Jhon sat by the lake, watching the rippling water reflect the dying light of the sun. The air was dry, carrying the scent of cracked earth and dust, but the water shimmered like a mirage—a cruel reminder of the oasis in the middle of this merciless land. He had been sitting here for hours, letting the stranger's words fester inside him like an untreated wound.
"Gathering time is the last chance."
Jhon clenched his jaw. The Iron Foot weren't just raiders or mercenaries; they were butchers, monsters that feasted on the suffering of others. And yet, for decades, no one had stopped them. The man from the bar had spoken of vengeance, but also of futility.
"You'll be a part of it too."
Jhon knew the truth behind those words. Revenge changed a man. It twisted him into something unrecognizable, something darker.He sighed, rubbing his temple. "So what the hell am I supposed to do?" he muttered to himself.
The lake didn't answer. It only carried his reflection—hollow eyes, a face weathered by grief. The face of a man who had nothing left but hatred.
By the time Jhon stepped through the doors of the bar, the sky had turned a deep, bruised purple. The usual faces were there—the ragtag group of fools who had agreed to follow him. Some young, some old, but all of them desperate enough to fight. They had nothing, and when a man had nothing, he either learned to bow or learned to kill.Jhon walked straight to them, leaning on their table. The men quieted down as he spoke.
"Tell me," he said, his voice low but firm. "What happens when the gathering time comes? What do you think will happen to you?"
The men exchanged looks. One of them, a burly man with a jagged scar over his brow, spat to the side before answering.
"Same as always," he said. "They take what they want. Food, gold, women. Anyone who resists gets left to rot in the sun."
A younger man, barely more than a boy, swallowed hard. "Last year, my sister was taken. My father tried to stop them. They cut off his hands and left him bleeding in the streets. He lived for three days before he died of thirst."
Another spoke up. "They don't just take, Captain. They enjoy it. They make it hurt."
Jhon's grip on the table tightened. "And you still plan to sit here and wait for it to happen again?"
Silence. Some of them looked down. Others shifted uncomfortably.Finally, the scarred man spoke again. "What the hell do you expect us to do? We don't have weapons, we don't have numbers. We barely have enough to drink."
Jhon leaned in, his voice barely more than a growl. "Then we make them bleed first."
A murmur spread through the group. Uncertainty, fear, but also something else. A spark. "The stranger told me something," Jhon continued. "He said gathering time is their weakest. They come here like kings, expecting their tribute. They don't expect a fight."
The scarred man scoffed. "And what? You think we can take them? Just us?"
Jhon smirked, but there was no humor in it. "Not just us. We make the whole damn village fight." The silence that followed was heavier than before. Some looked ready to run. Others looked like they had already made their choice.
"So I'll ask again," Jhon said, his voice cutting through the room. "What happens when the gathering time comes? Do you let them take everything from you again? Or do you make them remember this village, not as a place of tribute—but as a grave?"
Silence hung thick in the bar. The men sat motionless, avoiding Jhon's gaze, unwilling to speak the truth he had laid before them. Their fear was suffocating, their hopelessness a sickness that had rotted their bones long before the Iron Foot came to take their due.Jhon's fingers curled into a fist. Cowards. All of them.
Then—CRACK!
The sound of shattering glass ripped through the tension like a blade. Heads snapped toward the darkened corner of the bar. There, seated alone at a dust-covered table, was a man wrapped in a tattered black cloak, his hood shadowing most of his face. He barely moved, except for the slow, deliberate way he placed the broken glass down onto the wooden surface.
And then he spoke."You may have another way, Captain." His voice was low, rough—like sand scraping against steel.
Jhon narrowed his eyes. "And who the hell are you?" The stranger lifted his chin slightly, revealing a face weathered by age and war. His left cheek bore an old, jagged scar, and his right eye gleamed silver in the dim light. "Just a man who's seen enough fools rush to their deaths," he muttered. "And enough corpses piled in this godforsaken land."
The room stayed silent, all ears on the cloaked man as he continued. "You're thinking of fighting the Iron Foot," he said. "With what? A few farmers, some drunkards, and whatever rusted blades you can find in this shithole? Suicide." He scoffed, shaking his head. "But there is another way."
Jhon crossed his arms. "I'm listening."
The man leaned forward slightly. "Silver Axes." The name sent a ripple of unease through the room. A few of the men muttered under their breath, while others exchanged wary glances.
Jhon frowned. "Who?"
"The nemesis of Iron Foot," the stranger answered. "Outsiders, from Sol-Minora. They don't follow the ways of the desert; they bring war wherever they go. But they hate the Iron Foot with a passion that rivals your own."
Jhon's heart pounded harder. An enemy of my enemy…"And where are they now?" Jhon asked.
The stranger smirked, a slow, knowing grin. "Hunting. Like always. But not here. You'd have to lure them."
"Lure them how?"
The man lifted a single finger and tapped the table. "Blood." A chilling silence followed. "The Silver Axes do not come for gold, nor food, nor tribute. They come for slaughter. If they believe the Iron Foot are weak—if they believe their hunting grounds are ripe for the taking—they will come."
Jhon exhaled sharply. "So you want me to bait them into attacking Iron Foot?"
The stranger nodded. "Get them to clash before gathering time. Force them into war. The Iron Foot will bleed before they even reach this village."
It was a dangerous plan. A reckless one. Jhon smiled. Just my kind of plan. He turned back to the men at the table."You were asking how we can fight back?" His voice was sharper now, filled with something fierce, something dangerous. "Then let's not fight alone."
Jhon's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the battered wooden table. "And how exactly do you expect me to lure them?" he asked, voice low and measured.
The stranger smirked, his silver eye glinting in the dim light. He took a slow sip of his drink before answering."Your ship, Captain."
Jhon stiffened. His grip on the edge of the table tightened. His ship. The very thing he had lost when he washed up on this godforsaken land."What about it?" Jhon growled.
The man set his cup down, the sound echoing through the silent bar."It's still out there," the man said. "And it's the only thing that can get you across the sea to Sol-Minora."
Jhon's pulse quickened. He thought his ship was lost, wrecked by the storm or taken by scavengers."If my ship is still out there," Jhon said carefully, "then where the hell is it?"
The stranger chuckled, shaking his head. "You think the desert people would let something like that sink into the sand? No, Captain. The Oasis King has it. Kept it as a prize. He thinks it's useless in a land with no ocean, but if you can get it back, you'll have your way off this cursed continent."
Jhon exhaled sharply. He'd have to steal back his own damn ship."And then what?" Jhon asked.
The man leaned in, lowering his voice. "Then you sail to Sol-Minora, the land of the Silver Axes. Find their king—Torgo the Black. Tell him you want revenge." A murmur spread through the bar at the name. Even here, in this distant land, the name of Torgo the Black carried weight.
"And why would he care about my revenge?" Jhon asked skeptically.
The stranger smirked. "Because you won't just be asking for revenge, Captain. You'll be offering him a hunt."
Jhon's eyes flickered with understanding. "Tell him you know where an Iron Foot war camp is," the man continued. "Not far from the Sol-Mayora shore. If there's one thing the Silver Axes crave more than blood, it's blood that belongs to the Iron Foot."
Jhon rubbed his jaw, thinking. "And you think Torgo will listen?"
The man nodded. "Oh, he'll listen. The question is—can you survive the meeting long enough to make him care?"
Jhon grinned, the kind of grin a man gives before doing something reckless. "Guess I'll find out."
The stranger didn't speak again. Instead, he reached beneath his cloak, pulled something from his belt, and placed it on the table with a heavy thud. A sword.
The steel was old but sturdy, the edge worn yet sharp enough to kill. The hilt was wrapped in faded leather, its grip molded by the years of a warrior's hold. Jhon's fingers hovered over it, hesitant, before he finally grasped the weapon. The weight was familiar—comforting, even.Then, the stranger slid a rolled parchment toward him. A map.Jhon picked it up and unfurled it. His eyes scanned the rough sketches, the markings in an old dialect. But the message was clear—the path to the Oasis King's house.
When Jhon looked up, the man was already walking away. "Oi," Jhon called after him. "What's your name?"
The man didn't stop.
Didn't turn.
Didn't say a single word. He simply disappeared into the shadows, leaving Jhon alone with his blade, his map, and a choice to make.
For a long moment, silence lingered in the bar. The kind of silence that comes before a storm, before the earth cracks open and fire spills forth. Then—
"That's it, then!" someone bellowed, slamming a fist onto the table hard enough to rattle the empty glasses.
Another voice rose from the corner, rough and raw. "The Oasis King's been feeding us to the Iron Foot for years! And we just sit here like lambs to the slaughter!"
"Not anymore!" someone else shouted. "No more watching our daughters get dragged away! No more handing over our crops, our gold, our goddamn dignity!"
A roar of agreement surged through the bar. Men who had been slumped in hopelessness now stood with their fists clenched. Some slammed their drinks back in one gulp, as if they needed the burn of alcohol to fuel their rage. Others grabbed whatever they could—a knife, a broken bottle, even a chair—ready to wield it as a weapon.
"We should storm the Oasis King's palace now!" one man spat, his face red with fury."And die before we even reach the gates?" another snapped. "No, we need a plan! We take his ship, we bring in the Silver Axes, and we burn the Iron Foot to the ground!"
"Hah! A war between devils, and we'll be the ones lighting the damn match!" someone laughed, dark and wild."I say we take what's ours first!" a burly man slammed his mug on the bar. "The king's vault! If we're gonna fight, we need weapons, armor! And if we die, at least we die with full pockets!"
Laughter, shouting, the scraping of chairs against the floor—chaos erupted in the small bar. The air was thick with rage, years of fear boiling over into something dangerous.
Jhon watched it unfold, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his new sword. He could feel the shift, the weight of the moment. These men—once afraid, once beaten down—were now something else entirely.They weren't just angry.
They were ready.Jhon chuckled, a low, dry sound that cut through the chaos. He rose to his feet, the sword in his grip gleaming under the dim lantern light. His eyes, dark with resolve, swept over the men before him—faces hardened by suffering, hands calloused from years of labor, backs bent beneath the weight of oppression."You feel it, don't you?" he said, his voice calm yet commanding. The bar quieted, every ear turning to him. "That fire in your chest, that hunger clawing at your ribs, that ache in your bones. You've lived with it for years, maybe your whole damn life."
He took a step forward, slamming the sword's tip against the wooden floor."But tonight, that hunger ain't for scraps. That ache ain't from bending to a king who ain't worthy of his throne. And that fire?" He let his gaze drift across them, his smile widening. "That fire ain't the sun, my friends. That's rage. And rage is a beautiful thing when you finally let it loose."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, fists clenching tighter, breaths turning heavier." The Iron Foot think we're cattle, fit only to be slaughtered at their whim. The Oasis King—" Jhon spat the words like venom, "—he'd rather bow his fat head to those bastards than stand up for his own people. And you've been told to accept it. To kneel. To endure."
His smile faded. His voice dropped to something sharp and cold."I say fuck that."
A growl of agreement rumbled through the bar. Someone slammed their mug down so hard it cracked.Jhon lifted his sword, pointing it toward the ceiling. "They take our gold. They take our food. They take our women. And what do we get? Empty hands and broken hearts. But what if, just once, we take something back?"
A roar answered him.Jhon grinned, his voice rising above the clamor. "What if, when the Iron Foot come to feast on our suffering, they choke on their own damn blood? What if we make the Oasis King piss himself in fear? What if, instead of waiting for death, we deliver it ourselves?"
The crowd exploded. Men pounded their fists against tables, roared in fury, shouted curses at the names of their enemies. The room was alight with something raw, something real.
Jhon raised his sword high."Tonight, we drink. Tomorrow, we sharpen our steel. And when the time comes—" he bared his teeth in a grin that promised nothing but carnage, "—we burn this desert with the blood of our enemies." The bar shook with the force of their cries. The fire in their eyes burned hotter than the scorching sun of Sol-Mayora.