The Puppet's Strings
The southern outskirts of the Sunin Kingdom breathed with a heavy, rhythmic calm. But in the slums, that calm was a mask. The local tavern was a cacophony of clinking wooden mugs and the low hum of desperate men. Here, the air was thick with the scent of cheap rum, stale tobacco, and the unwashed gear of adventurers.
"You're joking," a veteran adventurer scoffed, leaning back as a thick cloud of cigar smoke escaped his lips. "Seraphim? That 'Whore Nation' fixed in two months? That's not a miracle, that's a fairy tale."
"I'm telling you, I was there," his companion hissed, leaning over the scarred table. "The red-light districts? Gone. Every brothel, every back-alley dealer—vanished as if the earth swallowed them whole. The place is... reformed."
"Must be the White Plague," a raspy voice interjected from the shadows behind them.
The table went silent. Even the bard's lute seemed to falter for a heartbeat.
"The White Plague?" a younger adventurer asked, stepping closer. "You mean the myth is real?"
The old man nodded, his eyes cloudy with memory. "He is. I've seen him. Hair like the morning fog and eyes like a sea of fresh blood. A magnificent, terrifying being."
"White hair and crimson eyes..." the youth whispered, his face paling. "An Avantris. If one of them is building a nation, the Great Powers are in for a nightmare."
A maid paused her pouring, her brow furrowed. "Build a nation? You mean Avangard?"
"Exactly," the old man grunted. "He doesn't just rule; he dominates. Avangard controls nearly 70% of the trade across six nations. Even the Elves—those arrogant forest-dwellers—have bowed to his ledger. Why do you think your bread dropped from three dimes to two? Why is a house suddenly five gold coins instead of eight? He's manipulating the very foundation of our lives."
"But isn't that good?" the maid asked innocently.
The old man stood up, his cloak heavy with dust. "For us? Yes. For the Queens of the two Empires? It's a declaration of war. A man who brings prosperity without their permission is a threat to their 'order.' We are many, but our minds are trapped in the cages they built. That boy... he's breaking the locks."
In the darkest corner, a lone man adjusted his hood. Yukino Asmulda listened in silence. Eight years had carved deep lines into his face; his beard was sturdy, and his eyes—once bright—were now hollow pits of experience. He rose, the black blade at his hip clinking against his rugged armor.
He stepped into the cold night air, tossing a copper coin to a beggar.
"You ain't supposed to be here, son," the beggar wheezed.
Yukino didn't slow down. "Aren't we all?"
A scream echoed from a nearby alley. Three bandits were closing in on a teenage girl. Yukino didn't hesitate. He entered the alley like a ghost.
"Another fodder for the grinder!" one bandit roared, lunging with a rusted knife.
Thump.
Yukino's boot met the man's gut with the force of a battering ram. As the bandit doubled over, Yukino's blade sang. A single, clinical thrust to the throat.
"Next," Yukino said, his voice as cold as the winter wind.
A kunai whistled through the air. Yukino caught it mid-flight and hurled it back with reinforced strength. It tore a hole clean through the second bandit's chest. The third, a mage, scrambled to ignite a fireball.
Splat.
Yukino sliced the flame in two, leaped, and delivered a horizontal flash. The mage's face split in a perfect line. The girl, paralyzed by the sheer efficiency of the slaughter, turned and bolted. Yukino didn't watch her go. He just looked at the blood on his steel and thought of names from a past life. Yuriko... Solvayne... Nyxelle... where are you?
Miles away, in the gleaming halls of the Asheviliah Kingdom, the atmosphere was far more refined—and far more lethal.
King Alaric stood before the curtains, ready to address his court. He never saw the shadow emerge behind him.
CRACK.
Leornars was a blur. He intercepted the assassin, grabbing the back of his neck and slamming him into the stone wall with enough force to spiderweb the masonry.
"Bellian," Leornars commanded.
As a second assassin charged Alaric with a poison-tipped blade, a massive silhouette materialized. Bellian appeared, his Great Sword held lazily in one hand. With a flick of the wrist, he batted the assassin away like a bothersome insect.
Snap.
The heavy chandelier above the King's head gave way.
"Sumi."
A torrent of high-pressure water erupted as Sumi manifested, blasting the falling iron and glass through the castle roof before it could touch a hair on Alaric's head. But the coordination was relentless. A final assassin dropped from the rafters, throwing a dagger.
Alaric cried out as the blade grazed his leg.
Flash.
Leornars appeared instantly at the assassin's side. A single, brutal heel kick to the nape snapped the man's neck before he could even hit the floor.
"What do we do with them?" Alaric gasped, clutching his bleeding leg.
The doors creaked open. Salene entered, her expression shifting from professional boredom to a terrifying, ecstatic glee as she saw the bodies.
"Are they for me?" she asked, her voice melodic.
Leornars nodded. With a flick of her hand, a dimensional storage gate opened. The unconscious assassins were sucked in, their bones audibly snapping and twisting as they were compressed to fit the void. She walked over to the final one on the floor.
"I'll carry this one myself," Salene chirped. She pulled a syringe filled with a glowing green fluid and jammed it into the man's neck.
His molecules began to unbind. His screams became wet, bubbling sounds as his body collapsed into a sentient, green slime. Salene scooped him into a glass jar, the man's distorted face still visible through the liquid.
"I'll have them talking by morning, Lord Leornars," she said with a perfect curtsy before humming her way out of the room.
Leornars turned his gaze toward Alaric. His white hair caught the torchlight, and his crimson eyes glowed with an unsettling intensity.
"You see, Alaric? You are a target in your own home," Leornars said, his voice low and dangerous. "You might wear the crown, but you aren't in charge. Tell me who the puppet master is, or I'll stop cutting the strings."
Alaric trembled, sweat drenching his royal robes. "I... I need time. Please."
Leornars didn't blink. He simply turned and walked away, his presence leaving a vacuum of cold authority in the room.
He turned back toward Alaric one last time, the movement sharp and fluid. With a flick of his wrist, a vial filled with a shimmering, translucent liquid whistled through the air. Alaric caught it with trembling hands.
"Heal that wound or you'll die from the poison," Leornars said coldly.
Without waiting for a thank you, he vanished into the shadows of the corridor, his crimson eyes the last thing to fade from the King's sight.