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Chapter 310: Changes

TAP! TAP! TAP!

The rhythmic clatter of boots striking the ground mingled with the chorus of bustling life.

HOWL! The wind howled endlessly across the plains, sending shivers through travelers as they pulled their cloaks tighter around themselves.

"Move!" A voice barked out, followed by the urgent shuffling of passengers trying to make way.

CREAK!

The wooden wheels of a carriage groaned in protest as the driver, perched high on his seat, snapped the reins.

"Deh!" A raspy shout erupted as he urged his mounts onward, their large hooves plodding across the cobblestone road.

On the slightly inner side of the Arcanis Empire lay the city of Halvath. It was a city sprawling with life and activity, a huge city—if placed in modern times, it would easily be called a metropolis.

Towering stone walls rose high, protecting the bustling heart within, their surfaces lined with banners fluttering in the brisk wind. Horses, carriages, vendors, and pedestrians crowded the road leading to the main gate, forming a winding, seemingly endless queue as travelers waited for their chance to gain entry.

The line moved sluggishly. People huddled together, their breaths visible in the cold air. The sky overhead was covered in thick gray clouds, and the sun barely peeked through, casting a muted light over the land. Voices overlapped, creating an almost tangible wall of sound—children whining with fatigue, merchants arguing over the price of grain, and guards calling out instructions to keep the line in order.

"Next! Step forward!" A guard's voice echoed across the line. He stood in full armor, his halberd pointed ahead, a commanding presence that none dared disobey. Travelers shuffled forward—a family clutching bags full of goods, a lone man with a hood shadowing his face, a woman holding the reins of a nervous horse.

The city gates loomed before them, and an impressive archway was adorned with carvings depicting past victories of the Arcanis Empire—heroes with swords held high, mythical beasts subdued beneath their feet. The gate itself was made of reinforced iron, sturdy and imposing, guarded by two rows of soldiers standing at attention. Their armor glinted dully under the meager sunlight, and their eyes swept over the crowd, watchful for any sign of trouble.

Horses neighed as they grew restless in the cold, their breath misting in the air. Carriages creaked as they rolled forward inch by inch. Vendors, balancing goods on their backs or carts, called out to the waiting travelers, trying to make a last sale before entry.

"Fresh bread! Warm bread! Just a copper for a loaf!" shouted a woman, her voice almost lost in the commotion.

"Spices from the southern isles! Only here! Exotic flavors to savor!" yelled another, his face flushed from the cold.

The long line, filled with people from different walks of life—merchants, farmers, adventurers—stretched along the main road that led into Halvath. Each person bore a different story, their faces showing expressions of weariness, hope, or impatience. Some looked forward to a warm meal and a roof over their heads, while others eyed the grand walls with apprehension, uncertain of what awaited them within.

Beyond the gate, the sprawling city could be glimpsed—stone-paved streets weaving between tightly packed buildings, rising towers, and colorful banners fluttering in the wind. The air was thick with the promise of opportunity, a sense of grandeur that was tangible even from afar. The city was alive, a heartbeat felt in the hustle and bustle of its people.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted near the front of the line. A man, hood pulled low, was arguing with one of the guards, his hands gesticulating wildly.

"I told you, I have business in the city!" he said, his voice carrying an edge of desperation.

The guard shook his head, his expression hard. "No papers, no entry. Regulations are clear."

The man cursed under his breath, turning away angrily as the people behind him shifted uncomfortably. The guards remained impassive, their discipline unbroken as they resumed managing the line.

The wind howled again, carrying with it the scent of the city beyond—the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat, the faintest hint of spices, the distant laughter and chatter of the people who had already made it inside. For those waiting, it was a reminder of what lay just beyond the gates—warmth, food, and the chance to escape the biting chill of the northern wind.

Slowly, the line moved on, inching closer, each step bringing the travelers nearer to the bustling life and opportunities that awaited within the grand city of Halvath.

Since the line was long, many people were discussing recent issues—news of bandit attacks on nearby roads, rumors of a new tax, and whispers about tensions brewing in the southern provinces. The conversation soon shifted to complaints about the mercenaries running rampant in the region. 'Those bastards need to tone it down,' one man muttered angrily. 'They're just being too much lately,' another added, shaking his head in frustration. The group nodded in agreement, voicing their shared disapproval of the mercenaries' unchecked behavior.

Just then, the topic shifted to a recent event that had captured the attention of many—a martial arts tournament held in the neighboring territory of Marquis Ventor. "Did you hear about that tournament in Ventor's lands?" an older man asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. "They say some young martial artist made quite a name for himself. They even call him the "Sword Demon."'

Most people scoffed at the mention, dismissing it with waves of their hands. "Sword Demon? For a kid?" one woman said incredulously. "They're being overly dramatic, as usual. A grand name like that for some youngster who probably hasn't even seen real hardship."

Another chimed in, "Exactly! People are just overestimating these young ones nowadays. They can't handle the harsh conditions of our lands. They think a few fancy moves in a tournament makes them legends."

A chorus of agreements followed, the older travelers shaking their heads with disdain at the notion that someone so young could earn such a lofty title.

A hush fell over the group as the conversation turned darker. The mention of the Cloud Heavens Sect sent a ripple through the gathered travelers, their earlier dismissive tone replaced with quiet apprehension.

"Did you hear the rumors about the Cloud Heavens Sect?" a middle-aged man whispered, leaning in as though the mere act of speaking their name might summon trouble.

"Rumors?" another man snorted, his voice low but heavy with anger. "It's no rumor. It's the truth. They've been exposed—using children as furnaces to cultivate their so-called purity."

A collective shudder passed through the group, and one woman gasped, covering her mouth. "Children? As furnaces? That's monstrous. How could a sect so revered stoop so low?"

"Power," muttered the older man who had first brought up the tournament. He stared at the city gates with a grim expression, his voice laden with disgust. "It's always about power. Their elders and so-called paragons cared more about their cultivation than their humanity."

A younger man, clad in a patched cloak, scoffed, his voice dripping with bitterness. "Humanity? That's a laugh. The Cloud Heavens Sect has been corrupt for years. They just kept it hidden behind their golden robes and self-righteous smiles."

The group fell silent, the weight of the revelations sinking in. Only the creak of the slow-moving line and the distant clamor of the city filled the void for a moment.

"They always acted like they were above everyone else," said the first woman, her voice trembling with fury. "Paragons of virtue, they called themselves! Preaching discipline and righteousness while sacrificing children for their own gain."

Another man, younger but just as weary-looking, spat on the cobblestones. "They had everyone fooled. People sent their children to that sect thinking they'd be safe, thinking they'd have a future. Instead, they were feeding them to the flames."

A soft murmur of agreement rippled through the group. It wasn't just anger—they spoke with the pain of betrayal. The Cloud Heavens Sect had been a symbol of hope and power for many, a beacon of stability in a tumultuous world. To discover their true nature felt like a blow to the very foundation of trust.

"I heard it was someone from the tournament who uncovered it," another traveler added hesitantly, glancing at the others. "They said a lone swordsman exposed the sect. Some say he was one of the competitors, that 'Sword Demon' they were talking about."

"That boy?" The older man frowned, skeptical. "How would someone so young have the means to take on a sect like that? No matter how corrupt they are, their power is nothing to scoff at."

"Does it matter how he did it?" The woman from before folded her arms, her voice fierce. "What matters is someone had the courage to stand up to them."

The younger man in the patched cloak nodded. "Courage or madness, it worked. Don't you know, the Marquis Ventor and Count Olarion had issued a decree, and they are hunting down the members of Cloud Heavens Sect."

"Of course…" the older man muttered, his voice heavy with both understanding and unease. "It was a radical move, but what choice did they have? A sect that powerful, that entrenched in corruption—it needed to be uprooted."

The woman, still clutching her child, whispered, "But at what cost? This kind of purge… it never stops with just the guilty."

Her words hung in the air as the group shuffled forward, their footsteps echoing against the stone road. They turned a corner where the wind picked up, carrying with it a sharp, acrid smell. Ahead, a grim sight awaited them.

A wooden cross loomed over the road, its rough surface darkened by the weather and stained with streaks of red. Three bodies hung lifelessly from its arms, their forms swaying slightly in the relentless wind. The faces of the dead were obscured, but the crowd knew their identities—or at least, what they had been accused of.

"Witches must die…" someone muttered grimly, the words a faint echo of a chant that had reverberated through the region for months.

The younger man in the patched cloak pulled his hood tighter, averting his eyes. "So, the witch hunt's reached here too," he murmured. "Nearly two months now, and it's only growing worse."

Indeed….

It had been two months since a decree was issued….

And four months since the tournament….

PAT! PAT! PAT!

And under the slowly drizzling rain, a beautiful horse continued to walk…..

Chapter 311: Halvath

The city of Halvath was a living, breathing beast of stone and flesh. Its streets pulsed with life, from the clatter of hooves on cobblestones to the shouts of merchants hawking wares in the bustling marketplaces. Smoke from blacksmiths' forges mingled with the aroma of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread, creating a scent uniquely Halvath's—a mix of industry, trade, and survival.

Through the winding streets walked a young man named Kaelen Drast, his footsteps steady but unhurried. At twenty, he was fresh to the world of mercenary work, his armor still bearing the polished sheen of newness, his sword strapped to his side a little too perfectly positioned, betraying his inexperience. Yet his strides carried determination, a hint of the fire that had driven him to leave his quiet village and seek his fortune among the hardened fighters and hired blades of Halvath.

The city had drawn him like a moth to a flame. Halvath was famous for its mercenaries, a hub where warriors, adventurers, and sellswords converged. The low taxes on mercenary contracts, the constant flow of trading caravans, and the near-endless demand for protection and muscle made it the perfect breeding ground for a young hopeful like Kaelen.

As he passed through the crowded streets, Kaelen couldn't help but marvel at the sights around him. Mercenaries of all shapes and sizes loitered at taverns, their mismatched armor and weapons a testament to their many battles. Veterans sat at tables, swapping exaggerated tales of heroism, their laughter booming over the din of the street. Others sharpened blades, their faces grim and focused, while younger mercenaries like him hurried to guild postings, eager to secure their next job.

"Watch it, boy!" a grizzled dwarf barked, nearly spilling his tankard of ale as Kaelen sidestepped a cart laden with barrels. The young man mumbled an apology, his cheeks coloring slightly, and continued on his way.

The Mercenary Guild loomed ahead, a large, fortress-like structure with banners fluttering in the wind, each marked with the sigil of a sword crossed with a quill. The building was Halvath's pride, a testament to its unique role as a haven for mercenaries. Inside, contracts were drawn, disputes settled, and reputations made—or broken.

Kaelen adjusted the strap of his satchel and straightened his back as he approached the guild's grand doors. Carved from heavy oak, the doors bore intricate reliefs of famous mercenaries locked in battle, their deeds immortalized in the wood. With a deep breath, he pushed one of the doors open and stepped inside.

The interior was bustling, filled with the sounds of voices, the clink of coins, and the faint scratch of quills on parchment. The guild hall was vast, with high ceilings supported by thick wooden beams. A massive board dominated one wall, covered in notices and contracts ranging from caravan escorts to monster subjugations. Mercenaries crowded around it, some pointing at postings, others arguing over who had the right to claim a job.

Kaelen hesitated for a moment, taking it all in. He had been here only once before—to register as a member. Today, however, he was here for his first real contract.

"New blood, huh?" A voice cut through his thoughts. He turned to see a tall, lean man leaning casually against a pillar. The man's armor was scratched and battered, his short-cropped hair streaked with gray despite his youthful face. "You've got that wide-eyed look about you. First job?"

Kaelen nodded, trying not to let his nerves show. "Yeah. Any tips?"

The man chuckled, his sharp blue eyes gleaming. "Plenty, but you wouldn't listen to half of them. Just make sure you read the fine print on those contracts. Guild won't save your skin if you sign up for something beyond your ability."

"Thanks for the advice," Kaelen said, offering a small smile before moving toward the board. He scanned the notices, his heart pounding as he read each one. Some were straightforward—guarding caravans or delivering messages. Others were more dangerous, involving hunting down bandits or dealing with beasts that plagued the nearby forests.

Finally, his eyes landed on a posting that seemed manageable: Escort needed for a merchant caravan heading to Valford. Seven days' travel. Pay: 20 silver pieces upon safe arrival. It wasn't glamorous, but it was a start.

Kaelen reached for the notice, only to have his hand intercepted by another—a burly man with a thick beard and a scar running down his cheek. The man's lips twisted into a smirk as he plucked the posting off the board.

"Sorry, kid. Too slow."

Kaelen clenched his fists but forced himself to stay calm. "I saw it first."

Kaelen's jaw tightened as he stared at the burly man, who now held the contract smugly in his hand. His first instinct was to argue, to demand his right to take the job he'd already chosen, but his eyes drifted to the tattoo on the man's forearm, partially visible beneath his rolled-up sleeve.

A snarling dog's head, inked in black and red, marked his skin—a symbol as infamous as the man himself. It was the sign of the Mad Dogs, the most troublesome mercenary group in Halvath.

They were notorious for their ruthlessness and their complete disregard for any sense of law or order. While most mercenaries operated independently, the Mad Dogs worked as a tightly knit group, their strength and unity allowing them to dominate jobs, intimidate rivals, and get away with actions that would see others cast out of the guild—or worse.

Kaelen's resolve wavered. He knew their reputation. Everyone did. These weren't the kind of people you crossed unless you wanted your life to take a very sharp turn for the worse. Even the guild, with all its rules and regulations, seemed reluctant to rein them in. Rumor had it that each member of the Mad Dogs was strong enough to lead a team of their own, but they chose to band together, making them a force few dared challenge.

The burly man, noticing Kaelen's hesitation, grinned. It was the grin of someone who knew exactly the effect his presence had on others. "What's the matter, boy? Something caught your eye?"

Kaelen glanced down at the tattoo, and then quickly looked away. His heart was pounding, a mix of anger and frustration boiling in his chest. He wanted to say something, to stand his ground, but his practical side screamed at him to back off. Starting a fight with a Mad Dog over a simple escort job wasn't just foolish—it was suicidal.

"Nothing," Kaelen muttered, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

"Good," the man said, his grin widening as he folded the contract and slipped it into his belt. "Keep it that way. Wouldn't want you biting off more than you can chew."

Kaelen stepped back, swallowing his pride as the man walked away, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor. Around them, other mercenaries watched, some with curiosity, others with knowing smirks. It wasn't the first time a new recruit had been pushed around by the Mad Dogs, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

The lean man from earlier—Dain—approached Kaelen again, his expression sympathetic but wary. "Tough break, kid. But you did the right thing."

Kaelen turned to him, his frustration bubbling over. "How is backing down the right thing? That was my contract!"

"Because you're still breathing," Dain said bluntly, crossing his arms. "The Mad Dogs don't play fair. If you'd pushed it, you'd be lucky to leave here with just a broken nose."

"But why does the guild let them get away with it?" Kaelen demanded, his voice low but heated. "They're supposed to enforce the rules."

Dain sighed, glancing around to ensure no one was listening too closely. "Look, the guild's not blind. They know exactly what the Mad Dogs are like. But here's the thing—they get results. When a contract's too dangerous for anyone else, they take it. When a job's a mess and needs someone who doesn't care about collateral damage, they're the ones people turn to."

"That doesn't justify letting them do whatever they want," Kaelen argued, his fists still clenched.

"It doesn't," Dain agreed, his tone softening. "But power talks, kid. And they've got plenty of it. The guild doesn't want to risk losing them, so they turn a blind eye as long as the Dogs don't push too far."

Kaelen looked back toward the board, now feeling the weight of his inexperience more keenly than ever. He had come here to prove himself, to take his first step as a mercenary, but already the world of Halvath's hired blades was showing its teeth.

Dain clapped him on the shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. "Don't let it get to you. This city's tough, but there's always another job. And next time, maybe don't pick the same posting as one of them."

Kaelen forced a small nod, though his frustration remained.

'I wish...I wish someone would one day show them their place!'

Just as he wished, the door opened.

Chapter 312: Halvath (2)

CREAK!

The door opened.

It was not particularly loud or anything, it just happened that Kaelen was looking at the door at that time.

Kaelen's gaze lingered on the door as it creaked open, almost as if his unspoken wish had summoned something—or someone. The bustling noise of the guild seemed to fade for a moment as a figure stepped through, cloaked in dark fabric that fluttered slightly with the motion. The figure's movements were deliberate, not hurried yet not hesitant either, exuding a quiet confidence that immediately drew Kaelen's attention.

The young mercenary frowned slightly, realizing he didn't recognize the person. Over the past week of frequent visits to the guild, Kaelen had familiarized himself with many of the regulars, from seasoned veterans to fellow newcomers like himself. This stranger wasn't one of them. That left only two possibilities: either they were a client looking to hire or another mercenary—but one clearly from out of town.

The figure paused just inside the door, surveying the room with a detached air before pulling back their hood. The dark cloak slipped away to reveal a man with sharp, angular features. His face was pale but unremarkable at first glance—average, almost forgettable, if not for the quiet intensity in his demeanor. However, as Kaelen's eyes traveled upward, they caught on two things that immediately set this man apart.

The first was his eyes—pitch black and slightly unnatural. There was no glimmer, only an unsettling void that seemed to swallow light. They weren't the eyes of someone afflicted or weak, though. Instead, they carried an unyielding focus, a calm yet disquieting presence that made Kaelen's breath hitch momentarily.

The second was a long scar running diagonally across his right eye, stark and jagged against his otherwise smooth skin. It was the kind of mark that told a story of survival, a battle fought and barely won. Yet, despite the obvious injury, the man's posture betrayed no weakness or hesitation.

Kaelen blinked, forcing himself to look away before he stared too long. There were plenty of strange sights in Halvath, and he reminded himself not to dwell on them. Still, something about this man unnerved him in a way he couldn't quite explain. He wasn't outwardly threatening—no bulky armor or oversized weapon—yet his very presence seemed to shift the atmosphere in the guild, drawing glances and murmurs from others.

Kaelen leaned against the nearby wall, his arms crossed, as he watched the stranger make his way toward the receptionist's desk. With nothing else to occupy his time—his only job opportunity stolen by the Mad Dog mercenary—he had little else to do but observe. The stranger moved with an air of calm purpose, weaving through the bustling hall with an ease that made others instinctively step aside.

The receptionist, a sharp-featured woman named Mira, was perched behind the desk. Mira was well-known among the mercenaries for her no-nonsense attitude and meticulous organization. She rarely minced words and was quick to dismiss anyone who didn't meet the guild's standards.

The stranger reached the desk, placing his hands lightly on the counter. His voice was calm but firm, carrying just enough volume to cut through the noise around them. "I'm looking to hire a group of mercenaries."

Mira glanced up from her ledger, raising an eyebrow as she surveyed him. "You've come to the right place. But first, let's get the basics out of the way. What kind of job are we talking about?"

"A clean-up job, let's say."

Mira's pen paused mid-scratch as the stranger's words registered. Her sharp eyes flicked up from the ledger, narrowing slightly. "A clean-up job, huh?" she said, her tone neutral but carrying an edge. Around her, a few nearby mercenaries stilled, their ears perking up despite themselves.

The term wasn't uncommon in Halvath, but it carried a weight that everyone in the guild understood. Clean-up jobs were rarely glamorous; they often involved rooting out bandit dens, clearing dangerous beasts, or wiping out groups that someone powerful wanted gone—quietly. These jobs came with high risks and even higher moral ambiguity, something that didn't sit well with everyone. But in the world of mercenaries, coin spoke louder than ethics.

"That's going to be expensive," Mira continued, setting her pen down and

"That's going to be expensive," Mira continued, setting her pen down and folding her hands atop the desk. "How many people are you looking to hire?"

"Twenty," the stranger replied evenly, his tone unchanging.

A soft murmur rippled through the mercenaries gathered nearby. Even Mira raised an eyebrow at the number, her sharp features hardening into skepticism. "Twenty mercenaries for a clean-up job? That's not a request you hear every day." She leaned back slightly in her chair, her fingers drumming against the wood of the desk. "You do realize that even assembling a group that size, let alone paying them, is no small matter."

"I'm aware," the man said, his black eyes unflinching. "But the job warrants it."

"Does it?" Mira pressed, her tone sharpening slightly. "You're asking for a small army. That means either the target's bigger than most bandit groups, or you're hiding something."

The stranger remained calm, his posture unchanging. "The target is large enough to warrant twenty. I'm willing to provide details once terms are agreed upon."

Mira studied him for a moment, her eyes narrowing further. "Fine. Let's talk terms. A job like this is going to cost you a fortune. Twenty mercenaries, even at standard rates, would run you thousands of silver pieces—likely more, depending on the specifics."

The man reached into his cloak and produced a pouch, setting it lightly on the desk. Mira opened it and began counting the coins inside with practiced efficiency. After a moment, she frowned and set the pouch aside.

"This isn't even a fraction of what you'd need for a job that size," she said bluntly. "You could hire two, maybe three people for this amount. If you're looking for twenty, you're going to need a much bigger budget."

Kaelen, still leaning against the wall, let out a quiet scoff. What is this guy thinking? Twenty mercenaries? Does he think we're that desperate? He shook his head slightly, muttering under his breath. No way anyone here is signing up for this.

The stranger didn't react to Mira's dismissal. Instead, he leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice so that only Mira—and a few eavesdroppers like Kaelen—could hear. "That's an advance. I'll provide the rest once the job is completed."

Mira snorted, folding her arms. "You think anyone here's going to trust that? Advance or not, twenty mercenaries aren't going to sign on without guarantees."

"You misunderstand," the stranger said calmly, his voice still firm but polite. "I'm not looking for twenty random mercenaries. I'm looking for twenty capable ones. People are willing to take risks. And I suspect I'll find them here."

Mira raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharp. "Capable? Sure. But risks? No one here's going to risk their life on promises, especially not for a clean-up job you're being so cagey about."

Kaelen's curiosity deepened despite his earlier scoffing. He watched the stranger closely, trying to gauge whether he was serious or simply desperate. The scarred man's composure didn't falter, even under Mira's scrutiny. There was something unnerving about how calm he remained as if he already knew how this conversation would play out.

The stranger remained silent for a beat, his dark eyes steady on Mira, who met his gaze with a sigh of exasperation. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping against the desk rhythmically.

"Well, if you're dead set on finding someone who'll take a commission like this, even with your... budget constraints, there is a group." Mira paused, glancing around the room, almost as if to ensure no one else was within earshot. Her voice dropped slightly as she continued, "But I'll warn you, they're not exactly the most reliable."

The stranger tilted his head slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Who?"

Mira hesitated for a moment before replying, her tone heavy with skepticism. "The Mad Dogs."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of the stranger's lips as he repeated the name, his voice carrying a subtle undertone of amusement. "Mad Dogs? Quite a name."

Mira nodded, her expression darkening. "Indeed. It's not just a nickname—it's a reputation. They're skilled, I'll give them that. But they're reckless, chaotic, and about as trustworthy as a viper in your boot. If you hire them, expect trouble."

"Trouble doesn't bother me," the stranger replied calmly, his faint smile lingering. "Sometimes, it's the troublemakers who get things done."

Mira narrowed her eyes, studying him for a moment. "You might think that now, but I've seen clients regret working with them more times than I can count. They've got the talent to back up their bravado, but they've also got a habit of turning on their employers if the job goes south—or if they think they're not being paid enough."

The stranger leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Where can I find them?"

Mira sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose as if trying to stave off a headache. "They're camped just outside the city. They're not welcome within the walls for... obvious reasons. But before you go running off to them, I have to ask—are you sure about this? There are plenty of other options if you're willing to adjust your expectations."

"Mad Dogs," the stranger repeated, ignoring her question as he stood straight once more. "Thank you for the information."

Mira muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she returned to her ledger. "Your funeral."

Kaelen, still leaning against the wall, watched as the scarred man turned and walked toward the door with that same deliberate stride, his dark cloak fluttering slightly behind him. There was something unsettling about the way he carried himself—calm, assured as if he'd already made up his mind long before entering the guild.

As the door creaked shut behind the stranger, Kaelen couldn't help but wonder what kind of person would willingly seek out the Mad Dogs—and what kind of job could possibly warrant it.