knew, she felt it. Not only the burning warmth of his hand, but the power he held over her. She wasn't as old as her appearance suggested, but she had enough experience to understand the truth in the words that had reached her ears—words of malevolence. Evil unlike any she had ever encountered before. He didn't even need to touch her to end her; somehow, she knew that. She knew he could kill so brutally that even her soul would cry in pain after leaving her mauled body.
She had seen dragons, fought them, felt their aura, their presence, their breath. But all of them were like wind, like the warmth of sunlight, like fighting a worm compared to the grin reflected in her eyes now. She did not want to disappoint him. She wanted to live. To live as long as she could and never meet this man, this darkness, ever again. So, she spoke.
"Silencers are mercenaries. They're ghosts, the invisible hand, the shapeless hunters of the government. They maintain control throughout all of Serenland. They stop, weed out, burn, and decapitate rebellions before they can even emerge. Once they set their eyes on someone, that person is never seen again—not even mentioned in talks or conversations."
"How do I find them…?"
"You can't. They find you. It's impossible to—Aahhhh! Aahhhh! Aahhhh!
Her almost-finished words twisted his grin. The hand hovering above her head landed and tightened its grip slightly, drawing screeches of pain from her. Her tears turned crimson as her small, flabby hands fluttered helplessly like her wings, desperate to escape. But they couldn't. It was as if the weight of a mountain was crushing her head down, easing only when she spoke again.
"Okay... okay...!! Okay...!! I swear I'm not sure, but the guy sitting beside you, the one in the white robe—"
"Yes..." His grin returned as he lifted his hand, allowing her to continue.
"I think he's one of them. Because I've seen him every time before one of the regulars from the bar disappears. I swear, I'm telling the truth. Please... let me go. Please... Please."
She broke into sobs, wailing like a child, her hands stained red with her own tears.
He stood up, his smile straightening. The faint shot of the guy beside him flashed before his eyes. He did seem out of place. Could this be the strand he was searching for? Chances were high. Not just because of the wailing mess before him, but because he smelled something weird from that guy.
"Please… please let me go now… please… I beg you, please—"
"Stop crying…" He leaned down, locking his gaze directly on its blood-seeping eyes, which had slowly begun to turn translucent. His tone—firm and commanding—made it reduce its wails to soft sobs. He smiled again, stepping back as a new stench wafted from it. Rot. The smell of something decaying, like mouldy bread. Awful.
Leaning down to meet its eye level, he asked softly, "Now tell me, while we're here, what's happening outside?"
It sniffled, wiping its sticky, gross snot with its flabby palm. Dabbing its eyes, it stammered, "It's… it's the same… as we left it… You're… you're enjoying your drink… and I… I… I'm serving… drinks… hmph."
"Hmm…?" His lips pouted slightly in thought as he took another step toward it. His nose wrinkled at the foul stench, but still, he crouched before it. Gently placing his hand atop its head, he ran his fingers through its frizzy hair, as if trying to comfort it, to make it stop crying.
It did stop, the trembling in its body ceasing as a weak smile began forming on its quivering lips. Like a beaten stray dog, it looked up at him—at his squinted eyes, at his pressed-lip smile—and for a brief moment, it felt a flicker of hope. Hope for salvation. Another chance.
"Good girl… now look into my eyes and tell me."
It nodded eagerly, a wide grin spreading across its face, its tongue almost slipping out in anticipation of relief.
"If your neck were to twist, and your eyes were to burst with blood, seeping out from your ears and nose… no one would suspect me, would they?"
Its tongue was nearly out when suddenly it froze, its jaw clenching, nearly biting its own tongue. The body that had just stopped shaking tightened once more. The eyes that had almost squinted in submission flew wide open, while his expression remained unchanged.
In that instant, it knew only one thing: run.
With a sudden jerk, it twisted back, flailing like a worm, scrambling desperately to crawl away from death's clutches.
But it was too late.
She first saw darkness, then blinding ivory, before a familiar face emerged in front of her. It was her mother—older, but smiling. She had always wanted to visit her, but life had kept her too busy. Now, she could imagine hugging her, floating beside her in their old home. Her head rested on her mother's lap, her mother's hand gently stroking her hair. Warmly. Lovingly. And for a moment, she held on to that feeling, even as she closed her eyes.
But then, the pressure grew heavier. Her mother's hand started to feel like a mace pressing down on her. Suddenly, she tried to scream, but no sound came. Her mother's hand felt like a mountain crushing her face. She opened her eyes again and saw not her mother, but him. A dark, red giant, his claws wrapped tightly around her head. His grin was fanged, razor-sharp, wide—so wide, it looked as if he could swallow her whole.
Before he could devour her, her head exploded into bloody fragments, and darkness consumed everything.
"I said keep looking in my eyes," he hissed through gritted teeth. His arms stretched out, hands wrapped around her head, which now faced him, even though her body was twisted the other way. Her neck was a mangled mess of cracked, twisted vertebrae, barely held together by flesh. His lips, once pressed tight, curled into a smile as he blinked into the darkness.
When his eyes opened again, they moved to the side, finding an empty seat. His gaze widened as he spotted the man in white walking out of the bar. He smiled.
"Found it," he muttered.
—Thud—
Suddenly, a sound—but before that, a scent. A fragrance of sweetness, pure sweetness, caught his attention. He turned his gaze back in front of him. He didn't see it at first, but when he leaned forward, he saw it—choking, blood seeping from every filthy orifice.
A smile of pure joy curled on his lips. He stood up from the stool and quietly walked out, his smile unchanged.
Once outside, his eyes wandered, searching for other eyes, but he found none. Pulling his cowl back over his head, he raised his gloved hand. With a swift motion, he struck the wall of the building. There was no loud sound, just a faint, barely audible thud.
Suddenly, an ember flickered to life, growing rapidly into flames that began to crawl up the wall. A crack, deepening alongside the fire, split the stone. His smile shone beneath the shade of his hood as the dark blue sky gleamed above him.
He walked steadily out of the alley, his footsteps clicking against the stone. Then, a deafening explosion filled the air, lingering for a moment before being replaced by the chattering and shuffling of mindless, attention-seeking hoards.
What happened…? He had found what he wanted. Its purpose was fulfilled, and so was its usefulness to him. If he didn't need it anymore, then it didn't need its life, and the world certainly didn't need it either. Just like that building—that filthy, stinking place.
He could have let them live; it wasn't as if they could come after him, attack him, or kill him. They'd be dead before they could even utter his name. But leaving them alive would be like leaving ash burns on a carpet—careless and unnecessary. And he hates smoking.