Brawl

The bandits kept drinking.

Ilisia lay on the floor, bound and helpless. Every now and then, someone idly kicked her—like she was nothing but a ragged doll.

She bit back tears, refusing to let them fall.

She was a Wenser. She couldn’t break.

But what could she possibly do now?

Despair crept in. Her mind raced ahead—to the horrors waiting for her.

Gods above… if you truly watch over us… please…

“Please… don’t hurt her.”

A quiet, yet piercing voice cut through the bandits’ raucous laughter.

Ilisia turned her head.

In the corner of the room—bound, pale, trembling—was another captive.

Black hair. Dark eyes. A face too soft for this world.

Adrian.

He must’ve been snatched while stargazing in the hills.

Since he’d stayed quiet, the bandits hadn’t gagged him.

Now, though his entire body shook with terror—his breath coming in ragged, audible gasps—he repeated, voice cracking:

“Please… don’t hurt her.”

The bandits set down their cups and turned, staring at the boy like he’d lost his mind.

Then—explosive laughter erupted.

Some doubled over, slapping the table, tears streaming down their faces.

“Where’d your groveling go, Starboy?” the bearded, bald leader—Albion—chuckled. “You were so obedient earlier… kissing our boots like a good little pet…”

He pulled a crumpled thread-bound journal from under his seat and waved it mockingly.

Flipping it open, he thrust it toward Ilisia.

“Hey, noble lady—check this out! Does your name appear in his weird star-script book?”

The pages were covered in dense, cryptic symbols—Adrian’s star-observation notes.

Ilisia scanned them frantically.

No. Her name wasn’t there.

“Oh? What’s this?” Albion feigned shock, turning to Adrian. “Your sacred star ledger doesn’t even mention your fiancée?”

More roaring laughter filled the room.

“Albion, I’ve got an idea,” said the one-eyed man—Sheen—wiping tears from his eyes.

“Spit it out, Sheen.”

“Call Jak.”

“Jak! Get over here!” Albion beckoned to a scrawny youth huddled in the shadows.

“W-what do you need, bosses?” Jak stammered, shuffling forward.

“You’ll duel this runt,” Sheen grinned. “Cut off his hand, and we’ll accept you as one of us.”

“Brilliant,” Albion shrugged. “And if you accidentally kill him? No problem. We’ll send the body back. His rich old mum’ll pay for the delivery.”

He glanced at Ilisia.

“Besides… we’ve got a far more valuable hostage now.”

“I… I don’t know how to fight,” Jak mumbled, eyes on the floor.

“Don’t worry,” Albion sneered. “He’s never held a sword—look at his hands! Soft as a girl’s.”

Sheen stepped toward Adrian, untying his ropes with theatrical flair. He tossed a blunt, rusted sword at his feet.

“Lucky you, Starboy,” Sheen taunted. “Today, I’m feeling generous. You get a chance.”

Adrian froze. His breath hitched. His hands trembled as he stared at the blade.

“If you kill Jak,” Sheen added, voice dripping with malice, “we’ll let you be the first with the noble girl.”

“Maybe the brat in her belly’ll even be yours!” Albion cackled, clapping his hands.

The bandits howled with glee, baring broken, yellowed teeth.

“Alright, clear some space!” Sheen shouted.

The men shoved tables aside, forming a rough circle around Adrian and Jak.

Adrian picked up the sword.

His knees shook. His grip was unsteady.

He glanced at Ilisia.

Their eyes met.

Idiot…

The raw fear and worry in his gaze nearly shattered her. She turned away, unable to watch what came next.

The “spectacle” began.

Drinking. Roaring. Cheering.

“Whoa—!”

A scream tore through the room.

Not Adrian’s!

Ilisia whipped her head back.

Both boys were still standing—weapons raised, neither having struck.

The scream came from Cook.

The giant clutched his chest, face contorting in agony. Dark blood spurted from his mouth. His skin turned purple, then black.

“Guh… aghh…”

Thud.

Cook collapsed, blood soaking his grotesque, pustule-covered body.

Poisoned.

The sight shattered Ilisia’s last thread of consciousness.

She fainted.

Silence.

Thick, icy silence.

Every bandit stood frozen. Eyes darted from face to face.

Fear. Suspicion. Dread.

If he was poisoned… who else drank from the same barrel?

Panic spread like wildfire.

“Albion,” Sheen broke the stillness, voice low and sharp. “Was it your man?”

His one eye locked onto the bald leader.

“I’d say it was you, Sheen,” Albion shot back coldly. “You’ve hated Cook since he got stronger than you—his muscles bloating like a demon’s. Afraid he’d take your place?”

“I respect strength,” Sheen growled. “Unlike you, who’s questioned Cook’s every move since Saintmountain.”

“And for good reason!” Albion’s voice rose. “If he’d listened to me, we wouldn’t have lost half our men at Blackwater!”

Tension crackled like dry tinder.

“Enough! Where’s the antidote?” Albion lunged to his feet, sword drawn, pointing at Sheen.

Sheen didn’t flinch. Just stared.

The other bandits stepped back.

Twang!

An arrow—fired from behind Sheen—ripped through the air and buried itself in Albion’s face.

“Ghk—!”

The giant toppled.

“…You backstabbing bastard!”

“TRAITOR!”

Shouts exploded.

Blades clashed. Shields splintered. Metal screamed against leather and bone.

Brother turned on brother over grudges, greed, paranoia.

Men fell—not to outsiders, but to “friends” who wanted fewer shares of the ransom… or revenge for old slights… or simply because they’d eaten from the same poisoned pot.

Amid the chaos, Adrian didn’t hesitate.

He dragged Ilisia’s limp body to the far corner, shielding her behind a broken crate.

No one noticed. Everyone was too busy killing each other.

The slaughter raged on.

When the dust settled, only three bandits remained standing.

And Sheen was one of them.

The others—bloodied, limping—were his loyalists.

Jak had survived too, curled in a ball, clutching a gash in his side, trembling like a leaf.

Sheen let out a low, rasping laugh.

He’d won.

Who poisoned the wine? He didn’t care.

He felt fine. No nausea. No pain.

If the toxin was in the food or drink, he’d be dead by now.

But he wasn’t.

That meant one thing:

He was alive.

And that was all that mattered.