The Undefeated Emperor
Thanks to Strekl's training—or maybe because she'd witnessed people dying and blood spraying so many times—Bayola's hemophobia had improved, if only slightly. She no longer passed out at the sight of blood splattering. But it wasn't cured. She still hated seeing blood. It terrified her. Whenever red liquid burst from a living body, her stomach churned and her mood soured. So Bayola trudging toward the arena looked just like a cow being hauled to the slaughterhouse.
"No need to be scared. The place we're heading to today isn't one where blood sprays that much."
"Instead, teeth will be flying."
"Have you been there, Strekl?"
"Don't need to. I can tell just looking at those fists. They weren't made from punching people. Trees, rocks... or maybe iron."
"Before we were swallowed by demons, my family managed cities for generations. In the Aphranche dialect, it's called a nute; in words close to the duchy's tongue, a tax collector."
"Do tax collectors catch people too?"
"If they don't want to die, they have to."
There was no place in the world where "tax collector" carried a positive connotation. In the West, they were seen as a landlord's enforcers—jobs only heartless bastards would take. A family that had done it for generations? Devil spawn. Out in the city, people stared with contempt. If you were lucky, it was just curses; if not, outright attacks.
"That's the opposite of the tax collectors I know. Is Aphranche weird?"
The tax collectors Bayola knew were death gods scarier than any lord in their domain. They were the lord's proxies—attacking one was like attacking the lord himself. You could lop off their head on the spot without punishment.
"Similar words, but not the same. A nute isn't a lord's proxy, and hiring even one mercenary was a grave crime for them. So they had to protect themselves."
"What a strange system."
"Not all laws make sense. We're here."
The arena was a tavern. Cheers and curses echoed nonstop from inside. A thunderous crash rattled the closed door like it might shatter. A match had ended.
Even Bayola, a first-timer, could vaguely picture what was going on inside. As Hugo stepped in, the noise died down. Then, when the winner emerged, cheers incomparable to before swallowed the whole area.
"Let's go in."
Bayola followed Marhal into the tavern. Tables had been shoved against the walls, leaving the center wide open, ringed by spectators. Hugo had already stripped off his shirt and was striding to the middle. The crowd parted for him naturally.
"The king's procession! The king's procession! It's been ages! The undefeated emperor appears! Who dares challenge the king?!"
A few drinkers hurled their mugs. The smallest among them was still half a head taller than average, their forearms bulging visibly even through clothes. Hugo wasn't small, but next to these guys, he looked ordinary.
Some back-and-forth, then the fight began. The crowd's roars swelled louder. A boy with a bucket circled, collecting bets. The outcome was obvious without watching. Hugo's opponent was huge but no knight. Hugo, meanwhile, was a superhuman whose physical prowess rivaled any knight.
Bayola scanned for Marhal. But in that brief moment, both he and Strekl had vanished.
Suddenly, someone grabbed the back of her head. A chill raced up her spine.
"Don't roll your eyes like some young master. Act like you know what's what even if you don't."
"Marin?"
The hand belonged to Marin, her eyes fierce like a soldier on the battlefield.
"I hate babysitting, but without me, you'd end up a real slave. Be grateful."
"Sh-should I say thanks?"
"Nah. Just paying a debt."
Marin dragged Bayola by the hand to a dim corner. She stayed vigilant.
"Is it that big a deal? Looks like over a hundred people in here. What's gonna happen? And we came with Hugo."
"Lots of people, and you're chums with the big shots, so safe?"
"Isn't it?"
Marin swept her gaze over the tavern. Hugo had just floored his first challenger and was facing the second—a giant nearly twice his size. Each step shook the floor; he was properly trained. Hugo could've dodged the blows easily but didn't. Punch for punch. Blood and sweat flew with every impact.
Men's idea of a thrill.
Dodge if you can. What was the point of tanking hits like an idiot? If you liked blood spray, go to a deathmatch pit and watch guts spill. That had everything.
Marin's eyes kept scanning. The servant clumsily mimicking a noble butler while serving drinks, the bettors cheering the fights. And one guy glancing around like a lamb in a wolf pack.
Found him.
"See him? The one's begging everywhere to let him snatch me."
"...Kinda stands out."
Bayola spotted the same man. And why Marin said that made sense. She glanced at her own hand. Pale. White. No scars. Blisters would heal soon enough, but still fine. The man was the same. Clean skin, gentle face, slender build. Amid these rough types etched with hard living, a noble stuck out in looks and manner. You could blindfold everyone here, and they'd still pick him out.
"Young master's not wandering here alone at night. He had a protector. Someone who could guarantee basic safety on dark streets."
As Marin said, the man soon joined another. Scarred face, mercenary gear.
"He has a protector, and plenty of people around. Like you said, shall we see if he's safe?"
"What the hell's gonna happen?"
No matter how hard she looked, Bayola saw no sign of trouble. Hugo was dropping challenger after challenger, all knight-level superhumans now. He didn't dodge their fists either. Tit for tat. Stubbornly pressing his fight. The cheers shook the building. Coins rained into the bet bucket. The clink of metal on metal mesmerized more to toss in cash. Excitement turned to frenzy. Some looked already lost to madness.
Bayola and Marin kept eyes on the man. Hugo floored another. As the tiny tavern drowned in mania, the most rational criminals moved.
The mercenary beside the man gaped wide—not excitement or cheers. Agony, raw agony twisted his face. His body crumpled, vanishing into the crowd. Simultaneously, five or six around the man seized his limbs. Hands clamped his mouth, ropes bound arms and legs. They dragged him through one of the tavern's side doors.
It happened before anyone could count to ten.
Bayola rubbed her eyes. She couldn't believe what she'd seen right in front of her. The West had shattered her common sense plenty, but nothing like this. One dead, one kidnapped. In a tavern packed with near—or over—a hundred people. Yet no one batted an eye. Some nearby had clearly noticed but turned back to the fights like nothing happened.
"Wh-what the hell? This okay?!"
"Same at the inn, huh? You ain't actually dumb."
"No one was around then!"
The first night back from the land race, a drunk had grabbed her arm outside the inn for air. Fine, maybe that once. Drunk out of his mind, villagers all inside eating. But here? People everywhere. Murder and kidnapping in plain sight.
"Don't expect patience from folks with no future. Those guys... like you said, ain't human. No reason for monsters to follow human rules. Others know tangling with monsters gets you nothing good."
"You're right. Even animals store food and hibernate for winter. If they can't see the future right in front of them, they ain't human. Deserve to be called monsters."
"Lord Marhal?"
Marin jolted off the wall. Marhal had appeared soundlessly, wooden cup in hand.
"Came back after ages, said hi to the owner. Looks like something happened meanwhile. I can guess what. Good work, Marin."
"N-no! What I did..."
"What? Over ten eyeing this one."
"What?"
Bayola was the shocked one. She whipped around like a madwoman. Sure enough, several who'd met her eyes hurriedly looked away.
Bayola clapped a hand over her mouth. Dry heaves rose. Her gut clenched, and so did something in her chest. Revulsion. Distrust. She couldn't believe in humanity anymore—or reason itself. The floor spun; her head reeled. She didn't want to stay here.
"You look rough. Marin, take Bay and head back first?"
"Yeah."
Marin slipped a hand under Bayola's side and hoisted her like luggage.
"Wh-what?!"
"Stay still. You're in the way."
Marin carried Bayola straight out of the tavern.
"Bigger shock than expected."
"You never get frenzy till you live it."
"Even after a few times, it's hard to adapt. Everyone's history is different. Anyway, looks like it."
As Marin exited with Bayola, someone followed right after. Even after that one-handed lift stunt, tailing meant they could take Marin.
"I've roamed shithole districts, but this is bad. No management?"
"High transient population. Pro and con. Draws in hit-and-runners nonstop. That's what his lordship wants too."
Stagnant water rots; flowing doesn't. Not just for water. People, money—they thrive when moving. Stagnant? They clump, corrupt, self-destruct.
"Let's go. Newcomers should know eastern trends better than us."
Couldn't drag Hugo. That brawling was part of his school's training. Pull him early, and he'd underperform robbing carriages. Marhal and Strekl left the tavern, tracking Marin's prints.
"Left deep tracks on purpose. Nothing left for me to teach."
"Maybe a cut above you, Strekl."
"Definitely better than a killer like me."
Strekl wouldn't claim an easy life. But he'd started as a knight's squire, become a knight—a near-noble path. Back-alley savvy? Marin over him.
Marhal halted, chasing Marin and Bayola, at a scream brushing his ear.
"You good solo over there, Strekl?"
"No issue."
Strekl crouched, then charged like a raging stallion. Once he vanished into shadows, Marhal knocked on a house door next to the tavern.
"Knock knock. Anyone home? No? Then come out—you're there, right?"
Marhal stepped back. A sword thrust through the door.
"Oh. You can do that too?"
Basic trick, but rare in real fights. Well-practiced. Lowlifes who'd killed plenty.
Marhal drew a quill pen from his pocket. Borrowed from Hugo for carriage raids. Good chance to recalibrate senses. And deadlier at night than day.
The sword withdrew. Door splintered; a man burst out. Marhal pointed the quill's tip.
Snap.
The man froze midair.
"Ma-ma... mage?"
"That sword hilt crest. Union man, huh? Not just kidnapping—something bigger? Ah, no need to answer. I'll find out myself."
Marhal drew a dagger from his belt. He brushed past, gifting the man a chest hole. Withdrawing the quill, the man spasmed to the ground.
"Empire, Union, Holy Empire now. Guess I should look into it."
Marhal reached into his pocket again. Not a weapon this time—an instrument. Harmonica, unused lately.
"People fear the unknown. Heard that plenty."
And what was unknown if not a night raider playing harmonica?
Marhal, now the unknown, stepped into the unlit house.