It was another day, another boring day in this dull city, the capital of a land called tranquillity incarnate. It's a lie. He spits on it. He spits on the people who live under this lie, on the ones who chose others to construct it. He spits on those same people who now suffer, but do not show it. They want to scream, but bite their own tongues. Under the setting sun, they hold their carts, their businesses, their children, their lives, and walk in the direction they are pointed towards, dictated towards, in a single file—not a toe out of line.
But he doesn't show it. He doesn't want to show it. That would be foolish, pathetic, useless. And he is not pathetic. To these people, he might as well be their god, but he has no interest in that. He doesn't want to be their god. He wants to be the devil—no, something greater. He wants to be the destruction itself, the purest kind.
But even with their unshakable faith, their thick blindfolds, he knows there's a way. There's always a way. You just need enough strength, patience, and sharp eyes on a trained mind, and anything can be broken. Anything can be destroyed, blown away like a house of cards. All he has to do is find that one root. The mother root.
The one that proves if you cut the leaves, pull the weed, even burn them, the land will never be clean again—not until you dig out that one root and burn it with everything else. Only then will the ground be fresh again, ready for an order born from chaos and established with power.
And today, he's out to find that root. That one leaf, that one strand that will lead him to it.
And that's why he's here. The capital of Serenland. Nythoria. His first step—not through the main gate. No. That would spoil the plan. He has no desire to be checked by those magi-barrel-bearing soldiers, heads held high with their illusion of control. The green of their uniforms speaking of false promises, and white beneath it of the sinister—maybe others don't see it, but he does.
So he'll climb the wall. Though climb is modest when he can leap over two hundred feet with ease. What is a fifty-foot wall of steel and stone? A marvel for its creators, but a joke to him.
He jumps, landing silently on the wall. His eyes scan the panorama of the capital, a city encircled by another similar wall.
Fifty—No One hundred acre of dynamite should be enough to make a giant bonefire out of this place. If only he could get them here.
With that thought, he jumped down, landing lightly on his feet. More skill than magic.
A quick glance through his scowl confirmed there was no audience to appreciate the silent, sweeping landing—barely disturbing the dust beneath him. But it didn't matter. He wasn't here for that.
Steady feet carried him ten meters ahead, and he found himself in a section of the main market—or at least, that's what it looked like from the shameless yelling, screeches like animals, and people moving mindlessly, buying what they didn't want and compromising on what they actually needed. It's the same everywhere, no matter the world.
His eyes moved with precision, stopping only on what seemed important. A vegetable shop, where the produce danced to attract customers. But wouldn't the perfect shapes and colors be enough to draw them in?
That, and the grandeur of the shop—the thick, white-painted wooden pillars, each stack of vegetables sitting in neat baskets, their shine competing with the vegetables themselves. And the giant sign overhead, proclaiming "Fresh Vegetables" in that absurd language—shouldn't that be enough to attract the mindless hoard?
Yet, across the street stood another shop. If he were being modest, he wouldn't even call it a shop—a desk, really. Makeshift baskets, a dirty sign that simply read "Vegetable," with a glaring typo. And yet, this filthy-looking place drew the screeching masses.
Why? He knew why. It was the smell.
This country may be known for its healing and agricultural magic, but no one here was powerful enough to replicate something so sacred. At least, no one he had seen yet. No one he had killed yet.
Everything has a smell—even something as unseen as emotions. Emotions have a strong smell. A trained nose can tell. Like the smell of rotten flesh coming from the vendor of the pristine shop—envy. And the smell of apples from the black, smiling beastman of the filthy shop—happiness.
Yes, happiness smells like fresh apples.
A smile curled on his lips as he turned right, stepping further onto a path leading to the inner section of the city. His eyes moved only when needed. He was searching, and he knew he would find it. The screeches and calls from the shops, the various smells—fresh bread, newly cut fabric, juicy meat, melting and beaten iron. Even the faint, mystical scent of magic. None of it distracted him. Not unless he wanted it to.
What truly hindered his focus was opportunity. The chance to learn about this place—a little chat, a fake smile, even a masked flicker of anger, and these weak people would reveal so much. He could use it. Use it to learn how to plant doubt in their minds. Make them turn against their controllers, their gods. Make them destroy themselves. He could almost see it—watching every scrap of this lie burn in a cleansing fire.
Suddenly, he stopped. There it was. Another opportunity.
He turned and walked toward a stall that, at first glance, looked well-maintained—like its owner, who sat there, tongue slithering like a snake, brooding over his... failure.
As soon as he stepped near the shop, the stench of slither and rotting leather hit his nose, almost halting his steps, a wave of repulsion flickering across his face. But he quickly smoothed his scowl into a broad smile, wide enough to invite… what was his kind called again? Ah. Lamia.
"Ah… dear ssssir..! Welcome. Welcome to my humble sssshop. What are we… in for today…?" it spoke through its fangs, the hiss sliding out after every word, mixing with the foul odour. Disgusting.
"Ah… this leather… looks nice. What is the price of this satchel?" he asked, voice humble, his smile and eyes revealing just what he wanted.
"Ah… sssire, you have a good pair of eyesss. That, my dear ssssir, is imported dwarf dragon leather. Imported from SSSablewood. Not easssy to come by, one of thessse. But you know the market. For a gentleman like you, only five Fervooirsss…" It replied, lashing out every sales tactic at once. Amateur.
"Oh, really? But I've seen dwarf dragon leather before and never seen one… so smooth." He raised an eyebrow, two fingers holding his chin, the others brushing the filthy, smelly leather—leather he was certain wasn't what this snake claimed it to be.
"Oh… my…" There it was—the twitch. These things don't sweat, but when a fang that should remain wide suddenly closes, he knew he had struck something.
"Oh… sssire, you… you are perfectly right. It's… a new variation! Yesss, a new variation that hasss just come into ccccirculation…"
"Oh, really?" he replied, smiling at the lie. "Fascinating…"
A little more rubbing, maybe a scratch from his thumb. He didn't want it, but a sniff—just enough to make the creature believe its own lie.
"Tell me a little more about this… new variation," he asked with a brief smile. Another twitch. A gulp. The black, bulbous eyes blinked behind translucent lids. The hood tightened.
"Ah… you… know… what, sssir? Let me ssshow you… sssomething better." It stammered, turning to slither deeper into its stall.
"No… I want to know… about thiss one!" His tone mocked, enough to make his intentions clear.
Silence.
Its black eyes flicked back to see him standing tall, his smile now a thin, dangerous grin.
"I apologise, my dear sssir. I took you for an amateur. Let me ssshow you some real sssstuff," it replied, slithering back toward him, leaning in close, its stinking breath huffing against his grinning face.
"So… you're admitting you tried to con me?" he said, his grin widening. The fish had bitten.
"Huh…?" It gasped, then hissed, slithering back slightly.
"I said, I could call out to the other… gentlemen and women of this market, yell to them how you tried to steal from me," he said, picking up the satchel, raising it above his head, letting it catch the sunlight.
—heiiissssss—
It hissed, first slowly, then louder.
But it didn't move.
Its body was tense, coiled tight beneath its robes, every muscle ready for violence—but its eyes betrayed it. They flicked, just once, toward the open market behind him. Toward the people. Toward witnesses.
Not courage. Calculation.
He could smell it now, beneath the rot and leather. Fear—sharp, acidic, burning through the lie it had wrapped itself in. Not fear of death. Fear of loss. Of noise. Of attention.
Its jaw clenched. Its hood tightened.
It was weighing the cost.
So it swallowed its venomous rage and did just what he wanted. Negotiation.
It slithered closer, even closer than before, its bared fangs now inches from his eyes.
"What do you want…?" —heissssss—
"What do I want… huh?" He added a subtle chuckle to his voice, stepping back—not just for effect but to distance himself from the stench, now mingled with the scent of burning meat.
"Would you even have what I want?" he replied, lowering the satchel.
"Oh… dear sssir, I requesssst you to judge me not on my misssstake!" Its tone shifted. "I am one of the few who can get you anything you want in thisssss cccccity. For the right priccccce…" —heissss—
"Then tell me where I can find someone who can tell me about the things people don't talk about…"
With precise timing, he rushed forward, closing the distance until their eyes were less than an inch apart.
"And maybe, just maybe, I won't yell about your theft. I won't ensure that every ear and eye in this market sees the grand dramatisation of your little stunt. Maybe every hand won't be throwing rocks at your shop as you run—only to find more of your kind, waiting at your home, ready to exile you. Not just from this city. From this entire land of tranquillity."
A warm silence lingered between the two.
——heeisisssssss——
A sharp hiss escaped its fangs. Then came a sigh as it slithered away. The sound of shuffling came before it returned, a black-scaled hand holding out a card.
"Third… bar in the back alley of the town sssquare. Give the bartender thisss card. It'ssss a fairy."
"Sssshe'll tell you what you want to know… Now pleassssse, if you don't mind," it said, backing away.
"Thank you." He turned his grin into a more amused smile. "And I'm taking this."
"Hey…!!"
He picked up the satchel and stepped back. The Lamia made a half-hearted attempt to stop him.
——heiissssshhhhh——
He turned just enough to glare at it.
"And also. If this info turns out to be a trap or misleading… I'll be back, and…"
The Lamia froze.
"And you won't be going back to your wife and kids."
Then he smiled and walked away.