The glass bottle felt heavier than it looked, weighing down Andrew's coat pocket like a stone. He walked aimlessly through the city streets, the old man's riddles bouncing around his skull.
*A sword. A shield. A compass.*
"Great," Andrew muttered, kicking an empty soda can into the gutter. "Just find three archetypes in a city of four million people. Should I put an ad on the internet? 'Wanted: Mercenaries for suicide mission. Must enjoy long walks on deserted islands.'"
He felt foolish. Clueless. The adrenaline of the bar had faded, replaced by the crushing reality of his incompetence. He wasn't a leader. He was a guy who formatted spreadsheets. How was he supposed to judge who was "suitable" for a journey to nowhere?
He walked for hours, the sun dipping below the skyline, painting the concrete canyons in shades of bruised purple and grey. His feet ached. The excitement was curdling into exhaustion.
"Maybe I should just sleep on it," he thought, spotting the flickering neon sign of a cheap motel down the block. "Maybe in the morning, this will all seem like a fever dream."
He turned toward the motel, but a roar from the alleyway stopped him cold.
"KILL! KILL! KILL!"
It wasn't the cheering of a sports bar. It was the guttural, bloodthirsty chanting of a mob.
Curiosity, that dangerous new friend of his, pulled Andrew toward the noise. He peered around the corner into a dead-end street illuminated by makeshift floodlights. A circle of people—toughs, gamblers, thrill-seekers—had formed a tight ring around a patch of dirty asphalt.
In the center, two men were fighting.
One was sleek, fast, a professional fighter with taped hands and predatory movement. He danced around his opponent, landing sharp, stinging jabs that snapped head back.
The other man... he was a mountain.
He was middle-aged, his skin a roadmap of faded tattoos and scars. He was built like a rhino—thick, heavy, and seemingly immovable. But he was losing. Badly.
*Thwack.* A kick to the ribs sent the big man stumbling. *Crack.* A fist to the jaw opened a cut above his eye, sending a stream of blood down his weathered face.
The Rhino didn't fall. He just grunted, shaking his head, absorbing the punishment with a grim, stoic determination that was painful to watch. He wasn't fighting to win anymore; he was just fighting to stay standing.
"Finish him!" someone in the crowd screamed, waving a fistful of cash.
Andrew flinched. The violence was raw, ugly. He turned to leave, his stomach churning. This wasn't an adventure; this was brutality.
"No! Papa!"
The scream cut through the jeers like a knife.
Andrew froze. He looked toward the edge of the ring. A little girl, no older than seven, was pressed against the chain-link fence. Her face was streaked with tears, her tiny hands gripping the metal wire until her fingers were white.
"Papa, don't fight!" she wailed, her voice cracking with terror. "You're hurt! Please, Uncle, tell him to stop! Don't hurt him anymore!"
The man she called 'Uncle'—a sleazy-looking promoter counting money—ignored her, eyes fixed on the bloodsport.
Inside the ring, the Rhino heard her. His eyes, swollen and groggy, shifted to the girl. For a split second, his guard dropped. The professional fighter saw the opening. He wound up for a knockout blow, a vicious hook aimed right at the big man's temple.
Andrew saw the Rhino brace himself. He didn't raise his hands to block. He just planted his feet, turned his body to shield the view of his daughter, and prepared to take the hit.