Baston had been in a foul mood for days.
It was not the loud, outward kind that demanded the release, but it was more of a quieter irritation that lingered beneath the surface, sharpening his thoughts and souring his patience.
The matter of Zimus refused to settle into anything simple. Every angle that he examined only revealed further complications like a tightening knot the more one tried to undo it.
Zimus was not a man who could be removed casually.
The town depended on him, whether they admitted it or not. The thugs under his control maintained a fragile order which was one built not on law but on the fear and consistency.
They collected money, but in return, they kept the worse dangers at bay. In a place where the kingdom's watchmen existed more as a decoration than the protection, that kind of order had its own value.
The watchmen themselves were hardly worth considering.
They were present but only in the most technical sense. They were paid by the kingdom yet they were loyal only to the money that was placed directly into their hands.
They rarely acted unless it benefited them personally.
Without a direct supervision from the capital, they preferred to remain idle. As long as the chaos did not escalate beyond their comfort, they would not interfere.
For a town like Maskar, that was the unspoken rule.
Baston lay back on the bed with one arm that was draped over his eyes. He had intended to rest briefly. His thoughts had grown heavy and the room felt stifling in its stillness.
But then, came the noise that woke him up.
At first, it was only the distant shouts that were carried unevenly through the streets. It was the kind that might accompany drunken arguments or minor disputes. He tried to ignored it because such disturbances were common enough.
However, it did not fade. The commotion strangely grew with time.
More voices joined and it became louder and angrier. The rhythm of the noise shifted into something chaotic and purposeful. There was movement in it that contained many steps.
He lowered his arm. A moment later, he rose and stepped toward the window.
What he saw immediately erased any lingering thought of his rest.
At the outside, many men flooded the street.
They moved in clusters and they were fast plus aggressive. Their presence was overwhelming in the surrounding of the narrow road.
Some carried knives while the others took crude weapons which was whatever they could wield effectively. Their expressions were not those of the opportunists because they were driven and unified by another intent.
And wherever they passed, the destruction followed.
A stall was overturned, a door was kicked open, and anything that resisted them was broken without hesitation.
Baston's eyes narrowed slightly, "Who are they? I have never seen them before…"
There was a difference between the chaos that was born of opportunity and chaos that was driven by purpose. These men were not here to scavenge. They were here to claim something or someone.
He turned and left the room hurriedly without another thought.
*****
Down there, the innkeeper had already begun preparing for the worst.
The furniture had been dragged across the entrance with heavy cabinets, tables, and anything that could slow the intrusion. The effort behind it was evident. The placement was not perfect but it was desperate and determined.
Baston paused for a brief moment and he was simply observing first.
For someone of her stature, the strength required to move such weight was not insignificant.
She noticed him and immediately hurried over, "Young master, please stay inside! It's dangerous outside!"
"What's happening?" he asked calmly.
"The thugs from the neighboring town… They've come…" her voice trembled though she forced herself to remain composed, "They're here for Zimus."
Baston said nothing, allowing her to continue.
"They've wanted the control of this area for a long time," she explained, "Before Zimus came, things were much worse. There was no order and anyone strong enough could take what they wanted. When Zimus claimed this town, he drove them back. Since then, there have only been few small clashes."
Her expression tightened, "But this… this time is different. There are too many of them."
As if to confirm her words, a loud voice came as the warning.
"OPEN THE DOOR!"
A violent crash followed and the barricade shuddered under the impact. Another strike came and it was heavier this time. The wooden door creaked in protest.
"They'll break through…" she whispered worriedly.
Baston's gaze shifted to the door, "How long until the watchmen respond?"
She shook her head immediately, "They won't come."
The answer was enough to explain the situation. It seemed the people could only defend themselves.
The next impact soon shattered the door.
The wood splintered inward as the barricade collapsed, pushed aside by a sheer force. The thugs surged into the lobby and their presence was overwhelming. Their intent was quite unmistakable.
The innkeeper stepped in front of Baston without hesitation.
It was a futile gesture done by ordinary human.
He watched her back for a brief second before he moved.
The cold gathered at his fingertips. The air itself seemed to tighten as a thin shimmer of frost formed in the space before him.
It was a flicker of motion and the first needle of ice pierced through a man's throat.
There was no warning and declaration. There was only the sudden and violent intrusion of magic.
Soon, another victim followed before it was repeated for several times.
The projectiles moved with precision and each one of them was striking a vital point. It targeted their throats, eyes, and hearts. The confined space worked in his favor. There was nowhere to evade and nowhere to retreat.
The screams rose but not for long. Within few moments, the lobby fell silent and the bodies collapsed where they stood.
The blood spread across the floor in uneven patterns, interrupted only by the shards of ice that still embedded in flesh.
Baston lowered his hand. His expression did not change.
The innkeeper staggered slightly and her breath was unsteady as she stared at the aftermath. Her mind struggled to reconcile what she had just witnessed.
He glanced at her, "I'll handle the rest. You only need to wait inside…"
He stepped past her and walked out into the street.
*****
The town had already descended into chaos.
What had once been the scattered violence was now becoming an open conflict.
Some of the townspeople had begun to fight back. They alone would have stood little chance but together, the desperation gave them a kind of reckless courage.
Baston moved through the streets at a steady pace. He did not rush and he did not hesitate on his killing.
When he encountered the attackers, they died quickly. It was a clean motion with a single strike since there was no need of wasted effort.
When he saw the engaged groups in struggle, he adjusted his fighting style.
Instead of killing outright, he froze their legs, anchoring them to the ground. Immobilized, they became the easy targets for the surrounding townspeople who descended upon them with a mixture of fear and fury.
It was efficient way since he didn't need to strike harder.
He did not consider whether it was right. He had already made that decision long ago.
*****
"HELP! SOMEONE… HELP US!"
The cry cut through the atmosphere sharply enough to draw his attention.
"ZIMUS HAS BEEN STABBED!"
Baston stopped. For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to narrow. And then, he moved again with different conviction.
A puppet rose silently into the air and its vision was expanding on his own. From above, the situation revealed itself clearly.
At the outskirts of the town, the largest concentration of attackers had gathered.
Zimus and his men were there.
They were outnumbered and cornered but they were fighting with all they had.
Even from a distance, he could see the strain in their movements. The defense was breaking piece by piece.
After all, Zimus was already wounded.
The blood stained his clothing and his posture was unstable as he continued to hold his ground. And then, abruptly, the formation shifted.
Zimus's subordinates broke away.
They did not flee blindly. They moved with the intention of drawing the attackers with them, pulling much attention away from a single point to which from the old man.
Left alone, Zimus staggered toward a nearby cave and he disappeared into its shadow.
The diversion worked since most of the attackers gave chase to the others.
Baston observed silently before he made his decision.
*****
Through the puppet stationed near the cave, Baston listened.
Zimus's breathing was uneven and heavy. Each breath carried the faint sound of blood where it should not be.
"I was careless…" the old man muttered.
He pressed a hand against his wound though it did little to slow the bleeding, "They planned this… all of it…"
His voice faltered. For a moment, there was only the silence before unexpectedly, he uttered his last wish.
"I hope… they're safe…"
The words were quiet and it was not directed at certain someone at present.
"God… if you exist…"
Baston's attention sharpened, wondering whether the old man tried to be the good one in his last breath.
"I don't believe in you… I never have..." Zimus let out a weak and humorless breath, "But the people here… they do... They need you…"
There was another pause. It was longer this time since the old man was catching his breath.
"So if you're listening… protect them…" his voice grew faint, "Don't let this town fall because of me…"
His hand slipped slightly from the wound, "I don't have anywhere else to turn… so… I'll ask anyway…"
The next words came slower, "If you grant this… I'll give you anything…"
Baston's eyes narrowed slightly, "Anything…?"
It was an interesting choice. The silence followed and Zimus's head lowered.
His body stilled and he fell unconscious.
*****
Baston did not move immediately.
He remained where he was and considering whether he would act or not. Originally, he had intended to help but now, the situation had shifted.
An opportunity had presented itself which was unexpected but significant.
Zimus was not merely a thug. He had influence and control over this town.
He was a pillar within this town's fragile balance and now, he had made an offer.
The cave fell into a heavy stillness.
Only the slow dripping of blood against the stone remained, echoing faintly like a clock that was counting down toward something inevitable.
The air inside was damp and cold, carrying the metallic scent of injury that clung stubbornly to every breath. At the outside, the distant noise of battle continued. But here, it felt strangely cut off as though the world had drawn a boundary around this moment.
He did not look away.
Through the puppet's eyes, he observed every detail from the uneven rise of Zimus's chest, the weakening pulse, and the way that his fingers twitched faintly before growing still. There was no deception in it and there was no hidden strength waiting to resurface.
If nothing interfered, the old man would die here quietly and without witness. It would be a predictable end yet something about it felt incomplete.
Zimus had not begged for his own life and that alone was enough to unsettle Baston's expectations.
Most men, when faced with death, clung desperately to survival. They bargained, pleaded, and lied to themselves if they had to.
However, Zimus had done none of that. His final thoughts had been directed outward to the town, to the people, and even to something that he claimed not to believe in.
It was contradictory and such contradictions were rarely meaningless.
He exhaled quietly, "An offer in prayer, huh?"
Then, after a brief pause, he continued with a smile, "Let's see what the next answer..."
The puppet's form soon changed. The feathers receded and the limbs reshaped.
In its place stood a young man with pale hair and calm with composed features. There was something unnatural in the stillness of his presence, something that did not belong to the ordinary world.
He stepped forward, kneeling beside the old man while he raised a hand.
A soft light slowly gathered. It was warm and gentle.
It spread across the wound, seeping into the torn flesh and mending what had been broken. The flow of blood soon slowed down before it ceased entirely. The injury closed as though the time itself had been reversed.
When the light faded, nothing remained of the wound. There was only the silence.
The man which was Baston's puppet watched for a moment longer. Still, Zimus did not wake up quickly.
"I have an unfortunate timing…" Baston muttered distantly.
There were words that needed to be said.
A moment that required awareness and yet, the recipient slept through it.
*****
Time passed and somewhere else, the remaining attackers were dealt with.
The puppets moved efficiently, eliminating the stragglers and dismantling what remained of the invasion.
By the time Baston withdrew his attention, the outcome was no longer in question.
The town had survived though not by its own strength.
*****
"Still not awake…?"
Baston let out a quiet sigh because waiting served no purpose now.
He stood, taking a close look at the old man, "I will return later…"
*****
The town had begun to shift again.
The chaos was fading, replaced by something louder in a different way. It was the relief from the people.
The voices rose in triumph. The survivors gathered, recounting what had happened while clinging to the belief that they had driven the attackers back through their own efforts.
Baston walked among them unnoticed. He did not correct them since there was no reason to.
At the inn, the innkeeper was alive. She was shaken but unharmed. Such result was enough at the moment.
By the time he resumed his quiet patrol, the town had settled into an uneasy calm.
Meanwhile, Zimus still slept and unaware.
He was unaware of the prayer he had made. And more importantly, he was unaware that it had already been answered.