Thamuz froze instantly when he observed the old blind man, who seemed to be trying to decipher some presence in his yard. With slow and cautious movements, the elder looked around while sipping slowly from a worn wooden cup.

“Perhaps it's just some animal hiding among my flowers,” he murmured to himself, turning back and heading toward his house.

Thamuz watched the scene, a drop of sweat sliding down his forehead, falling to the ground, and spreading like a small shiny stain on the green grass. However, his breath stopped when Vixkard slowly turned, as if that drop had revealed his location.

“That smell,” Vixkard declared in a deep voice, “it's sweat similar to yhamak, not from any animal.” His blind eyes seemed to pierce directly through Thamuz.

In a swift and unexpected movement, the old man raised his wooden cup and hurled it with surprising force. Thamuz, paralyzed by surprise, barely managed to lift his arms as the object struck his chest, eliciting a muffled groan of pain.

“That voice,” Vixkard pronounced slowly, “it sounds familiar. Is that you, young Thamuz?” He crossed his arms, waiting for an answer.

Realizing he could no longer hide, Thamuz stood up, picked up the cup, and approached the old man. With his left hand extended, he slightly bowed his head and offered the cup.

“I beg your forgiveness, Mr. Vixkard,” he murmured in a broken voice. “I shouldn't be here.”

The tension was palpable as Vixkard studied Thamuz with his sharpened senses. He grabbed the cup and began to examine it as if he still had eyes.

“It's curious,” the old man reflected, “that you know where I live, despite us barely crossing paths. How did you get here?” His voice dripped with confusion.

Thamuz tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. The memories he was trying to recall were like fragments of a blurry dream, disconnected and hazy.

“Wait,” Vixkard interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “That scent... Is it pure Eronium? And burned, no less? Don't tell me you've been consuming that vile drug in the Funadortel.”

The mention of the word triggered a cascade of memories in Thamuz's mind, which began to take shape.

In the distance, a familiar voice broke the tense silence. It was Korro, stumbling toward them and shouting for his friend.

“Where could he have gone?” he muttered to himself. “If he consumed Funadortel, he shouldn't be wandering around here.”

As he spotted a large hole in a wall, with Thamuz’s silhouette clearly imprinted on it, Korro approached, relieved, not initially noticing Vixkard's presence. He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder with a grin.

“Wow, that Eronium was really strong,” he remarked, staring ahead.

But his cheerful expression froze when he recognized the old man. He took a few steps back, trying to slip away.

“I have something to do,” he stammered, nervously whistling as he attempted to leave.

Vixkard, however, had no intention of letting him go.

“That voice!” the old man bellowed, throwing his cup once again. It struck the back of Korro’s head with uncanny precision, and he collapsed instantly.

“Bring your friend and come inside,” Vixkard ordered, opening the doors of his house with a dramatic gesture. “We have many things to discuss before you can leave.”

Thamuz nodded and approached Korro, who lay sprawled on the ground with his tongue out and eyes rolled back. Hoisting him onto his shoulder, Thamuz began walking toward Vixkard’s home.

Once inside, he momentarily lost sight of the old man, but his eyes wandered, marveling at the intricate decorations in the room. The walls were adorned with photographs encased in thick glass, each depicting a burly man of imposing stature. His prominent horns, scarred in numerous places, told tales of battles and past experiences.

Belts hung neatly from shelves, some adorned with golden buckles and others in a deep navy blue. Rows of shelves were filled with minerals and objects so peculiar that they were utterly unfamiliar to Thamuz.

“Young Thamuz, this way,” Vixkard’s voice called from another room.

Following the sound, Thamuz found the old man seated on the floor next to a table with three carefully arranged cups.

“Lay Korro down beside me,” Vixkard commanded. “I want to feel him wake up.”

Thamuz placed his unconscious friend next to the old man. Korro was still drooling, a trail of saliva sliding down his chin. Then, Thamuz sat on the other side of the table, crossing his legs.

"I suppose this fool offered you some of that poison," Vixkard commented, setting his cup on the table. "What a shame."

"It was out of curiosity," Thamuz replied, picking up a cup and taking a sip of its contents. "By the way, how do you know Korro?"

Vixkard’s blind eyes seemed to come alive as he began his tale:

"It’s a long story. This idiot came to me years ago, asking for food or work. Instead of giving him charity, I offered him something better: the chance to become a shamonak fighter."

"A shamonak fighter?" Thamuz interrupted. "Are you some kind of master?"

A dry laugh escaped Vixkard’s lips.

"A master? I was the master of masters. The photos you saw are proof of my achievements. I trained Korro for several days; he was a real promise in the combat arena. But just when he was about to debut in his first fight, he disappeared. I waited for hours until everyone had left. When I returned home, I found it completely empty, save for a note from Korro thanking me for my hospitality."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"He ended up as a complete coward," Thamuz added, resting his chin on his hand.

Suddenly, a sensation similar to a relaxing breeze flowed through his dislocated arm. He felt his bones gently realigning themselves.

"What’s happening to me?" he asked.

"What you drank from the cup is made from bandamena flowers from my garden," Vixkard explained. "It’s three times more potent than normal ones. I detected your injury when we crossed paths on the way to the city, remember?"

Thamuz removed the bandages and the rustic sling his mother had made. Stretching his arm, he was astonished to find that he felt no pain at all. He opened and closed his hand with complete ease.

A fleeting memory of his right hand’s power made him quickly hide his arm behind his back.

"I remember it very clearly," he replied.

A groan interrupted their conversation. Korro was beginning to wake up, rubbing the spot where Vixkard had struck him with the cup.

"What happened to me?" he murmured to himself.

Upon recognizing Vixkard, a shiver ran down his spine. With a leap, he cowardly hid behind Thamuz.

"Thamuz, let’s get out of here, please," he pleaded, trembling visibly.

"Calm down, Korro," Vixkard said in a composed tone. "As long as Thamuz is here, I won’t give you the beating I promised you when you abandoned me. But you’d better control yourself and listen to our conversation." He took another sip from his cup.

Korro continued to eye Vixkard warily, though the old man seemed surprisingly relaxed despite their turbulent past. Slowly, Korro moved away from Thamuz's back and sat with them, crossing his legs.

"So, Mr. Vixkard," Thamuz began with curiosity, "were you truly a shamonak master? From what I've seen, you must have been a very powerful figure in your time."

Vixkard’s blind eyes seemed to gleam with a hint of pride.

"Of course, I was," he declared. "They called me ‘the Frantic Catastrophe.’ I had a record of three hundred victories with only seven defeats. I also trained several shamonak legends." His hands moved dramatically, as if recounting an epic tale.

"Like who?" Thamuz asked, fully engrossed.

"Have you heard of Armesto Advhentium? I trained him myself. I transformed him from a weak boy into a fighter capable of pushing even the strongest to their limits."

"Yes, I know him," Thamuz replied enthusiastically. "He's a friend of my father."

"And what’s your father’s name?" Vixkard inquired, his curiosity evident.

"Tawnylon," Thamuz replied.

A heavy silence fell over the room. Korro looked back and forth between Thamuz and Vixkard, utterly confused by the turn of the conversation.

"Tawnylon… Gilmesh?" Vixkard asked, his voice laden with seriousness.

"Is that his surname?" Thamuz responded innocently. "Father never mentioned having one."

Vixkard seemed lost in thought.

"I never knew Tawnylon had a son," he murmured. "I knew of his escape with the kingdom’s princess, but I never imagined his descendant would be here." He placed a hand on his head, as if processing the revelation.

"I’m not alone," Thamuz explained. "We’re staying at Armesto’s house while the shamonak to death tournament takes place. I only have two matches left to finish it and rescue a friend."

An expression of admiration appeared on Vixkard’s face.

"So, you’re the famous fighter everyone in the city is talking about," he remarked. "I’m not surprised. After all, you’re Tawnylon’s son. His power runs through your veins."

"Speaking of that..." Thamuz’s voice turned hesitant. "I’m not really his son, or so I’ve been told."

"What?" exclaimed Vixkard, completely bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"My mother told me they found me in a crater, in the middle of a forest," Thamuz explained, finishing the last sip of his drink. "I was just a baby, and my cries could be heard from afar. So my parents decided to adopt me."

Vixkard gave a cryptic smile.

"You fell from the sky as if the gods had sent you to our planet?" he remarked. "Even if you don’t share Tawnylon’s blood, you’ve shown extraordinary strength by defeating three opponents in the shamonak to the death tournament." He drank the last sip from his cup and, after a brief pause, added, "If you don’t mind, young Thamuz, may I touch you?"

"Why?" Thamuz asked, confused.

Vixkard chuckled softly.

"As you can see," he said with a hint of irony, "I lack eyes. I must rely on touch and hearing to form a mental image of my surroundings. Your voice tells me you are young and full of energy, but I don’t know what you look like."

"Oh, I see," replied Thamuz, standing up.

With slow and deliberate movements, Vixkard rose, orienting himself by Thamuz’s breathing. Korro remained motionless, nervously watching the scene.

The old man positioned himself in front of Thamuz and extended his hands. With quick and precise touches, he explored the contours of his body: shoulders, biceps, forearms, abdomen, chest, legs, calves. Each contact seemed calculated to avoid making the young man uncomfortable.

Finally, his hands moved to Thamuz’s face, exploring every feature.

"The face," he murmured, "is a person’s identity. Without it, we are nothing more than empty vessels before the vastness of the universe."

His fingers meticulously traced Thamuz’s features—ears, forehead, chin, nose, mouth, even his teeth.

"Interesting," Vixkard reflected. "You have remarkably sharp teeth. And your physique is impressively muscular. Truly, you’ve been fortunate with your genetic heritage, though it’s a pity Tawnylon’s blood doesn’t flow through your veins."

Having completed his examination, Vixkard stepped back and returned to his previous position. Thamuz, equally composed, glanced around the room.

"What happens now?" he asked.

Vixkard responded with a casual wave of his hand.

"What happens now? Well, you’re free to go. I’m sure your parents are worried about you."

Thamuz stood up, extending his left hand in gratitude.

"In that case, I’ll take my leave. Thank you for the bandamenas water."

Their handshake was peculiar—at first, Vixkard missed Thamuz’s hand entirely, but Thamuz guided their hands together, resulting in a firm and meaningful grip. Vixkard’s expression softened, a warm smile spreading across his face.

"If you’re interested," Vixkard offered, "you’re welcome to visit my quarters. I could teach you about shamonak. My methods may be unconventional, but they could prove useful in certain situations."

When Thamuz admitted he didn’t know where to find him, the older man provided a solution.

"Don’t worry. I live in the upper section of the city. I’ll place a giant rock glowing blue as a marker. For now, go home and rest. Oh, and give my regards to Tawnylon. Tell him Vixkard is in the city."

Thamuz departed, exiting through a wall-sized hole that perfectly matched his silhouette. Back in the room, Vixkard turned his attention to Korro, who nervously fiddled with a wooden cup.

"You could have been like him," Vixkard said quietly, "if you hadn’t betrayed me. But I don’t blame you. At your age, I was worse—stealing and killing daily just to put food on the table. But then I discovered shamonak, and everything changed."

His tone darkened, becoming menacing.

"Ten seconds. Run."

Korro’s eyes widened in fear. He stumbled toward the exit, panic fueling his clumsy movements. Vixkard began counting down, his voice calm and rhythmic.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…"

When he reached zero, he hurled the wooden cup against the wall. The cup ricocheted dramatically—ceiling, floor, wall—repeating its chaotic dance until it hovered, suspended midair. In a sudden, precise motion, the cup flew toward Vixkard, who tilted his head slightly. Instead of wounding him, the impact drew a smile. With calculated force, he redirected the cup, striking Korro squarely on the back of the head.

Korro collapsed near the hole Thamuz had exited through, unconscious.

"One way or another," Vixkard murmured, crossing his arms, "you will learn shamonak."