They woke up groggy.
Not because of foul play, not because of lingering poison or spectral tampering. No—this was simpler, more human. The kind of waking that scraped against the bones. As if their dreams had been too heavy, or the world too loud for sleep to fully hold them.
The tavern murmured its old, creaking complaints as though it, too, had not slept well. Footsteps thudded like hammers beyond the thin walls, and the voices of passing orcs—drunk, angry, or both—leaked through the splintered wood like water through cracked stone. The air was cold. And so was the water that doused them awake—frigid and uninvited, clinging to skin and soul alike.
Still half-soaked, they descended the crooked staircase.
The tavern smelled of hot grease, old ale, and smoke trapped in the timber from a hundred forgotten nights. It was familiar. Cozy, in that uncomfortable way only wanderers, mercenaries, and fighters ever come to love.
Texan sat hunched over a steaming plate of caramel-drizzled raspberry pie, the crust golden and uneven, fissured from the oven's heat. The sweet scent curled into the air as he dug in hungrily, crushing berries and syrup between his teeth like they'd wronged him.
Gumbo, loyal as ever, waited just outside—massive now, his dorsal fin scraping the tavern's doorway. He crunched through his refined kibble with lazy nobility, a beast who knew his station and took pleasure in the simplicity of food without politics.
"I wanna level up," Texan said between bites, voice casual but lined with iron. "So I got a plan for it."
Himmel didn't look up, sipping from a glass of freshly squeezed orangelily fruit. Its citrus sting was cut by floral perfume—a commoner's drink dressed like royalty. It suited him perfectly.
"Yeah," Himmel said, his voice low. "I'm all ears."
Texan took another bite, wiping syrup from his mouth with the back of his hand.
"So basically—the town crier. Last time he was yelling about the Seventh Princess, but that's 'cause we were near her territory. If we go closer to the Fifth Prince's area, we'll start hearing about him. Maybe the First Prince too. So—we move. I'll rough the crier up, talk some hot shit, make a show, maybe recruit some heads while I'm at it. Blah blah blah."
His tone was light, careless even, but Himmel caught the flicker of focus under the surface. This wasn't improvisation. This was strategy disguised as swagger.
Himmel nodded along, still eating. His breakfast—scrambled crocodile eggs, browned at the edges and rich with spice, paired with strips of bear bacon that cracked with char—was fuel, not indulgence. Food for blood and iron.
They finished in silence. Then came the ritual of preparation: armor buckled, greaves tightened, leather straps pulled taut. The clink of metal over leather formed a low melody—steel rehearsing for war.
"It's a good plan," Himmel said, adjusting his gauntlet straps. "I'll have your back if things go south."
Texan stared down at his own gauntlets, trembling slightly in his hands. "It's kinda scary, man. I never really did something like this before."
He wasn't talking about battle. Not really. He was talking about being watched. About being weighed. About stepping into the open as more than just muscle—becoming a piece on someone else's board.
Himmel sat beside him, the plates of his armor catching the faint morning light like a calm sea of silver and iron.
"Texan," he said, voice steady, "remember when you distracted that beast in the snow for us?"
"Yeah," Texan muttered. "But I was just running."
"Right," Himmel said, almost smiling. "And if you hadn't run fast enough, it would've caught you. And we'd be dead."
Texan looked away, jaw tightening. "But I've never fought something so much stronger than me. That crier's probably level three—and if he's anything like you…" He stopped there. Fear crept up his throat like smoke. The kind that makes men check their weapons twice.
And Himmel understood.
He had felt it before—standing before his father, when obedience felt like shackles welded to the bone. Facing the Paper Samurai, a ghost that bled silence instead of blood. Standing before the Border Guard, when the air itself grew thick enough to crush his lungs.
Dread. Not the kind that whispered you might die. The kind that declared you will—and dared you to blink.
"Texan," Himmel said softly, locking eyes with him. "You won't die today. We still haven't won a war."
"What?" Texan blinked, thrown by the sudden confidence.
"We haven't defeated a giant and stolen his loot," Himmel said, deadpan, then reached out and placed a hand on Texan's shoulder.
And, as if some ancient script had been etched into their bones, they both said it together:
"We haven't saved a princess from a burning tower."
The tension broke like a snapped bowstring.
Himmel rose, his armor creaking like stone waking from a long sleep. His shadow stretched over Texan like a cloak—protective, immovable, patient.
"Let's go," he said. "Time's ticking."
Texan exhaled, sliding the gauntlets on. The trembling stopped. A grin crawled across his face like sunrise behind thunderclouds.
"Yeah," he said, standing. "Let's make some noise." The duo then left and made way to the first princes territory.
The First Prince's district was a maze of banners and noise.It wasn't the bright, bustling noise of the market—this was sharper, hungrier. Black and gold flags flapped in the chill wind above cracked marble streets. The air smelled of spilt ale and iron, of ambition too long kept in cages. Himmel and Texan moved through the press of bodies like a pair of shadows—two soldiers without colors, listening for opportunity.
And then they heard him.
The crier's voice was impossible to miss.Loud, nasally, and soaked with venom.
"Your prince sits high in his Spire of Glass!" he bellowed, standing on a crate near the center square. "Too high to see the dirt he rules! Too blind to know the people he taxes! The First Prince is no warrior—he's a coward in silk!"
The crowd jeered and laughed, emboldened by drink and anonymity. Some threw fruit. Others just watched, their laughter brittle and cruel.
Texan froze mid-step. "He's really talking shit about the First Prince. Out loud."
Himmel didn't reply. His gaze lingered on the rooftops, scanning for eyes that might be watching. "If you want to make an impression, there's your stage."
Texan's grin was humorless. "Thought you'd never say it."
He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and walked straight toward the crier.
The crowd parted in ripples, like animals sensing a predator they couldn't name. The crier—broad, bald, and armored in scraps of mismatched steel—turned at the noise of Texan's boots. His tusks gleamed yellow as he sneered down at the siren.
"Well, well. A pretty fish out of water. You here to listen or to die of shame with your prince?"
Texan's tone was casual, almost lazy. "I just figured someone should shut you up before you choke on your own bullshit."
The laughter that followed was loud, cruel—and short-lived.The crier's grin faded.
"A challenger, eh?" He spread his arms wide. "Let's give these good people a show!"
The crowd cheered. Coins were thrown. Bets whispered.
Himmel stepped back, folding his arms. His eyes glinted—not worry, but sharp attention. Let's see what you learned.
The crier jumped down from his crate, landing with a crack of stone. He was big—nearly eight feet, shoulders broad enough to blot out the torchlight. His hammer, crudely carved from bone and iron, weighed as much as Texan himself.
Texan took a breath, centered his stance.
The crier struck first—no warning, no flourish.His hidden hammer came down like a thunderbolt. Texan dodged left, Wobbly Dodge, sliding a foot's width from death as the stone cracked beside him. Dust flew in a blinding cloud. He felt the rush of displaced air slap his cheek raw.
Before the echo faded, Texan countered—Charge! He dashed low, shoulder-first, ramming into the orc's midsection. It was like hitting a wall. The crier staggered a step, maybe two.
"You hit like a carp!" the crier roared, swinging horizontally.Texan ducked—barely. The swing clipped his shoulder, ripping fabric and drawing blood. Pain flared. The crowd howled.
Texan spat, twisted his neck until it popped. "Alright. So you can hit. Let's see if you can think."
He feinted left, then dove right, using Tail Whip to spin dust into the air. The orc swung blind, missing, and Texan countered with a Wibbling Punch to the ribs—solid impact, enough to draw a grunt.
Momentum shifted.Briefly.
Then the ground shook.
A ripple of force shot from the crier's feet, cracking the plaza. Tiles lifted like teeth. Texan was thrown off balance, boots skidding on shattered stone. The orc slammed his hammer into the ground again—this time, the air itself split.
A shockwave.
Texan was too close to dodge. It hit him full-on, hurling him into a wall hard enough to rattle his teeth. He dropped to one knee, coughing dust.
The crier stalked forward. "You talk pretty, fish, but you bleed like the rest."
The hammer came up again—high overhead, glowing faintly red. Texan recognized the shift in aura, the drawn breath of a spell about to be born.
"Ultimate incoming!" Himmel shouted from the edge of the crowd.
Too late.
The crier roared and slammed his hammer down.The ground exploded.
A shockwave of dirt and rock erupted outward, swallowing Texan whole. He tried to leap back—but the earth itself grabbed him, dragging him down to his chest. His arms strained, but his legs were gone—locked under hardened stone. The crowd gasped, then roared approval.
"BURIAL!" the crier shouted, his voice echoing through the square.He stalked forward, raising his hammer for the finishing blow.
Texan grinned.
And spat blood on the ground.
"Gotta admit," he said through clenched teeth. "That's new."
He looked down. The rock held him tight, like molten hands that had cooled too fast. His lower body was useless. Couldn't run, couldn't dodge.
Then don't move, he thought. Make him come to you.
The crier approached, savoring his victory. "Say goodnight, siren."
Texan closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. His hands flexed, testing the give in the stone—none. The tail twitched behind him, trapped but not useless. The ground was cracked around him—shallow fissures from the spell's impact.
So the magic's local. Not deep.
He waited.
The crier lifted the hammer again.
"Now!"
Texan leaned forward and spat blood in his eyes.
The orc flinched, a half-second of blindness—but that was all Texan needed. He slammed both fists downward, forcing pressure into the cracks at his sides. The stone shifted—barely. He twisted his hips, enough to wedge his tail into a crevice.
Then he pulled.
Pain flared white-hot up his spine, but the leverage worked. The crack widened. The hammer slammed down, missing his head by inches. Debris flew. Texan grabbed a fist-sized chunk of rock and hurled it into the crier's jaw.
Crack.
The crier stumbled. Blood spilled from his lip.
Texan dragged one leg free, gasping. Then the other.He collapsed forward, half-crawling, half-stumbling out of the pit.
The crier swung again, enraged. Texan ducked, barely missing. His movements were sloppy, desperate—but alive.
"Come on, fish!" the orc snarled. "Stand and die!"
Texan did stand. Barely. His body was shaking, his arms bloodied.But his grin… that stayed.
"You first."
He feinted a step back. The crier lunged—and Texan sidestepped, letting the hammer's weight pull the orc forward. He drove an elbow into the joint of the arm, just beneath the shoulder plate. A sick pop followed.
The orc roared. Texan followed up with Wibble Wobble, grappling the arm and spinning behind him. The orc tried to twist free, but the confusion in his balance was instant. His own momentum turned against him.
Texan's voice echoed through the plaza, hoarse but defiant:
"Wibbling! Wobbling! Winning! Wobbling! Wibbling!"
Each word punctuated with a blow.A headbutt.A body shot.A final, rising uppercut that cracked the air itself.
The hammer slipped from the crier's hands, clattering across the stone. The giant of an orc staggered, eyes rolling. The crowd's roar died into stunned silence.
Then, slowly, he fell—face-first into the dirt.
The square was silent for three heartbeats. Then it erupted.
Cheers. Shouts. The sound of coins changing hands.
Texan stood over the fallen crier, chest heaving, dust swirling around him like fog. His knuckles bled. His tail flicked once.
From the edge of the crowd, Himmel watched with a faint smirk. "You really do live up to that ridiculous name."
Texan spat again, wiping his mouth. "Wombat wins."
The crier's body hit the ground with a sound that silenced even the gamblers. For a moment, the only noise left was the crackle of torches and the slow drip of blood down stone. Dust hung in the air like smoke after a cannon's roar.
Texan stood over him—heaving, broken-knuckled, sweat slicking his face and chest.The plaza watched.Dozens of orcs of all kinds, merchants, gamblers, drunkards, mercenary, who had come to mock and stayed to witness.
Himmel could see it—the shift in the air. That fine moment between awe and allegiance.
Texan spat once, a red stain on the cracked ground, and raised his voice—not as a performer, not as a politician, but as a fighter who had survived when he shouldn't have.
"You see this?" he shouted, voice hoarse but cutting through the silence. "This is what happens when you think you can talk about kings you've never stood beside!"
His words hit like hammer blows.He turned, sweeping his gaze over the crowd.
"You call the First Prince weak?" he barked. "You call him blind? Look around you! You think he needs to crawl down from his Spire to fight for every brick in this city? No—he's got me for that!"
A murmur rolled through the crowd. Doubt, curiosity, and the start of something older—hope.
Texan pointed at the fallen crier. "This bastard was level three. I'm level two. You saw it yourselves—he had magic, armor, a goddamn hammer! And yet he's down there, kissing the stone while I'm still breathing."
He paced, movements deliberate now, letting his words gather strength.
"I'm not strong 'cause I was born that way. I'm strong 'cause I got tired of losing. Because I got tired of being told what I can't do! You hear me?"
The crowd did. Heads nodded. Tusks gleamed. Even the drunk ones sobered.
Texan's tail swayed, his aura thrumming faintly gold now—the faint light of resolve.
"You wanna fight above your class?" he yelled, chest heaving. "You wanna be remembered for more than your rank? Then stop rotting behind your masters' banners! Join the First Prince's army—join me!"
The last word cracked the air.He pointed toward the towering Spire cutting into the sky.
"At the Spire's field, at dawn. If you've got fire in your gut and scars that still itch for battle—come. If you've ever been laughed out of a fight—come. If you've ever lost everything and still wanted more—come."
He paused, eyes hardening. "We're done waiting for strength to choose us. We're taking it."
The plaza was still for a heartbeat. Then another.
And then the roar came.
Hundreds of voices.Cheers that rattled windows.Fists pounding against chests and weapons raised to the air.
Even Himmel felt the ground hum beneath his boots, the sound of a hundred burning ambitions waking all at once.
Texan turned, his breathing steady now, gaze locked on the Spire's silhouette.
"You think the prince heard that?" he muttered.
Himmel smirked. "He'd be deaf if he didn't."
The siren looked at his bloodstained hands, flexed them once, then grinned."Good. Then let's make sure he remembers it."
The crowd kept cheering as the two of them walked away—shadows cut from the torchlight, stepping through the noise they had made. Above them, the banners of the First Prince rippled in the cold night wind, as if answering the call.
At dawn, the city would gather.And the First Prince's army would grow by one more legend.