The space was a complete disaster: chaos on all sides. Some people were celebrating, others were shouting as they talked; some were already drunk, and other couples were doing couple things, though nothing too risqué.
The place was pure chaos. Raucous laughter mixed with heated arguments and the sharp sound of bottles breaking against the floor. Some of the drinkers were smashing them in an act of pure malice, just to give more work to the servers, laughing as if it were the most wholesome joke in the world. In one corner, several people watched the scene with contempt, as if observing wild animals in a cage.
"Hey, did you see how that idiot bent down to clean up the mess we made? Hahahaha," one of the troublemakers said proudly.
"Hey, don't say things like that. People will think we're bad guys, hahaha," another replied, laughing just as hard. "Although, in reality, we are," he added at the end.
(At another table)
"I heard your wife already gave birth. How do you feel now that you're a father?" said a sweaty adult man, taking a sip of his drink. "Congratulations on that."
"Oh, brother, I'm so… so incredibly happy! I couldn't wait for my wife to give birth to our dear son," responded the brand-new father, with a wide smile on his face, though he was also half-drunk.
"Hahaha, you were the only one left. But now you're a father too! Let's celebrate this great blessing. A toast to our dear and great brother!" one of his friends declared.
Clink-clink. The liquor bottles chimed as they clashed.
"For our great brother!" all the friends around the table repeated in unison.
(At another table)
"So you're not planning to pay me my money, eh?" growled a large man, very angry, grabbing the debtor by the neck.
"B-brother, I'll get you the money… just have a little patience… please," the other man struggled to say, barely able to breathe.
"You'd better. I'm giving you just two more days. If you don't get my money, you know what's going to happen to you, right? I don't even have to repeat it," the lender spat out, shoving him away.
The debtor's shirt collar was left in tatters.
A few minutes passed. The tavern door swung open suddenly, and all eyes—whether they were eating, drinking, conversing, or kissing—locked onto the entrance.
They all fixed on the young man who had just crossed the threshold.
He had black hair, medium-long and unkempt, with strands falling to the sides of a serene face. His eyes were dark, with a grave and calm gaze, like someone carrying a heavy burden inside. He wore simple clothes: a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, tight black pants, and sturdy leather boots, worn from the road. On his chest, a simple circular pendant that seemed to have more personal than aesthetic value. He had one hand in his pocket and with his right hand he carried a bag over his shoulder. His posture was relaxed, but there was a contained tension in his shoulders; he didn't seem like just any civilian, but someone with experience in battles.
The young man advanced with measured steps to the bar, under the silent scrutiny of everyone.
"How much for a room?" he asked. His voice was calm, but there was something in it, something more dangerous than calm.
The receptionist gave him the price. He paid without a word and went straight up to the room he had rented. The gazes followed him until he disappeared up the stairs, but the tension didn't completely dissipate.
A while later, the young man came back down. He first headed towards one table, but changed his mind at the last second.
Instead, he approached a table where a middle-aged man, already very drunk, was swaying alone. He dragged a chair over and sat down across from him. He ordered some food and drink, and when his order arrived, he began to converse with the drunk. Far from being aggressive, the man turned out to be unusually gentle for his state. They talked for a good while, in a strange peace isolated from the surrounding chaos.
Until they arrived.
A group of three, with troublemaking written all over their faces, planted themselves in front of his table.
"Hey, kid. Who are you with, eh?" asked the one who seemed to be the leader, leaning over the table.
"Hey, I'm talking to you…" He didn't finish the sentence.
The drunk interrupted him, struggling to his feet.
"Oiwan ushtedesh, patanesh!" he slurred, his tongue heavy but his intent clear. "Vayanshe bara odtro bado, no wuerán merme emochado!" (Hey, you louts! Get out of here, you wouldn't want to see me angry!).
He clumsily placed himself between the youth and the thugs.
"And who does this idiot think he is?" spat out one of the bullies.
And without another word, he threw a direct punch to the drunk's face. The blow was sharp and solid. The man fell backwards onto another table, breaking the chair with the impact.
Thud! The thug now slammed the young man's table, making it tremble.
"Do you want me to hit you too so you'll answer?" he asked, his brow furrowed with violence.
There was no response. At least, not with words.
Just a gesture. A simple look.
The boy had his head slightly bowed. He raised it with deliberate slowness, his face shadowed.
His eyes, which before had been a dark brown, now burned with an intense red color. There was no magical flash, no words of power. Just a look. A look that pierced the thug's arrogance like smoke and lodged itself deep within his being.
"What the hell was that?" he murmured to himself, the color draining from his face. "I feel like I'm burning from the inside."
The panic was instantaneous and absolute. The three troublemakers recoiled as if they'd been whipped, stumbling and falling backwards onto the dirty floor. A sudden silence surrounded them, broken only by a few nervous or mocking laughs in the distance. Without another word, cursing under their breaths and staggering, they scurried out of the tavern.
The young man stood up with the same calm with which he had sat down. He approached the drunk, who lay dazed on the floor, and extended a hand to help him up.
The man took it, trembling, and as he got to his feet, his eyes—blurred by alcohol and confusion—fixed on the boy's. His voice was barely a thread of sound, laden with a sudden, sober fear:
"Who the hell are you?..."