The city of Zen loomed like a scar beneath the overcast sky. Its cracked streets and aging buildings whispered of a better past. Blood had dried in alleys long abandoned, and the stench of smoke still clung to the walls. Yet, people lived here—scraping by, drinking, gambling, pretending that monsters didn't crawl in the shadows.
Jeffrey pulled the cart to a stop just outside the city gates. Lisa turned to Richard, eyes calm but soft.
"We'll be heading to Ervest before sunset. Jeff needs to rest but… we shouldn't stay long here," she said.
Richard nodded.
"Thank you," she added, offering a slight bow. "For everything."
He gave a silent nod in return and stepped off the wagon, heading toward the gates alone.
The guards looked him over warily but didn't ask questions after he dropped a coin and showed his identification mark—a simple iron crest engraved with runes. One of the guards muttered, "Another sellsword," before waving him in.
Zen was louder inside the walls. The clamor of hammer on steel, drunken laughter, market haggling—it was a city trying hard to be alive. Richard's boots crunched against broken cobblestone as he walked toward the Swordfinn, a well-known bar, restaurant, and inn for travelers and mercenaries alike.
Inside, it was dim and loud. Smoke hung in the air, and the scent of meat, grease, and spilled beer hit like a punch. Richard approached the counter, dropped a few coins, and paid for a room. The innkeeper, a wide man with a twisted mustache, grunted and handed him a key.
"Room five. Food'll be sent up. Or stay here and drink."
"I'll sit," Richard replied.
He made his way to a corner table, but his eyes scanned the room. His gaze settled on a four-seater already occupied by three rough-looking men. Laughter bounced from their mouths and mugs, slurred and mean. He walked over and dropped a small bag of silver onto the table.
"The beer's on me."
The table quieted for a moment. One of the thugs, a wiry man with a scar under his eye, gave a lopsided grin.
"Well damn. Didn't expect charity from a man dressed like a reaper."
"Maybe he's one of them saints," the other laughed.
"Or maybe he's fishing for something," the third muttered.
After a few rounds, Richard leaned forward. "Heard any talk about something called the 'Day of the Black Sun'? Some vampires seem nervous."
The scarred one's smile faded.
"Heard whispers," he said, voice low. "Folks say some old vamp cults been stirring. Something big. And if anyone knows the truth about it… it's the Owl."
Richard raised a brow. "The Owl?"
"A ghost. An informant. Always appears at night, always gone by morning. No one knows where he lives, no one sees him twice. Says what he wants, then vanishes."
"He's real?" Richard asked.
"Oh, very," the third thug said. "Few years back, someone tried to double-cross him. He was found hanging upside down from a bell tower with his tongue shoved down his throat."
"…Charming," Richard muttered.
"If you're hunting the Owl," the scarred one added, "don't expect to find him. He finds you."
Richard stood, dropping another small pouch. "Thanks for the drinks."
The men didn't stop him—just raised their mugs in salute.
Upstairs, in the small, dusty room, Richard removed his armor and sat on the bed. His eyes fell to a cloth-wrapped bundle in his bag. He unwrapped it slowly.
It was a small, worn doll. The stitching was a little crooked—his daughter's favorite.
He lay back, holding it against his chest.
He remembered her laughter, the way she danced with it clumsily in the kitchen, how she cried when the head ripped and he had to sew it up. He remembered his wife's hand on his shoulder, her smile when she said, "She's got your temper."
He blinked. Then sat up, eyes dry.
It was time to move.
Armor on. Sword sheathed. Window open.
He leapt from the second-story window and landed silently on the roof. The night wind ruffled his coat. He ran across the rooftops like a shadow, eyes scanning the streets below.
Nothing.
He crouched low, breathing steady. Just when he was about to turn back, he heard voices.
A group of thugs. Four of them, surrounding a young woman, yelling and yanking her bag. She pleaded. One of them knocked her down and grabbed the satchel.
They laughed and bolted down an alley, disappearing into the maze of Zen's underworld.
Richard dropped a coin purse beside the girl's stunned form and followed.
He moved like smoke, unseen, unheard. The gang led him through tunnels and forgotten buildings until they reached an old warehouse.
Inside were more men—drunk, loud, cocky. A low-tier gang.
He stepped through the door.
Moments later, the warehouse echoed with screams, smashing wood, crashing bodies.
He stood over the gang's leader, bloodied and gasping, pinned against the wall.
"I'm looking for the Owl," Richard said.
"I—I met him once. Years ago," the man coughed. "He's real. But we don't know where to find him."
"Then you'll work for me," Richard growled. "You and your gang. You sniff him out, track rumors, whatever it takes. I want his location."
The man's shoulders slumped. "…Fine. We'll help you."
Richard stepped back.
"You don't have a choice."
End of Chapter 10