Himmel and Texan walked the winding paths of the capital with their ears wide open, senses sharpened like a pair of hounds tracking scent. The city pulsed with energy — conversations buzzed in shaded corners, iron-shod wheels creaked over uneven cobblestone, and the scent of street food, blood, and incense mingled in the dry autumn air. Their boots crunched softly as they stepped through sun and shadow alike, eyes flicking to every alley, every merchant's stall, every whispered name.
They weren't sightseeing — they were listening, hunting. Every murmured rumor was a breadcrumb.
Their target was the Third Prince — a man whispered to be powerful only in name, surrounded not by loyalists but by drunkards, deserters, and fools. It was exactly why Himmel and Texan assumed slipping into his ranks would be simple. A weak structure is easy to infiltrate.
During their walk, they stumbled upon a town crier perched atop a crate stacked with overturned fruit baskets. He waved a rolled parchment in one hand and shouted to the crowd like a madman.
"The world is flat! Flat like your mother's chest!""Pigs fly at dawn! I saw it myself, wings flappin' like thunder!""And the seventh princess? Not even real! A puppet in disguise!"
Most passersby barely gave him a glance. Children giggled. Guards ignored him like background noise. But Texan, amused by the nonsense, slowed his step and smirked.
"Hey… hey," he whispered.
The crier stopped mid-rant. His wild, sunburned face tilted down, eyes glinting like a rat offered cheese. "Did you want to hear about the rat civilization in the Spire?" he whispered back with surprising seriousness.
"What? No," Texan replied, grinning. "I got you info instead."
"Ouuu," the crier leaned in, breath sour with onions and wine, eager. "Lemme hear it…"
Texan slipped him a coin — copper, but enough to make a street rat sit up. "The Second Princess attacked the Seventh. She made a pact with a demon."
The crier gasped, pupils dilating as if Texan had just handed him fire. Without hesitation, he leapt off his crate and bolted down the street, already screaming.
"The Second Princess summoned HELLFIRE upon her sister!""She's consorting with demons! It's all TRUE!""Hide your children, the palace has FALLEN!"
His voice echoed for several blocks before it abruptly stopped.
As Texan and Himmel continued toward the Third Prince's estate, the sudden silence around them was deafening.
"Damn, they're fast. They got that sucker already," Texan muttered, rolling his shoulders like he'd just dropped a coin into a wishing well.
Himmel, meanwhile, kept his eyes ahead, his thoughts somewhere deeper. If the crier was spouting lies all day and wasn't silenced… but was the moment he said that...
It wasn't a joke. It wasn't a prank. The rumor might be closer to the truth than they'd guessed. And that meant someone powerful didn't want it heard. Himmel didn't say a word — not with invisible eyes and ears all around them. He just kept walking.
About ten minutes later, they reached the estate of the Third Prince. Unlike the cold stone fortresses or towering spires of the other royals, this place had the illusion of grace. Polished iron gates curled with ornamental patterns. Lush green grass stretched beyond like a living carpet. The mansion itself shimmered faintly under the noon sun, its whitewashed walls adorned with golden trimming.
But what was most notable… was what wasn't there.
No guards at the gate.
Instead, orcs lounged in the yard — some playing dice games, others snoring beneath trees, bellies full of wine. One was passed out face-first in a flower bed.
Texan raised an eyebrow. "This ain't just disorganized… this is a damn circus."
He turned to Gumbo, their beast companion, and gave him a light pat. The loyal creature sat obediently, tongue lolling slightly in the heat.
"Stay out here, bud. Don't want too many eyes on us," Texan muttered.
As they stepped through the open gate, a large orc emerged from the side yard, wiping grease from his tusk with a meat-stained cloth. His armor was mismatched, dented and rusty, but he carried himself with casual authority.
"I am Pregal," he announced. "What's your business here?"
The orc was just a hair taller than Himmel, though bulkier. His voice held a lazy rasp — like a man who hadn't given a shit in years.
Texan gave a nod, glancing toward the mansion's entrance. He spotted cracked statues flanking the doors, each depicting the Third Prince in various exaggerated heroic poses. Inside, the stained-glass windows were fogged with grime, and the walls, though once painted with rich tapestries, now bore scuff marks and handprints.
Like a pigsty wearing a prince's clothes.
"Oh, we're here to join your faction," Texan said casually.
Pregal's gaze slid to Himmel, who stood firm beside him.
"Is your slave allowed to speak for you?" he asked, tone dry.
Texan's eyes narrowed, Himmel then spoke, "He's not my slave. And yeah — he speaks for me."
Himmel's eyes shimmered faintly under the sunlight. Had it not been for the uneven tusks curling from his lower jaw, one might say his gaze could shame angels. There was fire behind those pupils — a quiet warning.
Pregal grunted, unimpressed.
Still, there was something different about the two of them. They didn't move like drunks or outcasts. Their postures were tight. Alert. Like soldiers… or hunters.
So Pregal asked, "Would you be loyal to the prince?"
The duo exchanged a glance — a brief flash of curiosity between them.
"Well yeah," Texan said, like it was obvious. "He's the one we're joining."
Pregal clicked his tongue and waved his hand. A pair of orc guards — half-drunk and barely armed — approached from the bushes and shoved the duo out of the estate.
Now seated on a stone bench outside the gate, Texan shook his head.
"These fools don't want people loyal to their prince?"
"I guess not," Himmel muttered, squinting at the mansion with quiet disgust. "That is… interesting."
Texan gave Gumbo a quick rub on the head and gestured to a nearby tavern — one slightly hidden by ivy-choked walls, just out of the prince's view.
Inside, the tavern was loud and hazy. The air was thick with smoke from hookahs and burning herbs. Wooden beams creaked under the weight of dancing orcs. Tables were stained with spilled mead, and a bard in the corner played a tune that had long since lost its rhythm.
The duo slipped into a corner table.
"What'll you two have?" the bartender asked, sliding mugs to another table with one hand while wiping sweat from his brow with the other.
"Something light," Texan said. "Don't wanna get too drunk. Oh — and you got a room?"
He tossed a few coppers on the bar.
"Yes, sir, we do," the bartender replied. "Just the two of you and that beast, right?"
"Yup yup."
"All right. You two can sleep upstairs, but the beast stays in the shed out back."
Texan accepted the key and drinks without protest. As he scanned the room, he leaned toward Himmel, lowering his voice.
"What are you about to do?" Himmel asked, sipping his beer slow and steady.
"My fuckin' job," Texan grinned, cracking his knuckles.
He wandered to a nearby table where four orcs sat — half-drunk, bored, and clearly looking for something to do.
"Did y'all know the Seventh Princess is still hiring?"
The group scoffed. One snorted so hard his drink shot from his nose.
"You mean that half-dead wench?!"
Texan laughed. "Yeah, her. Still got all her gold, though. Me and my boy signed up yesterday. She's giving out gifts like candy. Real easy to get in if you know someone."
The orcs leaned in, interest piqued despite themselves.
"Seems too easy."
"Prove yourself. Swear loyalty. That's all it takes," Texan slurred slightly — just enough to sound drunk, just enough to sound honest.
Little did he know, this particular group used to serve the First Prince. They'd left, bitter and overlooked.
"Just say Texan the merman sent you. And tell her you'll do any task to earn your keep. I got two items after my first ten recruits."
They nodded. Within minutes, they stumbled out, half-drunk and fully convinced.
Texan returned to his seat, smug as ever.
"Three down."
Himmel smirked but said nothing. He stepped outside and stared across the courtyard toward the Third Prince's estate.
At exactly midnight, a cart of alcohol rolled in through the side gate.
No drills. No curfews. Just drink after drink after drink.
It repeated for two more nights.
By the third, Himmel had had enough. "We're wasting time."
Texan nodded. "Yeah. But I got four level 3s and a level 4. Not bad, right?"
"Let's see if that charisma of yours works where it really matters," Himmel said as they headed toward the Spire.
The massive black tower loomed over the capital like a spear plunged into the earth. Etchings glowed faintly along its surface, runes pulsing with ancient energy. Legends said it had once been a dungeon — now, it was the king's throne and the seat of the First Prince.
They entered, retracing a familiar path.
They passed a door labeled "Concubines." The moans inside were unmistakable.
"Bro, there could be some mad bitches in there," Texan muttered with a lewd grin.
"Yeah," Himmel replied, walking past. "But they ain't our bitches."
Eventually, they found a teleportation circle — pulsing softly with blue light.
They stepped on.
With a hum, they vanished — reappearing on the next floor, greeted by two branching paths.
"Another fork," Texan said. "You wanna go left while I go right?"
Himmel nodded. They split.
Himmel's path led to a humid room filled with crying infants and overworked nurses. Dozens of orc babies wailed in cradles. Women lined up with swollen arms, milking cattle with red-rimmed eyes.
Before he could react, a nurse grabbed him. "You! Help milk!"
"Woah wait, I don't—" But her glare silenced him.
He could've resisted. But he didn't. He sat and helped.
Meanwhile, Texan found himself in a long, slow-moving line.
"So like… what's this?" he asked the orc in front.
"This is the line to the First Prince's interview," the orc replied without looking.
Texan groaned. "Guess I'll wait."