The streets of Norinbel pulsed like a living wound, raw and festering under a sky bruised with the weight of dusk. Stone and timber buildings loomed, their sagging roofs dripping with the day's heat, while the air carried the sour reek of sweat, manure, and something darker—desperation, sharp as a blade. The Five Petals Gang moved through the chaos, Grendel and Creedmoor's hooves clopping against the churned mud, saddlebags heavy with wares that hadn't yet found buyers.
Alice led, her merchant's tunic crisp despite the city's grime, the Kimber's cold weight in her pocket a silent anchor. Amber's cloak flared with each step, her eyes darting for profit like a hawk. Lulu, perched behind Alice, adjusted her glasses, the Beretta's curve hidden beneath her scholar's robe. Megan's tool belt clinked, her Mossberg strapped tight to her back, her grin masking the city's pressure. Monica, in her farmer's hat, walked with a predator's gait, her duffle of knives a promise of violence barely leashed.
The Adventurer's Guild was their target, a hulking stone building squatting at the street's end, its wooden sign carved with a sword and scroll, swaying in the evening breeze. Roughnecks lounged outside—mercenaries with scarred faces, cloaks patched with blood and time, their laughter coarse as they traded stories of beasts and bounties.
The girls had a plan—scout a stall spot, maybe sniff out Guild connections for better trade terms. But Norinbel had other plans, and they came in the form of a shadow that slunk through the crowd like oil through water.
The slave trader appeared as if conjured from the city's underbelly, his presence a stain on the already filthy street. He was tall, gaunt, with a face like weathered parchment, his eyes sunken but glinting with a merchant's cunning. His tunic was rich—black velvet trimmed with silver thread, a quartz pendant dangling at his chest, its faint glow betraying its magical conductivity.
Behind him trailed two guards, their chainmail clinking, hands resting on sword hilts. More figures followed, boys and girls of the beastfolk kind no older than twelve, their wrists bound with iron shackles, their eyes hollow, his tunic ragged and stained with days of dust and fear. The trader's cart, pulled by a bony mule, was a cage on wheels—iron bars rusted but sturdy, holding three more figures—an orcish woman with matted hair, an adult goblin man with a broken nose, and another goblin child, their faces pressed against the bars, their silence louder than the city's din.
Alice's stomach twisted, her Amazon-honed instincts flaring. She'd seen cages before—warehouses, delivery vans, systems that trapped people in different ways. This was worse, rawer-er, like a punch to the gut. Her hand brushed the Kimber, a reflex, as her eyes flicked to Monica. The Texan's jaw was tight, her hat tilted low, her fingers twitching toward the kukri behind her. Lulu's glasses caught the fading light, her lips a thin line as she clocked the scene. Amber's cloak stilled, her usual swagger dimmed, while Megan's hands clenched, her tool belt clinking like a warning bell.
The trader stopped a few paces ahead, his eyes sweeping over the girls like a vulture sizing up carrion. His voice was smooth, oiled with practice, but carried the archaic lilt of Isekai's natives. "Well met, lasses. Merchants, aye? New to Norinbel's bustle, by the look of ye. Fine horses, fine wares." His gaze lingered on Grendel and Creedmoor, then flicked to the saddlebags, heavy with unsold goods. "Might I inquire what ye peddle?"
Alice stepped forward, her merchant's mask flawless, her voice steady despite the bile rising in her throat. "Clothes, tools, blades. Traveling stock, nothing special." She kept it vague, deflecting, just as Amber had done in the hamlet.
The trader's smile was a thin crescent, his eyes glinting. "Naught special, ye say? Yet yer steel gleams like dwarven craft, and yer cloth be finer than most. Independent, are ye? No Guild to claim ye?"
Lulu leaned forward, her voice dry as a ledger. "We're our own bosses. What's it to you?"
The trader's laugh was low, a rattle of amusement. "Bold words, lass. Norinbel's no place for lone wolves. Protection's dear in these streets, and I offer it— for a price." His hand gestured to the cart, the shackled boy flinching at the motion. "Or perhaps ye've goods to trade beyond what's in yer bags. Strong lasses like ye fetch a fine sum in the mines."
Monica's grin was a blade, her Texas drawl thick and dangerous. "You tryin' to buy us, you slimy fuck? 'Cause I'm about to sell you a one-way ticket to a dirt nap."
The trader's guards stiffened, their hands tightening on their swords, but he raised a hand, his smile unshaken. "Peace, lass. I meant no offense. Merely an offer—business, naught more. The mines hunger, and coin flows for those who feed 'em."
Amber's hands flew to her hips, her cloak swishing, her voice sharp. "Eww, you're literally human garbage. Like, straight-up medieval Jeffrey Epstein vibes. You and Diddy would be best friends if y'all ever met."
The trader's brow furrowed, the reference lost but the venom clear. "Mind yer tongue, girl. I be Tharren of House Veyle, licensed by Nomence's charter. My trade's legal, my wares… necessary."
Megan snorted, her mechanic's grit surfacing. "Necessary? You're chaining up people, you sick fuck. That's your hustle?"
Tharren's eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed smooth. "The world turns on labor, lass. Mines need hands, fields need backs, brothels need… well, you know what brothels do. Ye think Norinbel's walls rose on dreams? Nay, 'tis sweat and chain that built 'em."
Alice's voice cut through, calm but cold. "We're not interested. Move along."
Tharren's gaze lingered, his pendant glowing faintly as he tilted his head. "Ye've fire, all of ye. But fire draws eyes, and Norinbel's eyes are unkind to strangers. Ye've no Guild, no patron. Trouble will find ye, and when it does, my offer may seem kinder."
Monica stepped closer, her hat casting a shadow over her eyes, her voice a low growl. "You deaf, asshole? She said fuck off. Or do I need to carve it into your forehead with my kukri?"
The guards drew their swords, the steel scraping free with a hiss. The crowd parted, hawkers and passersby stepping back, their eyes glinting with the promise of a spectacle. A shackled girl shrank against the cart, her chains rattling, while the caged figures watched, their silence heavy with resignation.
Alice's hand brushed the Kimber, her pulse steady but her mind racing. Portals were an option—open one, vanish to Queens, regroup—but that'd burn their cover, mark them as something other than merchants. Let Monica run wild now? Not an option and PR would go from fucked to super fucked with extra spice. Norinbel's guards were already watching, their spears glinting from the sidelines, and a stunt like that would paint targets on their backs. Her eyes flicked to Monica, a silent warning.
Not yet.
Lulu's voice was sharp, analytical. "Sir, you're licensed, right? That means you answer to someone. Who's your overseer? We'll take this up with them."
Tharren's smile widened, his pendant pulsing faintly. "Bold, lass. I answer to the Greater Nomence Merchant Association, but ye'll find no sympathy there. They know my worth—quartz and coin, the lifeblood of this city."
Amber's laugh was sharp, her cloak swishing. "Coin? Bitch, you're out here peddling kids like they're knockoff Gucci. You're not a merchant—you're a fucking parasite with fancier branding."
Tharren's face hardened, his voice dropping. "Mind yer words, girl. Ye know not the forces ye tempt. Nomence's laws protect me, and magic binds my wares." He gestured to the boy, whose shackles glowed faintly, a rune etched into the iron. "Vows stronger than steel hold them. Ye'd do well to learn yer place."
Monica's hand twitched, her kukri half-drawn, her grin feral. "Magic vows, huh? How's that shit hold up when I cut your throat and burn your whole damn family tree?"
The guards stepped forward, their swords raised, but Tharren's hand shot up, his voice calm but edged. "Stay thy blades, men. These lasses be green, not foolish. They'll learn." His eyes locked on Monica, unyielding. "Threaten me again, girl, and ye'll find chains fit ye as well as any."
Monica giggled, internally wishing for the man to make his move and take the bait. "Oh, don't you worry about me, man. I'll send a love letter to you some day in the future. And with it will come a hot fucking lead measuring at 25x137mm. You best believe that, playboy."
Alice's patience snapped, her voice a blade. "Enough. We're done here. Move, or we make you."
Tharren's laugh was a dry rasp. "Brave words, merchant. But Norinbel's no hamlet. Ye'll see me again, and my offer'll stand—coin or chains, yer choice." He turned, his guards falling in step, the boy stumbling behind, his chains clinking like a funeral bell. The cart rolled on, its wheels grinding through the mud, the caged figures vanishing into the crowd's haze.
The girls stood frozen, the city's pulse hammering around them. Monica's knuckles were white, her kukri still half-drawn, her eyes burning with a rage that could've set the street aflame. Amber's hands shook, her cloak bunched in her fists, her usual bravado cracked. Megan's tool belt clinked as she shifted, her grin gone, her Mossberg a silent threat against her back. Lulu's glasses glinted, her mind already dissecting the encounter, her Beretta a cold comfort. Alice's hand stayed near the Kimber, her merchant's mask intact but fraying, her mind turning over the old man's warning.
Slave traders slip through as easy as merchants.
"Fuck this place," Amber muttered, her voice low, her eyes on the cart's retreating shadow. "Like, actually fuck it. I'm ready to portal back to Queens and call it a day."
Lulu's voice was sharp, cutting through. "And what, ditch our whole hustle? We've got 294 Mards and counting. You wanna throw that away 'cause some creep's playing medieval pimp?"
Amber spun on her, her cloak flaring. "Don't lecture me, Wall Street. You saw that kid—twelve, Lu. Twelve. You cool with that?"
Lulu's lips tightened, her glasses flashing. "I'm not cool with shit, Ambs. But we're not knights in shining armor. We're merchants. We play the game, stack our coins, and maybe—maybe—we fuck with their system later."
Monica's laugh was bitter, her hat tilting back. "Later? That's your plan, Lu? Let kids get chained up while you crunch numbers? Real heroic."
Lulu's eyes blazed, her voice ice. "Don't start, Smith. You wanna go full Rambo, be my guest, but you'll get us all killed. Magic vows, Monica. You heard him. You think your kukri's gonna cut through spells?"
Monica's grin was wild, unhinged. "Wanna bet? I'll carve through his fucking magic like it's tissue paper. Gimme ten minutes and a dark alley. I'll show you some eyeblech material."
Megan's hands flew up, her voice rough. "Y'all, chill. Mon, you're not blowing up our cover 'cause you've got a murder boner. Lu, quit acting like we can math our way out of this shit. That dude's a problem, and he's not gonna vanish."
Alice's voice cut through, steady but tired. "Enough. All of you, shut it." Her eyes flicked to the street, the crowd's eyes still lingering, guards watching from a distance. "We're not doing this here. We scout the Guild, find a stall, and keep our heads down. Mon, no knives. Amber, no whining. Lu, no lectures. Meg, back me up."
Megan nodded, her tool belt clinking. "Got you, Al. Let's move."
Monica's jaw clenched, her eyes still on the cart's fading outline. "You're letting him walk, Bromine. Kids in chains, and you're playing merchant like it's just another Tuesday."
Alice's fist tightened, her knuckles white, but her voice stayed calm. "I'm not letting shit slide, Mon. But we're in deep water, and I'm not drowning us 'cause you're itching for blood. We'll deal with this—smart, not stupid. You want to burn this city down, I'll hand you the match when the time's right. Not now."
Monica's eyes burned, but she nodded, her kukri sliding back into its sheath. "Fine. But I'm holding you to that, Bromine."
The stone facade of the Adventurer's Guild loomed like a weary sentinel at the street's ragged end, its wooden sign creaking in the evening wind, the carved sword and scroll weathered to ghosts by years of rain and neglect. The building squatted amid the city's churn, its walls scarred with the ghosts of brawls and bounties, the air around it thick with the sour tang of spilled ale and the metallic bite of blood long dried into the cracks.
Adventurers clustered outside, their cloaks patched and heavy with road dust, their laughter a coarse rumble that cut through the hawkers' cries and the distant bleat of penned livestock. The Five Petals Gang pushed through the press of bodies, Grendel and Creedmoor's hooves sinking into the mud-slick street, saddlebags clinking with the unsold weight of tools, blades, and thrift-store dreams.
They tied the horses to a splintered post outside, the beasts snorting and shifting as the city's chaos pressed in. Inside, the Guild hall was a cavern of shadows and smoke, stone floors worn smooth by countless boots, long tables scarred with knife marks and ale rings. Mercenaries hunched over tankards, their voices a low growl of tales—ogres felled, caravans guarded, bandits gutted for coin.
A massive board dominated one wall, pinned with parchments fluttering like trapped birds—beast hunts at fifty Mards a head, escort duties for a hundred, cleanup jobs that promised blood and boredom in equal measure. The air hung heavy with the scent of sweat-soaked leather and roasting meat from a spit in the corner, the flicker of torchlight casting jagged shadows that danced like demons on the walls.
Alice approached the counter, a broad slab of oak manned by a clerk with a face like chipped granite, his quill scratching endlessly on yellowed parchment. His eyes flicked up, bored but appraising, taking in the girls' mismatched disguises—the tunics, the cloaks, the subtle bulges of hidden steel.
"We're merchants," Alice said, her voice steady, merchant's mask locked in place. "Independent. Looking to sell some wares. Weapons included—knives, mostly. Can we set up here? Use the Guild as a hub?"
The clerk's quill paused, ink dripping like blood from a fresh wound. He leaned forward, his breath sour with ale. "Sell weapons in the Guild? Nay, lass. Not without a Merchant Trading Permit from the Greater Nomence Merchant Association. Ye've none, by the look of ye."
Lulu adjusted her glasses, her tone sharp as a ledger's edge. "And where do we get this permit? Sounds like another shakedown."
The clerk jabbed a thumb toward the door, his grin crooked. "Across the street, ye daft lasses. The Association's hall—big stone pile with the silver scales over the arch. Apply there, pay yer dues, and maybe ye'll peddle yer blades without the guards haulin' ye off."
Amber's hands flew to her hips, her cloak swishing. "Across the street? You're shitting me, right? That's the dumbest bureaucracy I've ever—"
Alice shot her a look, her voice low. "Cool it, Ambs." She nodded to the clerk. "Thanks. We'll head over."
They filed out, the Guild's warmth giving way to the street's chill bite, the mud sucking at their boots as they crossed the narrow thoroughfare. The Greater Nomence Merchant Association hall squatted opposite, its facade grander—polished stone etched with merchant sigils, torches guttering in iron sconces, the silver scales above the arch gleaming like a promise of weighed coin. Guards flanked the doors, their chainmail glinting, spears idle but ready. The girls pushed inside, the heavy oak doors groaning shut behind them, sealing out the city's roar.
The interior was a world apart—vaulted ceilings, tapestries faded with age depicting caravans and markets, the air scented with ink and polished wood rather than sweat and blood. Counters lined the walls, clerks hunched over ledgers, quills flying like frantic birds. Merchants milled about—fat-bellied men in velvet, sharp-eyed women with pouches heavy at their belts—their voices a murmur of deals and disputes.
And there, leaning against a pillar like a serpent coiled in wait, was Tharren of House Veyle. His black velvet tunic caught the lantern light, the quartz pendant at his chest pulsing faintly, his gaunt face splitting into that thin, oily smile as his eyes locked on the girls. His guards hovered nearby, but the cart was gone, the shackled boy and the others vanished into whatever shadows he'd dragged them to.
Monica's hand twitched toward her kukri, her jaw clenching so hard Alice heard the grind of teeth. Amber's cloak stilled, her usual flair dimming to a wary hunch. Megan's tool belt clinked as she shifted, her Mossberg a hidden threat. Lulu's glasses flashed, her mind already calculating escape vectors.
Alice's voice was a whipcrack in her ear, low and fierce. "Pay the fuckface no mind. Eyes forward, business only. We're getting the permit and getting out. No scenes, Mon. I mean it."
Monica's eyes burned, but she nodded, her hat brim hiding the storm. They approached the front desk, a high counter manned by a receptionist—a middle-aged woman with hair pinned severe, her tunic embroidered with the Association's scales. Her quill hovered, expectant.
"Name of yer trading group?" she asked, her archaic lilt crisp, professional.
Monica opened her mouth, stumbling. "Hibiscus New York... uh..."
Lulu cut in smooth, her voice dry. "Limited Liability Company."
Alice hesitated a beat, her brow furrowing at the absurdity, but she nodded, restating it firm. "Hibiscus New York LLC." She pronounced it slow, like the natives might grasp it—"el-el-seeh in yer tongue."
The receptionist scribbled without blinking, the quill scratching like bones on stone. "Purpose?"
"General trade," Alice said. "Clothes, tools, blades. We're thinking of foods and drinks too in the future. Independent merchants."
The woman nodded, dipping her quill. "The Merchant Trading Permit grants ye leave to sell within Norinbel's bounds, under the Greater Nomence Merchant Association's oversight. Includes the right to rent or purchase land for business—shops, stalls, warehouses. 'Tis a seasonal contract, renewable monthly."
Lulu leaned forward, her glasses glinting. "Like apartment rent back home. Makes sense."
The receptionist slid a parchment across the counter, dense with script. "Aye, lass. Upfront fee be one thousand Mards. Renewal be three hundred Mards each moon cycle."
Lulu's mind raced, numbers tumbling like dice in her head. A thousand upfront—brutal, but the renewals were manageable if they hustled. They'd cleared three-fifty-nine from the hamlet, bled sixty-five at the gate, leaving two-ninety-four. Seven hundred and six short. Constant sales needed, daily grind or bust. Gamble, yeah, but the margins could explode if they scaled.
Alice's voice was steady. "The permit covers land rental too?"
The woman nodded. "Separate from the permit fee, aye. Land rent's proportional—strategic value, size, length of lease. A plot in Norinbel's heart, near the markets or guilds? Thousands of Mards a season. Out by the gates, or in the farmlands? A fraction. Prime spots cost prime coins."
Megan snorted under her breath. "Real estate all over again. Shocker."
The receptionist continued, unfazed. "Permit effective for the whole group—singular document, binds ye all under Hibiscus New York LLC."
Lulu accepted a thick sheaf of parchments—forty pages, bound in leather, the loca taxation law and labor law in cramped script. Daily wage of fourteen Mards, shit pay akin to four bucks an hour back home. Max work of twelve hours. Clauses on non-human slaves, whether owners used 'em or not. The whole mess reeked of control, wrapped in legalese.
Alice scanned it quick. "Can we sell before getting the permit?"
"Technically, aye," the woman said. "But not in the Inner Circle—Market District, Industrial, Medium and High End Residential, Governmental. Anywhere in the Outer Circle's fair game—past the first eight leagues diameter from the gates and beyond the walls."
Alice nodded, pocketing the laws. "We don't have the thousand right now. We'll be back in two to three days to register."
The receptionist waved a hand, dismissive but polite. "Fine by me, lasses. Scout the city meantime—eye potential land, mark yer spots. Dawn markets wait for no one."
They turned to leave, Tharren's gaze boring into their backs like hot irons, his smile a silent taunt. Monica's fists clenched, but Alice's grip on her arm was iron, steering her out without a word. The doors groaned shut behind them, the street's chaos crashing back in—torches flaring, shadows lengthening as night clawed its way over the walls.
Outside, they untied the horses, clustering in a muddy alcove away from prying ears. Two-ninety-four Mards left—seven-oh-six short. The deadlock hit like a brick.
Lulu broke it first, her voice analytical. "Outer Circle only for now. No Inner access without the permit. Amber, clothes are our breadwinner—thrift hauls, quick flips to farmers, outskirts folk. Tools and knives secondary for Megan and Monica, hold back the heavy stuff for when we break in."
Amber nodded, but her cloak bunched in frustration. "Agree, but disagree hard. We've got two-ninety-four. Sell these Mards by the gram to my shady Queens contact? We get dollars, portal to China, bulk clothes cheap. But then we're light on Isekai coin—can't buy local shit, can't hustle without seed money. Deadlock city, bitches."
Megan's tool belt clinked as she leaned against Grendel. "Food angle? That forty-footer container modded into a stall— not crazy idea, y'know. Grab McDonald's Family Meals for twenty bucks a pack Earth-side, sling 'em here for one to four Mards. Kids go nuts, parents too. But the container? Rework with solar panels, fridges, utensils—hide the tech from medieval eyes. Thousands of cold hard dollars in setup. Dollars that, unfortunately for our sorry asses, we don't have."
Alice rubbed her temples, the Kimber's weight a reminder. "We need fast Mards without burning our stash."
The four debated, voices low and heated—China sourcing pros and cons, food stall logistics, risk matrices tumbling from Lulu's lips like stock ticks. Monica was dead quiet, her hat brim low, eyes distant. It didn't sit right with Alice. She'd wanted the Texan leashed, yeah—not this eerie silence, this brooding storm.
Alice nudged her. "Mon? You good?"
Monica's gaze was fixed down a side alley, where slave wagons sat empty under flickering torchlight—no shackled kids in sight, but fresh footprints trailed deeper into the Inner Circle, mud-churned and small. A young scribe-type emerged from the shadows, box in arms, clanking heavy—coins, unmistakable.
The block around them—three, four-story piles of old clay bricks, lumber sagging with age, thatch roofs like tinder waiting for a spark. Alleys snaked everywhere, narrow and shadowed, catwalks crisscrossing overhead, rooftops a playground for shadows—Batman himself would cream for days if he knew this city existed. One fire, and the whole mess went up in flames. Perfect for a heist—George Clooney himself would narrate the plan in her head, smooth as whiskey.
Lightbulb. Bingo.
She knew Alice's rules—no killing in the city, no unnecessary harm. But distractions? Not off the table.
Alice asked again, sharper. "Monica, talk to me."
Monica's grin crept slow, feral under the hat. "I got an idea."
Alice's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"Penn and Teller—but let's make it more fucked up, yeah?"
The night over Norinbel hung like a shroud woven from soot and secrets, the city's stone veins pulsing with the distant clamor of taverns and the sharper cries of those who prowled its shadows. The Inner Circle's grandeur mocked the outer sprawl—towers of polished granite rising defiant against the stars, their windows aglow with lantern fire that spilled golden pools onto cobblestones slick with evening dew and the occasional smear of blood long forgotten. Here, the air carried the cloying perfume of incense from noble manors, undercut by the rot of excess, the faint metallic tang of quartz conduits humming with stolen magic.
Tharren of House Veyle claimed a suite in one such edifice, the Gilded Thorn Inn, its facade a riot of carved vines and thorny roses, a place where coin bought silence and flesh in equal measure.
Inside the chamber, the world narrowed to velvet drapes and the heavy breath of indulgence. Tharren lay sprawled across a bed vast enough to swallow a hamlet feast, his gaunt frame entangled in silken sheets stained with wine and sweat. Women encircled him like offerings to some lesser god—two humans, their skin unmarked by shackles, eyes glazed with the haze of willingly traded dignity; three elves, lithe and ethereal even in defeat, their wrists bound in iron cuffs etched with glowing runes that pulsed faintly, vows of obedience etched deeper than the metal.
One elf, her silver hair matted, pressed against his side with the resignation of the broken. Another knelt at the bed's foot, chains clinking softly with each shallow breath. The room reeked of musk and myrrh, the quartz pendant at Tharren's neck casting a sickly glow that danced across bare flesh and shadowed curves.
Sleep came uneasy to the slaver, his dreams threaded with visions of mineshafts echoing with picks and the clink of fresh chains. Then came the shatter—glass exploding inward like a storm of crystalline rage, shards raining across the floor in a glittering cascade. One, two, three, four metal canisters tumbled through the breach, rolling with innocuous clatters across the rug, bumping against bedposts before hissing to life. Smoke erupted in a furious bloom, thick and acrid, choking the air with chemical fury that clawed at throats and burned eyes to tears. It was no gentle fog, it billowed dense as a wall, suffocating, turning the chamber into a blinding haze where shapes twisted into nightmares.
Tharren bolted upright, sheets tangling around his legs, his voice a ragged bark that cut through the women's rising screams. "Guards! To me, ye fools! Intrusion—now!"
He shoved aside the nearest human, her body tumbling to the floor in a heap of limbs and confusion, abandoning his menagerie without a backward glance. The elves scrambled back, chains rattling, one coughing violently as the smoke invaded her lungs. Doors burst open—big, beefy men in scaled hauberks storming in, muscles rippling under torchlight that filtered through the windows' ruins. They were House Veyle's finest, swords half-drawn, eyes watering but fierce as they formed a wall around their master.
"Out the door—move!" one bellowed, grabbing Tharren's arm and hauling him toward the exit. The slaver stumbled naked into the corridor, his pendant swinging wildly, skin prickling in the sudden draft. He paused at the shattered window, leaning out into the night, his face contorted in fury.
"Whoever dares this affront—ye'll not live to see dawn! House Veyle will hunt ye to the world's edge, flay ye slow and feed ye to the mines!"
His words echoed into the alley below, bravado laced with the tremor of true fear. Not even two heartbeats passed before another canister arced through the broken pane, clanging against the floor and rolling lazily toward the cluster of guards. It detonated in a blinding white flash, a concussion that hammered eardrums like Thor's own forge, the bang reverberating through bones and skulls. Light seared retinas, leaving afterimages of suns burned into vision—sound waves slammed bodies to their knees, guards clutching heads, groaning as the world spun into vertigo. Women screamed anew, elves curling fetal against the bed, humans clawing blindly at the air.
Monica vaulted through the window like a shadow given fangs, her farmer's hat replaced with a burlap sack cut with two holes as if she's trying the new Friday look, braid whipping through the sack. She was a blur of motion—boots silent on the shards, fists and feet precise instruments of chaos.
The first guard, still blinking stars from his eyes, caught a knee to the solar plexus that folded him like cheap parchment, air whooshing from his lungs in a wet gasp. She pivoted, elbow cracking into another's jaw, the bone giving with a sickening pop as he crumpled, blood spraying in a fine mist. A third lunged blindly, sword swinging wild—she ducked low, sweeping his legs out from under him, then drove her boot into his temple—once, twice—until he lay still, twitching.
Vision flickered back to the room's occupants in patches, guards staggering upright, hands fumbling for hilts. Monica didn't give them the chance. She yanked another grenade from her belt—pin pulled with teeth, tossed underhand into the midst. She turned away, palms slamming over ears, body hunkering as the flashbang erupted anew. White light flooded the chamber, the bang a thunderclap that dropped them again, elves wailing, humans sobbing in disorientation.
Tharren, closest to the door, shook his head like a dog shedding water, spots dancing in his sight. Monica was on him before clarity returned—fingers like iron vise gripping his collar, yanking him close enough to smell the Texas sweat on her skin. "Night-night, playboy," she growled, her haymaker a piston of rage connecting with his cheekbone. Cartilage crunched, blood bursting from his nose in a hot spray, his body going limp as a ragdoll, eyes rolling white.
No time for niceties. She didn't bother with clothes—his naked form a pale, gaunt streak as she dragged him across the floor, shards biting into his skin, leaving red trails. To the window, hefting him like a sack of feed, muscles straining but unyielding. With a grunt, she hurled him out—three stories down, his body tumbling end over end, a startled yelp cut short as he landed belly-first in a cart of hay piled in the alley below. The impact puffed straw into the air, his form sinking deep, groans muffled but alive.
One last grenade—white canister, M15 marked in faded stencil. "Willie Pete, take the wheel," Monica muttered, lobbing it back into the room.
It burst with a whoosh, white smoke billowing—not the choking veil of before, but thinner, insidious, laced with the hellfire of white phosphorus. It ignited on contact with air, particles searing flesh like acid kisses, guards howling as skin blistered and bubbled. Panic erupted, they bolted for the door, women accidentally knocking over candles and oil lamps, trampling each other in blind flight, the upper level evacuating in a stampede of screams and slamming doors. Flames licked at drapes, the chemical burn spreading hungry fingers.
Down in the back alley, shadows clung thick as thieves' cloaks, the inn's rear a warren of crates and refuse where the city's polish frayed into grit. Megan waited, her tool belt a silhouette of clinking menace, Mossberg slung but ready. Grendel snorted nearby, Creedmoor tethered beside, the horses' eyes rolling at the chaos above. Tharren's body thudded into the hay cart with a rustle—naked, bruised, unconscious but breathing ragged. Megan was on him in seconds, tarp unfurling like a burial shroud, ropes cinched tight around his wrists and ankles, securing him belly-down across Grendel's saddle. "Hurry the fuck up, you psycho," she hissed upward, though her grin betrayed the thrill.
Amber paced the alley's mouth, cloak pulled tight, her usual flair dimmed to nervous energy. "This is insane, Mon's gonna get us all chained next to those elves—hurry!"
Lulu stood beside her, glasses fogged slightly in the night chill, Beretta drawn but low, her voice a sharp whisper. "Clock's ticking, the smoke won't hold forever. Guards'll swarm any second."
Alice posted up closest to the inn's base, Benelli raised skyward, finger off the trigger but ready, her merchant's tunic shadowed under the eaves. The Kimber pressed cold against her hip, a secondary promise. Shouts echoed from above—panic, flames crackling now as the grenade's smoke devoured wood and flesh alike.
"Monica, extract now!" she barked, voice cutting through the night like a blade. "Distraction's peaking—move your ass!"
Monica dropped from the window ledge, landing cat-light in the hay cart, straw cushioning the fall. She vaulted to the ground, kukri flashing once to cut a loose rope before sheathing it. "Done and dusted, boss. Let's blow this popsicle stand."
The five converged—Monica swinging onto Grendel behind the tarped bundle that was Tharren, his muffled groans stirring as consciousness flickered. Megan took Creedmoor's reins, Amber and Lulu mounting double behind Alice. Hooves thudded on cobblestone as they spurred into the alley's maw, weaving through backstreets where torches guttered low and eyes averted for the right coin. Smoke billowed from the inn's upper windows now, orange tongues of fire licking the night, screams piercing the air like arrows.
Norinbel's guards swarmed the scene minutes too late—hundreds in matching scale armor and crimson tabards, spears gleaming under torchlight, forming cordons as evacuees stumbled out, skin blistering in angry welts, eyes streaming from the phosphorus sting. Captains bellowed orders, buckets chaining from wells, but the upper floor was a inferno, smoke pillar rising like a beacon. Tharren's bodyguards emerged coughing, faces raw and weeping, scanning frantically for their master.
"Lord Tharren! Where is he?" one roared, voice hoarse, but the alley yawned empty, hay cart abandoned, no sign of the slaver's pale form.
The girls vanished into the labyrinth, horses' hooves a fading thunder, the city's chaos swallowing their trail. Tharren bounced secured on Grendel, tarp muffling his awakening moans, the Five Petals Gang fleeing with their prize into the unforgiving dark. Norinbel stirred like a beast roused, but the night held its secrets close, and the hunt had only just begun.
The escape carved through Norinbel's underbelly like a knife through rotten fruit, the Inner Circle's polished avenues giving way to the Outer fringes where the city's glamour sloughed off in peels of decay. Cobblestones turned to packed dirt pocked with ruts, lanterns sparse and flickering, casting long shadows that danced mockingly over crumbling walls. The air grew thicker here, laced with the stench of tanneries and open sewers, the distant lowing of livestock penned for dawn markets. Grendel and Creedmoor pounded onward, saddles creaking under the weight of riders and captive, the tarp over Tharren flapping like a surrender flag in the wind.
Monica rode rear on Grendel, her arms wrapped around the bound slaver to keep him steady, kukri pressed subtle against his ribs—a silent threat should he stir too soon. His naked skin peeked from under the tarp, goosefleshed in the chill, bruises blooming purple across his face and torso from the fall and haymaker. Blood crusted his nose, a dribble trailing to his lip, but his breathing steadied, consciousness clawing back.
"Keep him quiet," Alice ordered over her shoulder, Benelli now slung but hand near the Kimber. Lulu clung behind her on Creedmoor, Beretta holstered but eyes scanning alleys, analytical mind mapping routes. "Left at the fork—avoids the main gate patrols."
Amber, wedged between Megan and the saddle horn on Creedmoor, gripped tight, her cloak billowing. "This is next-level fucked, y'all. We just yoinked a licensed slaver from his sex dungeon. House Veyle? They're gonna put bounties on us bigger than Elon's ego." Her voice pitched high with adrenaline, New York edge sharp as ever, but undercut with the thrill of the heist.
Megan urged the horses faster, tool belt jingling like a war chant. "Shut your trap, princess. We're ghosts till we're out. Mon, you sure that super illegal, definitely-not-civillian-legal greande won't burn the whole inn down? Civvies in there—"
Monica's laugh was low, feral, Texas drawl thick in the night. "Collateral's part of the game, grease monkey. Those guards'll live—blistered, yeah, but breathin'. The women? Free smoke break. Elves too, if the chains melt." She leaned close to Tharren's ear, her breath hot. "Wake up, sleepyhead. Party's just startin'."
Tharren groaned, head lolling, eyes fluttering open to slits. The world spun—hay scent, horse musk, the jolt of hooves. Pain lanced his face, ribs aching from the drop. "What... ye bitches—release me! Ye know not—" His words slurred, cut short as Monica's hand clamped his mouth through the tarp.
"Shh, playboy. Save the threats for when you're not trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey." Her kukri pricked skin, a bead of blood welling. He stilled, eyes widening in the dark, pendant lost somewhere in the chaos, its magic glow extinguished.
Alice led them through a side sluice gate—unchallenged, the guards there bought off earlier with a handful of Mards from the hamlet haul, a contingency Lulu had calculated. Beyond the walls, the grassland opened vast and unforgiving, moonlight silvering the sea of blades, the road to nowhere winding like a serpent's spine. They pushed the horses hard, miles melting under hooves, the city's lights shrinking to a hateful glow on the horizon.
Only when Norinbel was a memory did they slow, veering off-path into a copse of ancient oaks by a simple yet beautiful creek, their branches gnarled like witches' fingers. Here, the world quieted—the rustle of leaves, the hoot of night birds, the distant howl of something wilder, the flow of clean water. They dismounted, tethering the horses, Tharren dumped unceremoniously to the ground, tarp peeled back to reveal his naked, battered form. He scrambled back on elbows, chains absent but dignity stripped bare, eyes darting between the five women encircling him like predators.
"Ye... ye'll hang for this," he spat, voice hoarse, archaic lilt cracking. "House Veyle commands legions—guards, mages, bounties that'll—"
Monica crouched, kukri twirling lazy in her fingers. "Legions? Cute. We're the Five Petals, asshole. And you're our new ROI." She glanced at Alice, grin wicked. "Penn and Teller, boss. Distraction up top, magic trick down below. He vanished—poof."
Alice nodded, Kimber drawn now, leveled casual but steady. "Talk, Tharren. Magic vows—how do they break? Who holds your leash? Start spilling, or Monica gets creative."
Lulu adjusted her glasses, pulling a notebook from her robe—Earth-side legal pad, pilfered for intel. "Efficiently, please. We have quotas."
Amber smirked, cloak swirling as she paced. "Yeah, and hurry. I ain't sleeping in elf chains tonight."
Megan cracked her knuckles, Mossberg propped nearby. "Or ever. Spill, slaver. Clock's ticking."
Tharren's eyes flicked between guns and blades, the modern alien in this medieval night, his bravado crumbling like dry earth. The copse closed in, the girls' shadows long and merciless, the unforgiving wilds of Isekai waiting to swallow secrets whole. The kidnapping was complete, the interrogation, just beginning. Norinbel burned behind them, but the fire in their eyes promised a conflagration all its own.
"I—I'll yield naught!" he hissed through his half-pulped face.
Alice shook her head, not in disappointment—in pity. She sat down by the water and slid the charging handle. "I know you would say that," she said, her voice final. "And I know that, fortunately for you, I imposed a special limitation on my friend over there. She shall not take a life while we're here. Nor will she commit violence outside what I allowed."
Megan grabbed a nearby chicken and brought it closer to Monica, plucking some feathers of the poor and clueless, potentially delicious dinner of the still living animal. Monica turned to face Tharren, her smirk as wicked and as smug as Tom Ellis in Lucifer.
"That said," Alice continued, her eyes distant to the flowing water. "I never said anything about tickling someone to death. I do not enjoy causing suffering, especially inhumane torture methods that my friend actually recommended. But just this once, I will allow her to make you talk by any means necessary—any funny means necessary. You will tell me everything you know, you will give me everything you have."
Tharren let out a small cackle, his face amused as ever as any arrogant rich person can be. "Ye'll not mine a thing out'a me, girlie. I, Tharren—shall ne'er break. Ye can try, ye'll ne'er prevail."
"Oh, don't you worry 'bout that, fatboy," she dismissed. "The night's still young. It's barely midnight. That means we have… four, five hours to break you. And seeing how we have a very limited timetable, if you still hold by the second hour—we'll go Funky Town on your medieval ass. Monica?"
Monica whistled in amusement, flashing a genuine smile at Alice. Something flared inside her, in acknowledgment. "My, my, Bromine. Didn't know you fuck that way. Okay, okay."
Amber brushed herself against Lulu, nudging her arm. "What's a Funky Town? The Lipps Inc disco song?"
Lulu shook her head, eyes still locked to the slaver. "You need not to know."
Megan tapped Alice's shoulder. "Al, what about him? What do we do with this fucker after we're done?"
Monica's smile widened. "I'll kill him, no problem."
Alice quickly turned, snatching Monica's hand, her eyes still distant to the flow of water. "No. I'll do it."
They raised their brows at her response, mouths half agape in shock. She continued, "I told Monica to restrain herself, to not kill unnecessarily. However, I felt too passive in leading you all. In order to lead as equals, I have to share the same burden."
Amber furrowed. "Al—fuck are you talking about?"
Alice stood up, racking her Kimber and switched the safety. "When the time is right—let me bear the first sin."
Megan raised a hand in disagreement. "I know you're trying to be dramatic and all—given your actor background—but stop. The first sin's already happened, Monica killed first."
Alice didn't turn her eyes towards Megan. "That's by self defense, not pure intent. And now… I have that intent."
Lulu tilted her head, her face genuinely curious and worried. "And what's that?"
"No witnesses."