Far from the industrial cities bathed in neon light, under misty skies overflown by black crows and flying frigates, a warrior was walking along one of the endless asphalt roads that criss-crossed the rural lands.
The sweltering summer heat overwhelmed the landscape, which seemed an endless expanse of barren land, dotted with the remains of rusting machinery and industrial ruins. Abandoned smokestacks and decaying processing plants marked the horizon, like monuments to an era of failed progress.
The road stretched, lonely and straight, flanked by debris of industrial material: rusted barrels, piles of scrap metal, and fragments of metal structures twisted by time and weather. The ground was covered with a thin layer of grey dust, which rose in small clouds with each step of the sorrel mare.
A thick cloak wrapped around his body, protecting him from the scorching sun and the dust that the wind whipped up in treacherous eddies. The cowboy hat, though weather-beaten, cast a precarious shadow over his face, barely enough to shield him from the glare. Dark glasses, resistant to the inclement wind, hid his eyes, while a cloth mask covered the lower half of his face, shielding his lungs from the dry, burning air around him.
In the distance, Palistra came into view, a small village that offered a contrast to the surrounding landscape. Sealed by a high double gate and a barbed-wire fence, it looked like a fortified refuge in the middle of the industrial desert. The village walls were a dark grey, stained by dirt and time, but firm and well maintained, suggesting a community accustomed to defending itself against external threats.
As the warrior approached, the air seemed to vibrate with a mixture of anticipation and alertness. Ravens circled high overhead, their passing shadows crossing the road. The sense of constant vigilance was palpable, a reminder that, in this world, peace was fragile and always temporary.
As he arrived, five sentries intercepted him. Clad in imposing breastplates that covered their bodies like armoured exoskeletons, they appeared invulnerable to conventional weapons; none of them blessed with the Templar symbol. Their round helmets, with blue tinted visors, concealed their eyes as they held assault rifles in their hands, and pistols rested in their tactical belts.
Alerted by their presence, they raised weapons equipped with laser sights aimed at the vital points of the stranger, who slowed his advance and climbed down from his horse with his hands in the air. Two guards approached at a cautious pace without lowering their weapons, with a sphere-shaped droid with two cannons hovering behind them.
Dos guardias se acercaron a paso cauteloso sin bajar las armas, con un droide en forma de esfera con dos cañones flotando atrás de ellos [https://img.wattpad.com/eee01cdafc32f2bcb551491caff4c568a16f3b67/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f6a51524f4b51644c455367426f773d3d2d3532393536323637342e313765383135376162656534336234363735303039363631323338302e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]
image [https://up-pic.mangatoon.mobi/contribute/fiction/9126501/episode-images/1725296442745.jpg-original600webp?sign=a5297e6a201b9b46014073f69721064e&t=66f4a400]
“Identify yourself, you bastard!” One of the guards shouted, " Bullet or what you know! It's up to you to decide what you get if you get funny.”
The warrior's gaze was steady and sure. With a quick gesture, he held up the medallion with the insignia of the broken sword, symbol of his authority and purpose in these lands.
“Oh, fuck! E-excuse us, sir guardian.” The guard, attempting to lower his rifle, almost slipped from his hands in shock after recognising the emblem.
“A bad joke? “said the stranger with a sharp, sly grin. “Don't worry, I still have a sense of humour. The stench of urine and road tar didn't dry my brain”.
“Eddy, you fucking asshole!” The second guard called out to his companion in a tone close to anger. “Bad time for you to crack that fart joke! You'll get us killed one of these days!”
“It was just one, Carlos! I've been practicing saying it without laughing! I thought it was Templar crap! How was I supposed to know it was a fucking Trisary mutant? I had the robot recording it,” he excused himself, releasing all the frustration he was holding back on the verge of collapse. “We've gone days without a visitor and I was getting bored.”
“I wanted some action, as long as I didn't fall into madness, okay? It's not what I was promised in the recruitment programme. Invading small towns and staying here for weeks waiting for orders makes us look like barbarians.”
“What the fuck are we doing with our lives?” Eddy shook his head in shame.
“Guys, I'd love to continue this conversation about the monotony of a low-paid day and job promises that turn out to be dream killers.” The guardian interrupted jovially, “but I'd like to finish this assignment as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Mr. Guardian.” Carlos cleared his throat: “We will inform Commander Victarion Kasidy of your arrival. You can visit him in about two hours while we get everything ready. I suggest you rest at a nearby tavern, where you can obtain information on the contract that had brought you here.”
With the gates opened by a chain mechanism, the guardian stepped cautiously into the village. The stone houses with tile and tin roofs seemed to hold their own dark secrets. The inhabitants, caught in a bustling market bustle, anxiously avoided looking at or approaching the vigilant soldiers lurking around every corner. The tension in the air was palpable, as if at any moment a simmering conflict could erupt at the slightest mistake.
In the centre of the square lay the remains of a huge bonfire, of which only ashen statues, burnt papers, and a statuette of the sacred sword, blackened by fire, remained. ‘The military camp and tank outside the village should have been more than clear. There won't be that much racism,’ thought the guardian as he recognised the remains of once-white statues of saints and other religious treasures that had once been important to the village.
He came to the outskirts of a tavern that seemed comfortable to look at. He made his way to the car park behind the place, which was filled with armoured motorised vehicles, assembled from parts of various machines, with spikes and all-terrain tyres. On a bench was the foreman reading the newspaper; an older man with coppery skin and a big belly like his beard. He was dressed in overalls and a dirt-stained shirt and boots covered in horse excrement.
"One crown per hour, young man," the old man said. "For two more, I'll throw in a bale of hay, and if you're staying the night, I can give her a wash. Other services, like shoeing, will add a bit more weight to my pocket."
"Take her to the trough for some water, please, and give her a bit of feed. I'll pay you when I return." The guardian handed over the reins of his mare. Before parting, he gently stroked the animal’s muzzle, and she snorted softly in response. "I'll bring you some treats if you behave, Beauty. I love you."
He uttered those words in a feignedly high-pitched voice, and gave him a kiss on the forehead. The guardian entered the establishment, full of mercenaries and strangers passing through the area in search of a comforting drink or a brief respite from the accumulated fatigue of their travels.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
Among the clientele, some displayed mechanical implants that replaced entire limbs, from arms and legs to eyes, silent witnesses to stories of battle and survival in an unforgiving world.
Young waitresses served the customers, wearing revealing dresses with plunging necklines that exposed the exuberance of their attributes, earning several prying glances from those present. ‘With no racks to leave weapons on and no people to check at the entrance, this place is a bloody mess,’ the guardian concluded as he surveyed his surroundings.
He made his way towards the tavern keeper, a man in his thirties, with perfectly coiffed brown hair. He wore an elegant suit, consisting of a grey waistcoat over a tight white shirt, adorned with a red bow tie. He completed his attire with black trousers and matching shoes. His face radiated serenity and calm. As she looked at the guardian, he sat at the bar and placed the suitcase next to her.
“What can I get you, friend?” He greeted him, while cleaning a glass jar. The man gave the typical social relations smile, without breaking eye contact with the prospective customer, and pointed his thumb at the dancers on stage: “We've got the best beer in the county, and if you're looking for an unforgettable night... our girls will take care of you. Of course, that comes at a price. We have everything, young man. You just ask. What would you like to have right now?”
“A mature redhead, with a good body and a strong body, who is taller than me by about twenty centimetres. She should be able to carry me and have a maternal instinct as well as being monogamous. She should also like the countryside and horses.” He asked mockingly in defiance of the manager's proclamation.
“What? “ The tavern keeper squawked not believing his ears, “Look mate, if I had what you're asking me for... I'd be at home with a ring and not my cousin.”
“I'm still living in hope,” the guardian snorted resignedly, removing his glasses and mouth-covering. “I'd like a cherry party without alcohol.” He asked determinedly, without even looking at the letter.
“Son, you're in a tavern, that's pure soda and it'll cost twice as much as in a grocery store. You can even order a wet nipple or drink from a belly button here,’ he said sarcastically, as if he expected it to be a joke. No one had ever asked him for anything like that before; anyone who heard him would think he was missing something between his legs.”
“Then put whipped cream and ice on it, please. The drink, of course! Not the nipple or the belly button,” he reaffirmed
"Oh, by the Traveler, do you want to get yourself killed?" the bartender asked, visibly confused and feeling guilty for what seemed like a crime in his line of work.
"Please, I’m drying up here. I also want a large order of spiced potatoes. I need the carbs," he insisted with a chilling calm, as if he were asking for something as simple as a glass of water, while the murmurs and curious glances of the other patrons settled on him.
“Right… it’ll be ready in a few minutes,” the bartender whispered, glancing nervously around, fearing someone might see him. He’d heard that drinks like that could start fights, and after preparing the order, he served it, along with the side of potatoes.
"Do you accept credit?" The guardian pulled out a device the size of a playing card from his cloak and plugged it into a port. "I’ll pay now; I won’t be asking for anything else."
"Of course, we’re not savages," the bartender replied, connecting it to the port of a metal cube, charging the food and drink, which arrived after just a few minutes.
“You forgot a straw, but I’ll let it slide. What happened here?" the guardian asked after taking a sip. "How did we go from puritanical fanatics who sodomize behind closed doors to… well, technically the same thing, just with less style and more hatred for all religions?"
“What can I say? It’s hard starting over.” The bartender let out a small chuckle. "A Free Thought brigade crossed the border and caught the local baron off guard—rough living between Santus and the territories of the Alliance.
“Luckily, they’ve got that rule about not slaughtering civilians if there’s no resistance. Aside from forcing us to burn our religious icons in the market, everything’s been pretty normal. There’s even a bit more security."
“I’d have preferred if they worshipped that fertility goddess—what’s her name? The one with tits bigger than heads. Would’ve made this town a lot more fun. Don’t get me wrong, I’m Templar to the bone, but I’m not closed-minded about exploring other pleasures."
"I think there are two goddesses like that—if they’re not the same one with just different hair colors and two cults. Honestly, I get them confused; both do orgies with hallucinogenic drugs. If that were the case, my visit to Palistra would’ve been sooner. It’s only a matter of time before the Archive gets involved," the guardian said with a grin, finishing off a handful of potatoes.
The bartender stared at him in silence with his eyes wide open and his jaw hanging open with no sound escaping; incredulous that what he heard was for real. And after a short silence they both burst out laughing so loudly to the point where they let out a few tears, and drew the attention of the other customers.
“You talk as if those old stiffs had any use outside of imposing laws full of loopholes.” The barkeep slowly regained his composure. “They allow a little shitting and then spank them for another invasion a year later. As long as they get glass for their factories, they'll turn a blind eye for a while.”
“How many have you had?”
“In the thirty years I've lived here, I've had twenty-five. The only bad thing, then, is that certain... undesirables are allowed in.”
The tavern keeper took a dim view of a stout man in the background, drinking a beer from the exuberant voluptuousness of a courtesan, encouraged by his two companions who shouted in unison among themselves:
“Bottom!!! bottom!!! bottom!!!!!!”
“Oh yes?” The young man turned to watch the scene with the woman, and the interest grew in him like the joviality between his legs. “How much for something like this, but with a cherry party?”
“Son, this is a respectable business! Do you want to get your ass kicked? I've heard of people hanging them by the balls for things like that!” he bellowed, his pride as a drink mixer at stake.
“As if something like that would happen, you said it yourself... there's plenty of security,” said the guardian, a nervous twitch in his eye; a crack in his confidence, something easily detected by the barkeep after seeing too many travellers’ faces. “Unless there's something you're not telling me.”
“Well, inside the town, anyway, “he sighed resignedly,” what brings you here? From your accent I'm guessing you're from the south... Trisary, right?”
The customer, his hand covered by a crimson gauntlet, held out a piece of paper. The barkeep's smile faded to a grimace of distaste as he laid eyes on the flyer, which called for the removal of the horror lurking in the crypt.
‘A gold-plated death sentence,’ so the tavern keeper dubbed it, aware that anyone who ventured into the job would be torn apart by the monstrosity. It had reached the point where even the mercenaries had become a sacrifice to appease the creature. The guardian spoke in a subdued voice:
“I come for this job.” He displayed a medallion around his neck, which when opened showed his details. “I have been informed that they are offering a reward of one hundred thousand golden crowns, as the army does not wish to dirty its hands in such matters.”
“Drake Requiem,” read the innkeeper, who turned pale.
“Himself, comrade,” he replied as he removed his hat.
He was a young man with short hair as dark as night, and red eyes that seemed to burn like coals. His face, though good-looking, was marked by several scars, silent witnesses to countless battles: a diagonal across his lip, another on his right eyelid that had not robbed him of his vision, a third line across his nose, and a final one on his left cheek. Despite these marks, his bearing was that of a true warrior, with a muscular build that showed years of training and combat.
“Are you related to Clayton Requiem, the gunslinger?”
“You got it right again, that was my old man, God rest his soul.” Drake's smile darkened. Again he was being identified first by his father.
“Wow, you're still in the family business. Listen, I don't doubt that your father being a ‘war hero’ would surely be proud of that. “The tavern keeper rebuked him, visibly concerned at the partial look on the face of the hooded man, who appeared to be less than thirty years old. “But... look, no offence, do you realise that going on your own is suicide? You're too young to throw your life down the drain.”
“Proud? Nah, I guarantee he wouldn't feel anything like that if he saw me in this job, but because of life I have an intense passion not to starve. This job will pay my credit bills for a while,” he said haughtily, and a flicker of emerald glint flashed in his eyes, denoting a nature far from human, which made the manager recoil.
The tavern keeper broke out in a cold sweat at such statements, with an expression of distaste, then sighed resignedly. However, a trio of mercenaries seated at one of the tables with a few ladies listened to the conversation with interest, between murmurs and guffaws they approached the bar with laughter, a false mask of friendliness that did not hide the killer instinct they emanated, which disturbed the other customers.