Efficiency, Efficiency
The old wooden building was drenched in soju. For Philia, who had secured the spot by the door, the fastest way to subdue them was...
Click.
"Th-that crazy bitch!"
It was fire. A tiny spark leaped from between Philia's fingers. A match. She had picked it up moments ago from the small box on the counter, scraping the head against her nail as if it were nothing to light it. A minuscule flame. A yellow glow the size of a fingernail. Yet in this tavern, it was the most dangerous thing of all.
The air still reeked thickly of the alcohol from the soju. The floor. Table legs. The lower parts of the walls. Liquor had splashed everywhere from shattered bottles. Invisible to the eye, thin as a film, but it lingered unmistakably. Alcohol is highly volatile. And when it meets fire, it doesn't hesitate.
No one here was ignorant of that fact. That was why, the instant the match flame flickered ever so slightly in the air, the entire tavern froze solid in a heartbeat.
Someone gasped. Another half-rose from their chair and stopped dead. Even the man in the corner narrowed his eyes briefly. Then he spat a curse.
"That crazy bitch!"
Before the words even finished.
Philia's hand moved. Flick. The match dropped to the floor.
It was instantaneous. First, a thin blue flame spread. In the next moment, it erupted red. Whoosh.
Flames raced along the floor. Following the trails of spilled liquor as if they knew the path exactly—under tables, beneath chairs, even to the splatters on the walls. The alcohol ignited first, blooming blue before swiftly turning to red fire. In a flash.
Nearly half the tavern floor was engulfed.
"Fire!"
Someone yelled. Chairs toppled. Glasses shattered on the ground. People shoved backward. Some cursed; others twisted, searching for escape. But.
The door was already blocked by a figure. Philia. She didn't move. She simply stood there. Flames danced at her feet. The hem of her robe fluttered slightly in the heat and rush of air. Red light illuminated her face beneath the hood. Her eyes were serene. As if this were nothing out of the ordinary.
"If you want to get out,"
Philia said. Her voice remained low and flat. Yet strangely, it cut clearly through the roar of the fire and the chaos.
"you'll have to go through me."
A brief silence. Only the soft licking of flames on the wooden floor.
Then the man from the corner slowly rose. His chair scraped back. Screech. A harsh sound echoed. No trace of amusement remained on his face. His eyes were cold and sunken.
"You crazy bitch..." he muttered.
His hand dropped to his waist. Metal scraped. Shing. A blade was drawn. As if on cue, the other men's hands moved in unison. To waists. Inside boots. Behind backs. Hidden knives emerged one by one. The men, who had looked like mere travelers, revealed their true faces in an instant. Murderous intent.
They exchanged glances. Then someone barked,
"Put out the fire!"
But it was too late. The alcohol-slicked floor blazed fiercely. No reaching Philia without leaping the flames.
The man gnashed his teeth. Then charged.
"Die!"
His foot cleared the fire. His blade rose, poised to slash at Philia's throat.
But. The moment it was halfway up.
Philia moved. Too brief. One step. Her foot advanced. Her body twisted sideways a half-beat. And.
Her fist rose. Thud.
The sound of bone striking bone. The man's jaw wrenched sideways. His body lifted clean off the floor. Feet dangling. He flew—over a table, shoving chairs aside, crashing into the back wall. Thump. His back hit. He crumpled like folding paper, rolling to the floor.
The tavern fell utterly still. Someone swallowed hard. Philia slowly lowered her hand. She clenched and unclenched her fist once. As if testing her wrist.
Flames flickered at her feet. Red light reflected in her eyes. She swept her gaze over the men. Then said,
"First."
A moment of silence. Her eyes slowly turned to the rest.
The men's faces hardened one by one. Philia added flatly,
"Seven left."
She glanced at the flung man. 'Good. Not dead.'
They were scum who could be killed on the spot, but leaving just one for questioning risked errors. Cross-verification from multiple perspectives was needed.
"When truths come out instead of curses from your mouths, we'll put out the fire and talk calmly."
Philia's voice was still low and even. Unbelievably serene for someone who had just hurled a man into a wall. The remaining men's faces twisted in unison. No winning, no escape. The only exit held only death. Flames rippled long along the floor. Soju from shattered bottles still burned in spots. Blue flickers mingled briefly amid the red before vanishing. Alcohol burned first, then the wood absorbed the heat. Table legs charred bit by bit. The smell of burning logs mixed with liquor, weighing down the air. Heat rose steadily. The men felt it. On their backs. At their ankles. On their napes. Instinct screamed to flee. But Philia stood at the door. And behind her, fire already barred the way.
Someone ground their teeth. The corner man spoke first.
"Don't play games."
His voice was low, but sharper than before. Natural, after seeing his comrade's jaw shattered and flung into the wall. Leisure gone. Irritation and anxiety remained.
Philia looked at him. She nodded briefly.
"Fine."
She said. "Let's do it without games."
Silence. Then.
She raised one finger.
"The first to speak won't die."
The air froze again. Only the crackle of fire. Wood sizzled under tables. Sizzle. Sizzle. Flames rippled long. Red light lit the men's faces. Sweaty brows glistened. Jaws clenched. Shoulders frozen in indecision. A subtle shift rippled among them. Moments ago, they were one pack. Allies. Not now. Calculations began. Who speaks first? Who betrays first? Who survives first? It flickered in their eyes.
Philia saw it. 'I'll spare them all anyway.'
I'm no justice. No law. Just a being granted a license to kill by the Emperor. The courts will judge them. Without his command, without clear justice, it's not my role.
"...The underground."
The man who spoke already regretted it. Lips pale. Eyes darting. The face of one realizing what he'd done.
The corner man gnashed his teeth. "You son of a—!"
He moved to lunge. But Philia spoke first.
"Fine."
Her voice serene. That single word halted him. Philia nodded slowly.
"Conversation has begun."
Flames rippled along the floor. Burning alcohol stench thickened. One table leg charred blacker. Heat climbed. Sweat gleamed on the men's faces.
"...The underground, you said."
Her voice still quiet. The speaker flinched. Philia stared straight at him. Added calmly,
"We'll continue from there."
The corner man ground his teeth. "Shut your mouth!" he shouted. But his words lacked force. Eyes that were allies moments ago now sized each other up. Who speaks next? Who survives?
Philia watched briefly. Then thought: This is humanity. Before death. Always moving the same way. Toward themselves. Toward survival.
She slowly extended her hand toward the flames. Nudged a liquor puddle with her toe. Flames flickered again. And she said,
"No need to worry."
Their eyes turned to her. Philia added flatly,
"No one dies here."
Silence. Someone swallowed.
"The judgment isn't mine."
Her eyes swept the tavern slowly.
"The courts will handle it."
Flames surged once more. Philia picked up a fallen wooden signboard. It had hung by the tavern entrance; the earlier chaos had snapped its rope. Old timber. Rough grain from years of wear. Scratches and nicks scarred the surface; one corner chipped. The inn's name was faintly carved, but blurred half away by spills and grime. Philia flipped it slowly. Pressed the edge with her fingers. The wood's grain held firm. Good weight. She gazed at it a moment. Then gripped it casually. As if she'd always intended to use it that way.
The men stared blankly. Flames still danced along the floor. Thin liquor trails from broken bottles fed low flames. Alcohol stench lingered. Heat built. One table leg fully blackened. Flames licked upward.
But Philia showed no haste. She raised the signboard slowly. Twirled her wrist lightly. The plank whistled through the air briefly. Eyes beneath the hood fixed on the fire. And.
She swung. Whoosh!!!
A massive gust tore through the tavern. The signboard fanned like a blade. Immense wind pressure. Thick air blasted outward. Flames wavered first. Blue alcohol fire shredded apart. Then.
Red flames billowed huge. And.
Fwoosh. The floor fire snuffed out at once. Thin smoke rose. Scorched liquor scent spread. Only blackened floors remained.
The tavern went dead silent. Someone gaped blankly. Another's face said it made no sense. Extinguished not by water. Not cloth. Just.
A wooden signboard. Wind pressure.
Philia shook it once more lightly. Lingering embers died quietly. She looked down at it. Tossed it aside casually. Thud.
She regarded the men. Her eyes unchanged. Calm. Quiet. A touch bored, even. Like one task done. She brushed her hands slowly. Black ash fell from her fingers. And said,
"...Now."
All eyes on her. Philia's gaze swept them. One by one. Slowly. And flatly,
"We can talk calmly."