A web of deceit began to spin, its strands as fine as spider silk, as strong as steel. While Ba Gấu honed his blades for the trial by combat, his enemies sharpened their tongues, weaving a tapestry of doubt and distrust. The battle for the Blood Moon Stall wasn’t just about skill or strength; it was about history, family, and the ghosts that haunted them all.
The city woke to the rhythmic clang of steel against bone, a counterpoint to the rising sun. Ba Gấu emerged from the Hall of Ancestral Records, the Butcher clan scroll a shield against the whispers that still clung to him like cobwebs. The Guild of Steel and Scale awaited, not just a test of skill, but a crucible of doubt woven by Hét's venomous manipulations.
Inside, the hall buzzed with a wasp nest's energy. Dũng perched atop a table like a mischievous monkey, snickered at the whispers swirling around Ba Gấu. He was too young, too flippant to be anything but a pawn in his mother's game. His challenge would be petty, a childish jab meant to deepen the doubt.
But the real threat stood in the center, a mountain of a woman garbed in chainmail, a sneer plastered on her face. "Snarlilda Stubblechin," she bellowed, voice gravel rattling in a tin bucket, "and I've come to claim your stall, ghost boy! Let's see if you can butcher a whisperwind without turning it to mush!"
The challenge: rare cuts from a Whispering Stag, legendary for its elusive nature and intricate musculature. Snarlilda, armed with bribes from Hét, flaunted a cheat sheet, confident in her ill-gotten knowledge.
Ba Gấu met her gaze, the Riptooth a cold fire in his gut. He sharpened his flaying knife, preparing silently for this challenge. He approached the stag, its meat marbled with an almost ethereal luminescence, and began.
No grunting effort, no bluster. Every slice was measured, precise, a surgeon dissecting a mystery. Fingers skimmed along muscles, tracing invisible pathways, separating tenderloin from flank with the elegance of a brushstroke. He hummed an ancient butcher's lullaby, the hall falling silent with each note, mesmerized by the dance of blade and flesh.
When he finished, the stag lay transformed, a symphony of perfectly carved cuts, each showcasing the stag's unique anatomy. Snarlilda's face, once smug, had curdled into disbelief. Her cheat sheet, as useless as a feather in a hurricane.
The elders, witnesses to a masterclass, erupted in applause. The butcher's skill, passed down through generations, pulsed in Ba Gấu's veins. The whispers, like leaves in a winter wind, scattered before the force of his talent.
Snarlilda, shamefaced and defeated, stammered out a challenge before slinking out of the guild, banished not just by Ba Gấu's blade, but by the sheer poetry of his butchery. Dũng eyes wide with a grudging respect, hopped down from his perch, the first seed of admiration for his stepbrother planted in his mischievous heart.
Ba Gấu stood amidst the applause, the Blood Moon Stall his by right and by might. He wasn't just a ghost anymore. He was the butcher reborn, the storm of howling defiance that shook the walls of the Guild of Steel and Scale. Hét, watching from the shadows, felt the first tremor of fear. Her web was unraveling, thread by bloody thread, and the storm she'd underestimated was gathering strength.
Ba Gấu stood amidst the cheering crowd, the scent of victory clinging to him like woodsmoke. He had reclaimed his birthright, the Blood Moon Stall a beacon of his resilience in the face of doubt and deceit. Yet, as the last cheers faded, an unsettling chill crept down his spine. A whisper, carried on the wind, brushed past his ear, a single word: "Weaver."
At first, he dismissed it as a stray murmur, lost in the city's cacophony. But as he walked the bustling streets, the word seemed to echo from every corner. In hushed tones, amidst the clatter of carts and the haggling of vendors, he heard it again: "The Weaver... is coming..."
Unease gnawed at him. It wasn't just the word itself, but the way it was spoken, laced with a mixture of fear and morbid fascination. He sought information, piecing together fragments from wary glances and nervous murmurs. The Weaver was a name whispered in shadows, a figure shrouded in mystery, but their influence, it seemed, was undeniable.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Some spoke of a puppet master, manipulating events from behind the scenes, pulling the strings of powerful figures like puppets in a macabre play. Others described them as a weaver of fate, their fingers intricately entwined with the city's very fabric, able to bend fortune and misfortune to their will.
The more Ba Gấu heard, the more the image of a spider materialized in his mind, a creature patiently spinning its web, waiting for its prey to become entangled. The Weaver, he realized, wasn't just a rival or an enemy; they were a force of nature, a storm gathering on the horizon, and Ba Gấu, having weathered one storm, now faced the chilling prospect of another, far more formidable.
The whispers intensified with each passing day. Tales of the Weaver's past victims spread like wildfire – merchants driven to ruin overnight, politicians vanished without a trace, all attributed to the unseen hand of this enigmatic figure. The city, once buzzing with life, seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next shoe to drop.
Even the triumphs Ba Gấu had achieved seemed tainted by the growing shadow of the Weaver. His victories felt hollow, knowing a greater threat loomed. The whispers, like poisonous tendrils, crept into his thoughts, eroding his confidence and planting seeds of doubt. Was he truly prepared for what was to come? Could he withstand the storm brewing in the city's underbelly, orchestrated by the unseen Weaver?
The answer, Ba Gấu knew, lay not in succumbing to fear, but in facing it head-on. He had risen from the ashes once, and defied the whispers that painted him as a ghost. He wouldn't let this new threat, no matter how formidable, break him. He would sharpen his blade, hone his skills, and prepare himself for the inevitable confrontation. The Weaver might be a master manipulator, but Ba Gấu, the Butcher reborn, was no easy prey. He would meet the storm head-on, and the city would tremble at the howl of the Riptooth, louder and fiercer than ever before.
part 2
Mai and Nam
The cobbled streets, usually bustling with merchants and peddlers, were strangely subdued under the early evening sun. As they strolled hand-in-paw, the rhythmic click of Mai's polished claws against the stones was the only sound that disturbed the tranquil air. Nestled within the opulent South District, the neighborhood exuded an air of wealth and security, a stark contrast to the grimy alleys Ba Gau had navigated earlier. Grand, whitewashed villas with manicured gardens lined the avenues, their balconies adorned with vibrantly colored blooms. The air itself seemed to shimmer with an undercurrent of satisfaction, a melody only those privy to its secrets could truly hear.
"Isn't it wonderful, Nam Long?" Mai purred, her voice laced with a satisfied lilt. "Elder Ironclaw was much more amenable than I anticipated."
Nam Long chuckled, his chest swelling with pride. "He recognized a sound investment when he saw one, my love. Our future together is as bright as these gilded rooftops."
Their laughter died abruptly as their gazes fell upon a lone figure approaching from the opposite direction. It was Ba Gau, his once proud posture slumped, his fur matted and dull. The sight of him was like a discordant note in their symphony of success, a reminder of the life they had left behind.
Mai's smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of unease. Nam Long, however, stiffened, his amusement morphing into a sneer. The air, once charged with contentment, crackled with unspoken tension as the former lovers and the heir apparent locked eyes, the weight of their shared past and uncertain futures hanging heavy in the opulent twilight.
Ba Gau
The setting sun bled crimson across the city, painting the cobblestones in hues of blood and rust. Ba Gấu, his stomach growling like a caged wolf, navigated the bustling streets, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread a cruel reminder of his empty belly. He adjusted the worn leather satchel slung across his shoulder, the only possession he'd managed to salvage from the wreckage of his life.
Tonight's dinner was not for the faint of heart. He was meeting with Elder Ironclaw, the patriarch of the city's wealthiest merchant guild, and potential backer for his fight against the Bureau of Living and Breathing. The invitation, delivered by a flustered messenger, had been a surprise, a glimmer of hope in the storm that threatened to drown him.
But hope, like a flickering candle flame, could be easily extinguished. As he rounded a corner, his breath hitched, the air turning thick with the scent of jasmine and polished silver. There, basking in the dying light, stood Mai, his ex, a vision in silk and pearls, her hand nestled in the arm of a dog who exuded wealth and power like a peacock strutting its plumage.
She hadn't changed much. Her eyes, once mirrors reflecting his own dreams, now held a chilling indifference. Her smile, once a beacon of warmth, was now a polished mask, hiding a heart turned to ice. The familiar scent of Mai clung to the air, laced with the musk of a stranger. Ba Gau's hackles rose, a guttural growl rumbling in his throat. He hadn't expected to see her, much less with another dog. The Cẩu Binh beside her, tall and broad-shouldered, wore a smug expression, his gaze sweeping over Ba Gấu with undisguised disdain.
"Well, well," the dog drawled, his voice laced with mocking amusement. "If it isn't the ghost Butcher. Come to grace us with your… presence?"