The small tavern bustled with the quiet chatter of locals, their voices blending with the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional clink of glassware. The wooden beams of the ceiling creaked gently under the weight of time, giving the place an air of rustic charm. The bartender, an older man with graying hair and a kind, worn face, moved behind the counter, pouring drinks with the practiced ease of someone who had done it for decades.
A stranger, seated at the far end of the bar, leaned forward, his face partially obscured by the hood of his cloak. He watched the bartender fill a simple glass cup and then asked, "Heard any good rumors lately?"
The bartender glanced up, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. "No, stranger," he replied, setting the glass in front of the man. "But there is a pretty big bounty on the gang holed up in the cave outside the city. It could be…"
Before he could finish, the door to the tavern was kicked open with a resounding boom. The chatter died instantly as all eyes turned toward the entrance. In walked a frail man in his thirties, his face twisted in a sneer of arrogance. He strode to the nearest table and pounded it with his fist. "Bring me a drink!" he barked, his voice carrying a tone of entitlement. His two acolytes, shadowing him like loyal dogs, demanded the same.
The bartender hurried over to him, his hands shaking slightly as he began to fill a glass. As soon as the drink was poured, the man's mood darkened. With a sudden, vicious movement, he slapped the glass off the table, sending it shattering to the floor. "That's not how you serve a relic user!" he snarled, snatching the bottle from the bartender's trembling hands. He tipped it back, drinking deeply, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a loud burp echoing through the silent tavern. "Bring me and my men more drinks. We relic users need a good drink after battle."
As the bartender turned to walk away, one of the acolytes kicked him in the butt, sending him sprawling to the floor. A hushed gasp rippled through the patrons, but no one dared to intervene.
"Why don't you leave the guy alone?" The calm voice of the stranger at the bar cut through the tension like a blade.
The frail man turned, his eyes narrowing. "Are you talking to us?"
"No," the stranger replied, his tone steady. "I'm talking to all three of you moronic bullies."
The bartender, still on the floor, tried to defuse the situation. "Stranger, I tripped…"
But the mysterious man interrupted. "No, you were kicked."
The frail man and his acolytes stood up, their hands inching toward their weapons. "Seems we have a problem," the leader sneered. "And we're the problem solvers."
The tavern held Its breath as the three men advanced on the stranger. But the mysterious man remained seated, calm as ever. In a flash, he moved, grabbing the wooden spoon from the bowl he had been eating from. With swift, precise movements, he lashed out, the spoon cutting through the air like a blade. The bully's swords shattered under the force of his strikes.
The three men staggered back; disbelief etched on their faces. Without another word, they turned and fled, shouting over their shoulders that they would return with reinforcements and their boss.
The tension in the tavern eased as they disappeared, and the patrons slowly returned to their conversations. The bartender, still shaken, got to his feet, and looked at the stranger with gratitude. "Thank you," he said, his voice thick with relief. "Who are you?"
The man waved a dismissive hand. "I'm no one."
Before the bartender could press further, the door burst open again, this time with a breathless local who looked as if he had run all the way there. "There's trouble in the square!" he shouted.
The mysterious man exchanged a glance with his two companions, who had remained silent and unnoticed until now. One of them sighed, a hint of exasperation in their voice. "You always have to be the hero, don't you?"
The three of them stood and, without another word, made their way outside.
The square was in chaos. A large group of no more than thirty men were harassing locals and damaging property. The gang's leader was a hulking figure, towering over the crowd with a muscular frame that spoke of years spent in brutal combat. His skin was tanned and rough, marred by countless scars that crisscrossed his arms and chest, visible through the torn, bloodstained leather vest he wore. His face was gaunt and sharp, with a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. A tangled mess of greasy, unkempt hair fell over his forehead, partially obscuring a pair of cold, predatory eyes that gleamed with a mean, calculating glint. His mouth twisted into a permanent sneer, revealing yellowed teeth that matched the overall grime clinging to his body.
The gang leader's overall appearance was that of a man who had long abandoned any pretense of civility. Dirt and sweat coated his skin in a layer of filth, adding to the pungent stench that seemed to follow him. His hands, calloused and scared, clutched a fire Talwar with an almost obsessive grip, the weapon's faint glow contrasting sharply with the grimy, chipped nails that dug into the hilt. Everything about him, from the way he carried himself to the hardened lines etched into his face, screamed danger—a man who had clawed his way to power through sheer brutality and who would think nothing of killing to maintain his grip on it.
His presence alone seemed to darken the atmosphere. "I'm here for retribution!" he roared, his voice booming across the square. "My gang, the 30 Boys, demands satisfaction for the assault on my men!"
The three hooded figures stepped forward, their movements deliberate and calm. The leader of the trio placed a hand on the shoulders of the other two. "Don't kill them," he said quietly.
The other two nodded in agreement.
The fight began in an instant. One of the hooded figures wielded nothing more than a simple stick, while the other brandished the same wooden spoon. Despite their meager weapons, they moved with a fluidity and precision that made the battle seem almost effortless. Within minutes, all 29 bandits lay unconscious on the ground, leaving only the chief standing.
His confidence wavered as he watched his men fall, but he steeled himself, drawing his relic—a fire Talwar that glowed with an ominous light. The third hooded figure stepped forward, drawing a simple wooden staff from beneath their cloak.
The battle between them was brief. The hooded figure moved with blinding speed, the wooden staff clashing against the fire Talwar in a series of sharp, controlled strikes. Then, with a powerful swing, the bandit chief was knocked off his feet, crashing into a nearby wall. He slumped to the ground, seemingly defeated.
As the dust settled, one of the hooded figures walked over to the other who had beaten the leader, lowering their hood to reveal Nyota. "You went too far," she said, her voice carrying both concern and reprimand.
The next figure approached, lowering their hood to reveal Elara. "Yes, you did," she agreed. "You've gotten so strong you don't realize your strength."
But before they could say more, the gang leader, battered but not broken, let out a furious scream. With a final surge of desperation, he leaped at them, his fire Talwar raised high. "You'll die for your disrespect!"
Without hesitation, the third figure activated Anka Boost, their body surging with power. In a single, swift motion, they slashed the leader across the stomach, cutting him in half. The attack was so fast, so precise, that Talwar fell from the bandit's grasp before he even realized he was dead.
As the leader's body hit the ground, the figure's hood fell back, revealing the face of Kintu Baganda. The crowd that had gathered around erupted into cheers, the tension and fear melting away in the face of his victory. The townspeople swarmed around him, their voices filled with gratitude and awe.
"Who are you?" someone asked from the crowd.
Kintu looked at them, his expression calm and confident. "I'm Kintu Baganda," he said, his voice carrying over the square. "And I'm a relic user."
Kintu turned to Elara as they walked through the bustling marketplace, their destination set but still unclear in its purpose. "Why did you choose to have it here of all places?" he asked, his curiosity piqued by the city's seemingly random selection. The town was lively, with vendors shouting out prices and children running through the streets, but it did not seem particularly special.
Elara glanced at him, her golden-brown eyes reflecting the afternoon sun. "Every time we hold the Gathering, a different god hosts it," she explained. "This time, it was supposed to be the Storm God's turn. But… well, he lost his country. So, the responsibility fell on the God of Light." Her tone carried a hint of sympathy for the Storm God's plight, but there was also an unspoken acceptance of the situation. In the world of gods and relics, power could shift in an instant, and allegiances were often as fleeting as the wind.
Kintu nodded thoughtfully, taking in her words. "So, how far do we have to travel?" he asked, scanning the horizon for any sign of their destination.
"Not far," Nyota chimed in, her voice steady and confident. "It's being held in the capital city of Wukong, at the cult's headquarters." Kintu raised an eyebrow at that. The last city they had visited, a supposed cult stronghold, had been anything but what he had imagined. It was more of a sleepy town than a fortress of fanaticism.
"That last city wasn't very cult-like," Kintu remarked, recalling the quiet streets and subdued atmosphere.
Elara smiled slightly. "That is because the real followers live in the capital city. The others stay in smaller towns, but they receive no protection and have to pay taxes. The capital, on the other hand, is where the true power resides, where the inner circle of the cult makes their home."
As they continued their journey, the skyline of Wukong began to dominate the horizon, its towering structures gleaming in the sunlight. The capital city was an impressive sight, a sprawling metropolis of white marble and gold. At its center stood the royal capitol building, a majestic palace that shimmered with an ethereal glow, as if it were bathed in the light of the God who ruled there.
They entered the palace, and Kintu was immediately struck by the opulence of the place. The marble floors gleamed underfoot, and the walls were adorned with intricate carvings and gold accents that caught the light in dazzling patterns. As they approached the grand reception desk, a beautiful deer beast kin woman greeted them. She had delicate antlers that curved gracefully above her head and a deer's tail that flicked lightly behind her. Her demeanor was calm and composed, her smile warm as she welcomed them.
"The meeting will begin tomorrow," she informed them in a soft, melodious voice. "Until then, you may rest in your rooms. Each of you has been assigned a separate suite on the top floor." With a polite bow, she handed them their room keys, the small metal pieces engraved with the same gold and white motif that adorned the entire palace.
Kintu took his key and headed up to his room, the plush carpet soft beneath his boots as he ascended the grand staircase. When he reached his suite, he was greeted by a room that matched the palace's grandeur, a large bed draped in fine linens, a balcony overlooking the city, and a luxurious bath filled with steaming water. But despite the comfort, he barely took in his surroundings before collapsing onto the bed, exhaustion from their travels finally catching up with him.
As soon as he closed his eyes, Kintu found himself in the familiar white room that he had come to associate with Theda. The Goddess of Death was waiting for him, her presence as imposing as ever, though there was a softness in her gaze as she regarded him.
"I've been watching your progress," she said, her voice smooth and comforting. "And I'm confident that our plan will go off smoothly." Despite her reassurance, Kintu could not help but feel a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.
"I'm still nervous," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Theda's expression softened even further as she approached him, wrapping him in a gentle embrace. Her touch was cool, but it carried a warmth that seeped into his bones, easing his tension. "I can help you relax," she whispered in his ear, her tone almost playful.
Kintu's breath hitched, and he nervously backed away, his heart pounding in his chest. Theda's laughter echoed in the room, a sound that was both amusing and affectionate. But before he could respond, the white room faded, and he was once again plunged into darkness.
He woke up in his bed, the remnants of the dream still clinging to his mind. But sleep soon claimed him once more, pulling him back into its depths as he drifted off, the day's worries momentarily forgotten.