After a full hour of walking, Vincent reached his first destination: a two-story building where the ground floor housed a bar and the upper floor served as living quarters. "The Last Destination Bar," he muttered, reading the faded sign. "What a grandiose name for a shithole."

  He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  Given the early hour, he expected the bar to be nearly empty. But the reality was stranger. The room wasn't just vacant of people; it was barren. The tables and chairs were gone.

  "V-Vincent," a nervous voice stammered. The bartender offered an obviously fake smile. He knew Vincent never visited for a drink, only to cause trouble. "What can I help you with?"

  Vincent’s eyes swept over the empty space before landing on the man. "Same old, same old. I'm looking for my missing, dear sister. Did she come here by any chance?"

  The bartender’s eyes widened for a single, telling moment. It was all the confirmation Vincent needed.

  In a blur of wind-assisted speed, Vincent closed the distance, grabbed the bartender by the hair, and smashed his face into the wooden counter. BAM! The impact was so violent it left a deep crater in the wood.

  "You will tell me everything you know," Vincent hissed, his voice dangerously low, "or I will cut out your tongue for being so useless."

  "Calm down, Vincent."

  A new voice cut through the tension. An old man emerged from a back room, his face a map of wrinkles, his beard white, his head bald. A black eye patch covered one eye.

  "Just tell me what I want to know," Vincent said, not releasing the bartender, "and I won't have to take your other eye, old man."

  The old man touched his eye patch with two gnarled fingers. "I have never forgotten that day... or the great mercy you showed this foolish old man. But please, do not punish the boy for following my orders. I told him to speak of last night to no one."

  Vincent’s gaze swept the room again, now noticing the details he’d missed: the deep, unusual scratches gouged into the floorboards, the fresh damage on the walls. "I'm guessing what happened last night is the reason this place looks even shittier and emptier than usual."

  "Yes," the old man confirmed, his voice heavy. "She came barging in. Demanding we give her a 'Dragon's Breath' drug."

  "Dragon's Breath?" Vincent replied, his curiosity piqued. "What's that?"

  From the floor, the young bartender spat a bloody answer. "It doesn't fucking exist!"

  After hearing the bartender's answer, Vincent fixed him with a cold stare. Before he could demand more, the old man cut in, his voice firm. "He speaks the truth. There is no drug, under any name or alias, called 'Dragon's Breath.' It's a phantom."

  "Ugh."

  Vincent sighed, the sound laden with the grim understanding that today was stretching from a nuisance into a labyrinth. "So," he continued, his voice flat. "Where did she go?"

  "Probably Heaven's Pub," the old man offered, the name hanging in the damaged, empty room like a bad omen.

  "Heaven's Pub," Vincent repeated, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. "The pub in the slums that's notorious for gangs and the black market. Because what could possibly go wrong?"

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  With that, he turned and walked toward the exit. But as his hand reached for the door, the old man called out once more, his voice laced with genuine concern. "You know they won't be as... diplomatic as we were, right? You should take some men with you."

  Vincent didn't even bother to look back. He simply raised a hand in a dismissive, nonchalant wave and pushed his way out into the street.

  The daylight felt harsh after the bar's gloom. Vincent scanned the dusty street, his expression one of pure disgust.

  Now I have to go to the fucking slums, he thought. Just great.

  Resigned, he turned and headed for the nearest stable, his footsteps already heavy with the promise of more filth and violence.

  ***

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  The sound echoed through the quiet stable. A moment later, the door creaked open a sliver, revealing a boy no older than fifteen, with messy black hair and a height that forced him to look up at most adults.

  "We're closed," the boy announced, trying to sound authoritative.

  A rough voice answered from the other side of the door. "A stable is supposed to be open at this hour."

  "Well, we're not open yet. Come back in the afternoon," the boy insisted, beginning to shut the door.

  "I'm here to buy a horse. Let me in, I'll pay, and I'll be on my way."

  The boy paused, suspicion in his eyes. "The cheapest one is forty silver, mister. If you've got the coin, I'll open up. But no funny business."

  With a protesting creak, the heavy wooden doors swung inward. The boy found himself staring at a bearded man who looked down at him with an amused, lopsided smile.

  "So," Vincent said, his voice losing its rough disguise. "Where's this forty-silver horse you've got?"

  The boy's eyes widened in recognition and panic. "Young Lord?!" he yelped, practically jumping back. "I-I'm sorry, sir! I didn't know it was you!"

  "Well, now you do," Vincent replied, his brief amusement fading back into annoyance. "The horse?"

  "It's... it's right here, sir," the boy stammered, his shoulders slumping in embarrassment. He led Vincent to the darkest, most neglected corner of the stable.

  There, standing on trembling legs, was a horse. It was a small, brown, and profoundly pathetic creature. Its coat was dull and matted, its ribs showed faintly, and its head hung low as if carrying the weight of its own miserable existence. It was the kind of horse that had already given up on life.

  Vincent eyed the decrepit animal, a smirk playing on his lips. "This thing isn't worth ten silver, let alone forty."

  "About that..." the stable boy shuffled his feet, looking at the ground. "I, uh, I said that to scare off thieves and troublemakers. The real price is fifteen silver."

  "Barely even worth that but whatever," Vincent stated flatly. He counted out the coins and thew them to the boy. "Here. Take it."

  "Thank you, sir!" the boy said, pocketing the coins quickly before leading the old horse over. "She's all yours."

  Vincent took the reins, the leather stiff and worn. Swinging onto the horse's back with a sigh, he nudged its ribs and pointed its head north, toward the sprawling slums and the den of iniquity known as Heaven's Pub. The journey into the city's underbelly had officially begun.

  ***

  The sun began its slow descent, marking the transition into night. And with the night, the town's energy shifted; as the streets grew quieter, the pubs grew louder. Yet, one pub stood apart. Despite its location in the heart of the slums, it was a place of unspoken rules where no one dared to cause trouble.

  At least, no one except for one man.

  BAM!

  The doors of Heaven's Pub were kicked in, slamming against the walls. In the doorway stood a figure in a worn brown leather jacket and pants, a short sword hanging plainly from his left hip. His entrance was a direct insult to the "NO WEAPONS" signs posted inside and out.

  A drunkard with a forgettable face, emboldened by liquid courage, staggered over. "Ey, dickhead!" he slurred, clamping a heavy hand on the man's shoulder. "The fuckin' sign says—"

  BAM!

  The stranger's fist moved faster than the drunkard's words. The punch landed with a sickening crunch, sending the man sprawling to the floor, unconscious.

  "HEY!" The bartender's roar cut through the sudden silence, a signal that brought the security detail to attention, their hands drifting toward hidden weapons.

  The stranger ignored them, his gaze locked on the bartender. "Just go get Solicias, kid," he demanded, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Spare me the trouble of killing your guards."

  The young bartender froze, his bravado faltering. "You! How... how do you know the boss?"

  "Don't drag this out," the man said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous pitch as he closed the distance to the bar.

  He reached inside his coat and produced a small, heavy pouch, pressing it into the bartender's hand. "Compensation for the door. Now, take me to Solicias. I just want to talk."

  The bartender loosened the drawstring, his eyes glinting with a brief, unmistakable greed at the sight of the gold coins within. He gave a sharp nod to the surrounding guards, and one stepped forward to escort the mysterious man upstairs.

  Easier than I expected, Vincent thought, falling into step behind the guard. Might even be home before dark.

  On the second floor, they stopped before a door indistinguishable from the others. The guard knocked—knock, knock... knock-knock—a deliberate, coded rhythm. A moment later, the door was opened not by a servant, but by a guard who was a different breed entirely.

  His armor was unusually heavy, and every inch of visible skin was a web of old, silvery scars—a testament to countless battles and a deliberate refusal of magical healing. His weapons were not standardized; they were a curated collection of high-quality, personalized arms, marking him as a rank far above the common thug below.

  After a silent exchange, Vincent's escort departed. The scarred guard looked Vincent up and down, his gaze analytical. "The young lord of the town himself, visiting a pub in the slums. Unusual, don't you think?"

  "Just bring me Solicias," Vincent snapped, his patience worn thin.

  The guard's expression hardened. He placed a heavy, gauntleted hand on Vincent's shoulder. "Listen, bo—"

  "Get in, Vincent."

  The familiar voice from inside the room cut the guard off. A smug smile spread across Vincent's face. He looked the scarred man dead in the eye.

  "Seems your boss disagrees with you," he said, shoving the guard's hand away and brushing past him into the room. "Make way."

  Who he saw was not a charming young businessman, but a profoundly overweight, half-bald man—"if you can even call him one"—sitting on an unusually large chair behind a fancy desk decorated with what appeared to be gold.