Chapter 32: Fleeing from Marhal to the Gambling Den
Ershi, having fled from Marhal, headed straight for the gambling den. It was a half-collapsed wooden building on the outskirts of the village—a temporary structure from when the settlement was first taking shape, now abandoned after the village had solidified. The black-masked man had renovated the interior to use as his gambling hall.
Ershi pushed open the creaking door and stepped inside. Leather mats on the floor marked the gambling tables, with dice and bundles of paper scattered between them as gambling tools. In the midday light, the nighttime frenzy had faded, leaving a chilling stillness in the air.
The black-masked man sat in the single chair at the lone table in the corner. A cloth mask covered everything below his eyes, and a hood shrouded his head, leaving only his gaze visible.
"Failed, huh."
"It was impossible from the start! Even if I'd killed Ena, I'd have been next!"
"Yeah, figured. Never thought it'd succeed anyway."
The black-masked man rose. A sword gleamed in his hand—clearly sharp, yet it whipped through the air like a lash. With each flick of his wrist, the blade twisted side to side like a serpent.
"Eek…!"
Ershi stumbled back, his foot catching on a gambling cup. He toppled backward—and that saved his life. A sword pierced silently through the spot where his neck had been moments before.
"Thought I'd give you a clean death."
The black-masked man withdrew his blade and raised his arm again. But at the precise moment he tensed for the strike, a flying stone shard struck his forearm. He clutched his arm and retreated.
"Who's there."
"You fucking bastard! I let the up parlor slide, and what the hell are you pulling now!"
A man with two front teeth missing glared at the black-masked man, fuming. The masked man recognized him: Dagon, a heavyweight in the West's underworld. His main gig was brokering illegal jobs, but that required at least some muscle and a wide network.
"Weren't we done with our business?"
"We were. Until you started this crazy shit. You fucking…"
A torrent of curses rose in Dagon's throat. His face flushed as he swallowed them down with effort. If he opened his mouth now, they'd all spill out. It was lucky this had happened while he was in the village on Marhal's errand. If it'd blown up in his absence—and if Ena had actually died… Dagon shuddered.
Marhal didn't get mad easily. He seemed like such a pushover sometimes. But when a guy who never lost his cool finally did, it was terrifying. Even the serial killer dubbed the Aphranche sewer monster—who'd slaughtered over a hundred—would piss himself in fear.
"You bastard. Stick your neck out. Do it now, and I'll just take your head clean."
Dagon drew his sword—a rusty shortsword. The black-masked man scoffed.
"No muscle, not even tall. I've always wondered why a guy like you gets called a big shot."
"Chopping people up doesn't need height or bulk."
The black-masked man eyed Dagon cautiously. In this world, power was everything—especially here, where law didn't exist. No matter how silver-tongued or shrewd you were, without personal strength, you couldn't survive among the mad killers who stabbed on whims.
He was curious. How had this unremarkable-looking Dagon, with no standout traits and even seeming deficient, earned such fear?
Still, nothing special.
He didn't seem to have a knight's superhuman physique. His sword stance was full of openings—any stab would be fatal.
Some special ability, then.
The trickiest type. But once you clocked it, they were easy prey. Survive the first activation with a block, and victory was yours.
"I can read your thoughts. Too late, asshole."
The black-masked man's vision dropped. The ground collapsed. Unless you could fly, even a knight couldn't escape a crumbling floor. He tumbled into the sudden hole.
He barely avoided falling flat. It was about eye-level deep, wide enough to touch both sides with outstretched arms. Easy to climb out.
"Where you think you're going."
As he coiled his legs to leap, liquid splashed onto his head. All thought evaporated. Heat and agony scorched his brain.
"Grrrrraaagh!"
"Hey, hang in there. That's the weakest stuff."
"Coward…!"
"Best compliment in our line of work, you know? Stay put. Your fate's not mine to decide."
The earth shifted, binding the black-masked man. Liquid had gotten in his eyes—he was blind. He was left in the cold dirt.
Am I dying like this? What if more liquid pours? Darkness was terror. And he was trapped in cold darkness. Even when a blade pressed his throat, he'd never flinched—this was a new fear.
Something poured over his head again. Not liquid—powder, dirt.
"S-save me! Please! Mercy!"
"Not killing you. Just stay there. Can't handle this, and you mess with him?"
Ignoring the screams below, Dagon shoveled the last of the dirt. He'd left air space—wouldn't die for days. He'd tested it on people plenty.
As Dagon stretched and stood, Ershi trembled behind him, pale as a ghost.
"Hey."
"Y-yes, sir!"
"You're a post from now on. Got it?"
"Yes, sir!"
And so Ershi became a post. I'm a post. I'm a post. He chanted desperately, not even breathing loud.
"Smart one, huh… Tsk. World's shit you don't learn without experiencing."
Dagon sat on a leather gambling mat and pulled out tobacco. He dripped liquid from a flask onto leaf-wrapped roll—whoosh! It lit.
"Phew… Hey."
"Yes, sir!"
"Know anything about the bastard down there?"
"N-no idea! Just that he's a big deal…"
"Fucking hell. Even if I was away a bit, guys like that don't just pop up. Everything's got a reason."
"R-right, of course."
"So where'd this fucker come from?"
"We'll find out starting now."
The answer came from behind. Ershi slowly turned. He didn't want to see the owner of that voice. But he had to. Conflicting urges clashed inside him.
"Hmm, Ershi. I said I forgave you—why come to a place like this again? Even I might not let it slide twice."
"N-no way! I just… just came to say I'm out of this mess!"
"I'd love to believe you, but faith needs actions, right?"
Ershi nodded like a madman. Caught again and dragged to a warehouse… Marhal wouldn't stop this time. Marhal had to forgive him endlessly if begged, but no one bought such a soft touch. That unrealistic leash was how Marhal held power.
"Dagon, the job?"
"Sent the kids, packed my shit to head out. Then this lunatic… Not my fault, right? I ain't the village watch."
"True enough."
"Heh, right?"
"But doesn't a gambling den need your permission?"
"Yeah…?"
Custom demanded pushing out or getting approval from locals for such spots. Break it, and war until one side vanished—dead, buried, or fled tail-between-legs. A den here meant Dagon's okay.
"They were quiet types. Paid tribute on time, no trouble. Checked their background—even clean elsewhere. Didn't expect 'em to snap overnight. God wouldn't know. So not my fault?"
"Still, hard to trust someone who can't manage his own yard."
Ershi was dumbfounded watching Dagon: killer vibe to dozens slain, slave grovel to boss, now rubbing hands obsequiously. The black-masked man who'd crushed rowdy gamblers bare-fisted—buried by this guy, now bowing to Marhal.
"Check the hole first. Didn't kill him?"
"Uh… probably?"
Dagon approached; the hole opened. Inside, the black-masked man huddled fetal, shaking. He lifted his head—but eyes squeezed shut, blind.
Dagon cackled—chilling, inhuman.
"Felt good for a reason. Got it right in the eyes."
"Mercy… mercy… mercy… mercy…"
"Lost his mind with his sight. Hey, climb out. Before I re-bury you."
The black-masked man leaped out in one bound. But he tripped clumsily on landing. Marhal grabbed his hair, yanked off the mask—scarred face revealed.
"Name."
"Colin. Colin Mad."
"Who sent you? Don't hide it. Dagon, got the flask?"
"Which one?"
"Medium. Bones don't melt, right?"
"N-no! Not that, please!"
Colin convulsed. Acid that burned skin on touch—mage stuff. Natural to fear without knowledge, especially blinded by it. No wonder extreme terror at Dagon's brew.
"Skip the special wash and answer. 'No one' won't fly—you knew enough."
"Azenman! Azenman Riantl sent me!"
"Azenman Riantl?"
Dagon's face hardened. Exiled from the duchy for embezzlement, Azenman rarely showed publicly. He'd pivoted: from money to men. Hiring thugs, vagrants, mercenaries—he'd built an underworld empire. Even Dagon hesitated to touch him.
"Shit. This is blowing up."
"Nah, perfect. Was gonna meet him anyway. Might as well drop by."
"Just go meet him?"
"Got a rough idea what'll happen. Dagon, handle what I asked properly. Can't fuck it up."
"Then I'm out?"
"Yeah, go."
Fearing Marhal's change of heart, Dagon bolted from the rundown den.
"Uh, Marhal. So I…"
"Oh, Ershi. Still here? Thought you'd bailed. Nothing for you—go."
Marhal's mildly surprised tone hit Ershi like a shock. Pathetic. In this mess, was he worth so little? Bottomless self-loathing. Truth was, he'd done nothing significant.
Marhal left to check if it was truly done, ignoring Ershi—stabbing deeper at his worthlessness. Everyone craves recognition. No one wants utter dismissal.
"Hahaha…"
Ershi let out a dry laugh. Staggering up, he saw the blind man crouched trembling on the ground. And his weapon nearby.
Ershi gripped the serpentine sword. It nicked his leg—awkward freak weapon—but he ignored it. If no one acknowledged him, he'd do something undeniable.
Gripping the blade two-handed, Ershi raised it high. He swung down. Again. And again. And again.