"...In conclusion," the treasurer of Eastend Castle intoned, his voice heavy with finality, "there is presently no feasible means to fulfill the crown's demands within the given timeframe." The treasurer, bearing a striking resemblance to his counterpart from the Central Citadel, closed the weighty ledger with a resounding thud. The sound jolted Flynn and Buren from their respective reveries—Flynn's filled with images of the castle's maidens, and Buren's with the looming specter of impending doom.

"None?" Flynn intoned, a hint of desperation in his voice.

"None," the treasurer confirmed. "Our only option would be to evict a majority of the populace and swiftly find new buyers for the properties. However, we lack the manpower to suppress the inevitable uprising that would ensue. Given your well-known standing at court, I doubt there would be a rush of potential buyers, even if we were to practically give the estates away, for the fear of being seen as allied with you." With a dismissive wave from Buren, the treasurer pivoted on his heel, his coattails swirling behind him, and departed. The rhythmic tapping of his polished shoes gradually faded into the distant echoes of the castle.

Buren leaned forward on his throne, resting his chin atop his metallic fist. "Man, what are we going to do?" Flynn exclaimed, frustration evident in his voice. "That greedy hog of a monarch! Hasn't he amassed enough wealth?"

"It's not about wealth, naive boy," Lady Inanna interjected, her voice dripping with condescension. She had entered the room silently, now draped in a flowing purple gown with sleeves that cascaded nearly to the floor. The perpetual irritation that usually marred her features had been replaced by a serene smugness, especially since learning of the looming threat to Buren's life. She made no effort to conceal her anticipation of his impending fate, viewing it as the key to her own liberation. It was almost a cruel irony that such malevolence resided within a form of such ethereal beauty.

Flynn, as usual, appeared flustered by her presence and inquired with care and consideration: "What do you imply, my lady?"

"The Gauntlet's Bearer holds a pivotal role in the Treaty," she began, her voice smooth and measured. "He is a figure of intrigue for many factions, not least among them my own Antediluvians. It's widely known that King Duriel and the Faith's leaders wish him harm. However, any overt act against him that could be traced back to them would risk destabilizing the Treaty. Hence, they've resorted to more intricate schemes to ensure his demise."

Flynn paused, absorbing her words. "So, the deliberate influx of vagrants into the Eastern District, coupled with the census, was a calculated move to create a pretext for his execution?"

She offered a sly smile. "Quite astute, especially for a group of castoffs." Her gaze, teasing and taunting, settled on Buren.

" I wonder if you have such tricks up your sleeve. They would certainly be useful now."

Buren gaze's fixed on her with a steely intensity until she responded with a smirk, departing without the customary request for leave. Buren's eyes followed her, a piercing glare aimed at the back of her head, while Flynn's dreamy gaze lingered appreciatively lower.

However, Buren's thoughts quickly shifted to more pressing concerns. Rising from his throne, he declared, "We've been idle for too long."

"We're departing?" Flynn inquired, quickly falling into step beside him as they exited the throne room.

Buren responded with an affirmative grunt.

"To accomplish what?"

" All this talk is getting us nowhere. The more we talk, the more stuck we seem. In situations like this, when all seems lost, the key is to keep moving. It's served me well thus far. Remember that."

Flynn nodded gravely. Unbeknownst to Buren, Flynn cherished these rare moments of guidance, always eager for acknowledgment from the typically distant lord. Any morsel of wisdom was treasured.

Their next stop was the guard barracks, a sturdy wooden structure just beyond the castle walls. They sought the captain's insights on the current state of the Eastern district. The young, unkempt guard at the entrance desk shot up so abruptly upon their arrival that his chair toppled over. After a moment of indecision, he opted to leave the chair and stood at rigid attention, his breathing momentarily forgotten. The sparse hairs on his pockmarked chin quivered with nervousness. At Buren's request, he led them to the captain's office. Another young officer, seated outside the office, hesitated upon hearing their intentions. After a timid knock and a gruff dismissal from within, he mustered the courage to announce the presence of the District Overseer. A muffled curse and the sound of hurried movement followed. The door cracked open just enough to allow a barefooted young woman, dressed in a now grimy, brightly patterned dress indicative of southeastern origins, to slip out. She scurried past them, eyes downcast. Without waiting, Buren pushed the door open wider, revealing the guard captain hastily tucking in his tunic. The man's expression mirrored that of a deer caught in a hunter's sights, the arrow already in flight.

"Lord Overseer," he stammered, attempting to regain some semblance of composure, "I am Jon Seldan, Captain of the Eastern Guard. H-How may I assist you?"

Buren had encountered the Seldan name occasionally during his tenure in the capital. It belonged to a minor noble family, and he surmised that the man had secured his current position through lineage rather than merit. Buren's gaze bore into the captain, resentful that such a man could misuse his authority while, ostensibly, serving under him.

"We intend to inspect the district," Flynn interjected, sensing Buren's reluctance to speak. "You will guide us."

"Of course, my lord." The captain hastily drained the remnants of whiskey from a grimy cup on his cluttered desk and donned his overcoat. They ventured out.

Flynn observed the sparse presence at the headquarters. "Your ranks seem diminished," he remarked, noting the few guards they encountered—mostly lanky young men with poor posture, idling rather than attending to duties. "Are most deployed?"

"Some, indeed," the captain replied evasively.

"And the others?"

"Many abandoned their posts when the risks grew too great or when we could no longer compensate them adequately."

"Where did the funds go?"

"These are challenging times," the captain responded, his voice wavering. "The cost of essential supplies has surged, while our allocated funds have dwindled. It's solely due to the valor and tenacity of the remaining guards that the district remains intact."

Buren snorted in disbelief, prompting the captain to hold his tongue from further self-admiration. As they walked, the destitute residents, who typically approached with outstretched hands, now averted their gaze upon recognizing the guard insignia accompanying them.

Reaching the market square, they found only a handful of stalls still operational, encircled by the makeshift shelters of refugees. Vendors, flanked by armed men, displayed produce of questionable quality at exorbitant prices. The faded signs adorning nearby buildings hinted at former businesses—a blacksmith, a baker, a tailor, a shoemaker, a clairvoyant, and an alchemist. All had evidently shuttered, their premises now occupied by squatters. At one corner of the square, a man in white robes, unmistakably a missionary of the Faith, stood on a platform, fervently delivering a sermon to the gathered crowd.

"...And so, I beseech you," the missionary's voice rose, "when envy darkens your heart, direct not your ire at your brethren, but at the magi, who barter with daemons for gold. When anger flares, strike not your fellow man, but rail against the foes of the Faith who have led both him and you astray. And when your gaze lingers with desire upon another's wife or daughter, recognize the Dryads' seductive influence, a snare they lay to trap you, and turn it against them. Fill your mind and heart instead with the teachings of the High Reverend, who vows to purge such malevolent beings from our world, freeing you from such torrid temptations." The gathered crowd nodded and clapped in agreement.

"Brethren, much has been wrested from you—homes, kin, livelihoods. In such dire straits, it's tempting to turn on one another. But stay vigilant against our true enemy's machinations! The Malignant One, birthed from dark magic, was spirited away by the magi before we could discern his true nature. What secrets do they guard? While some lay blame at the feet of our diligent and just King Duriel, know that the true culprits are those who dabble in the arcane." Cheers erupted.

"Hunger can drive even the noblest soul to snatch the scantest morsel from another. Yet, some deceitful tongues whisper of the King's lavish feasts. I assure you, such tales are falsehoods! It is not the nobility that hoards sustenance, but the Dryads, who withhold nature's bounty, delighting in your suffering." The crowd's murmurs grew more agitated.

"Death to the Dryads!" a voice cried out.

The missionary pressed on, his words ensnaring the crowd further. "Indeed, for humanity to reclaim its lost paradise, Dryads, Giants, satyrs, and their ilk must be vanquished. Until then, remain steadfast in your faith. Seek solace in our churches and missions, where sustenance and shelter await those who walk the righteous path." Grateful murmurs spread, and many made their way to the nearby mission.

"If Duriel is good at one thing, it is keeping up a public image," Flynn remarked dryly.

"Without the Faith's influence, this district might have already been consumed by riotous chaos," Captain Seldan countered. "Their aid staves off utter despair."

"As long as it's in tune with their agenda," Flynn retorted.

"As a convert myself, I can assure you it is a heavenly tune of peace." Seldan defended.

Flynn merely scoffed, rolling his eyes.

As they moved beyond the square, Buren's attention was drawn to a bustling establishment, its entrance flanked by bouncers. The crier's boisterous proclamation reached them: "The city's most exquisite maidens! Fresh faces daily! Experience unparalleled pleasure within!"

From the brothel, lively piano melodies melded with raucous laughter. Women, adorned in corsets and furs, lounged on the balcony above, casting flirtatious glances at passersby. The eager clientele, seemingly from wealthier districts, exchanged jests as they awaited entry.

"Seems there's one industry that remains prosperous," Flynn quipped. "What's your Faith's stance on such establishments?"

"That we have larger problems to worry about," the Captain grumbled, his voice heavy with resignation. "These houses of ill repute keep cropping up faster than we could ever stamp them out. Besides, the girls are safer there than out in the streets."

"What, they're recruiting the destitute?"

"Who else? It's not like they can plant potatoes in the streets so this line of work might very well be the only thing keeping their families fed."

Flynn cast another disdainful glance at the gaudy establishment, its scarlet facade decorated by the flickering glow of crimson candles and the pale allure of exposed skin. "And just like that, my interest is gone."

The throng near the entrance parted as a boisterous group of city guards emerged. Their gait was unsteady, their laughter raucous, and their flushed faces bore the unmistakable signs of recent debauchery. In their midst, they dragged a disheveled girl, her delicate dress slipping off her shoulders.

Flynn's temper flared. "You claim a shortage of guards on the streets, yet your forces fool around in a place like this? And where are you taking that girl?"

"She didn't play nice," sneered a burly guard, his face marred by a missing tooth. "She'll cool off in the cells."

The girl's voice trembled with desperation. "I've done nothing wrong, my lord. They demanded services without payment, like they always do, but I need the money for my parents!"

"She whacked me with a stool she did," a greasy guard complained, pointing to a bruise on his forehead. "Can't let her get away with that, no we can't".

Flynn's voice dripped with scorn. "It appears the city's guard is the most corrupt element here. What say you, Captain?" A few brave souls in the crowd murmured their agreement.

Throughout the confrontation, Captain Seldan had remained detached, his gaze distant, seeming to not see or hear anything but looking like he was holding back vomit. But when Buren's piercing eyes met his, the Captain felt a weight of judgment, a palpable sense of impending doom, as clear as the clap of a magistrate's gavel, a shine like light off an executioner's axe and a coldness like falling through the ice covering a lake. It was as if Buren's gaze held both the present moment and a foreboding future—a future the Captain dreaded.

In a hushed, urgent tone, Seldan confided, "We need every man we can get, and the Eastern District is not one the nobles want to send their sons to. Not even the bastards. To maintain a semblance of order, I must sometimes turn a blind eye, ensuring we have enough swords on the streets, even if they're wielded by less than honorable hands. As it stands, the nobles man the lieutenant positions, while the beat guards are gathered from men without extensive crime records. "

Everyone's eyes were on Buren, all waiting for his decree, some with baited breath. His intense gaze had dropped to the mud, not looking at anyone directly as he mulled over the dilemma that had been foisted on him without his asking.

"Let her go," he finally said, softly yet the words somehow carrying to all around.

The silence that followed his command to release the girl was palpable, a tense pause in the cacophony of the market square.

The guards, perhaps sensing the gravity of the situation, reluctantly released their captive. The girl, disheveled and shaken, stumbled away, her eyes darting around as if expecting another assault. The crowd, sensing the drama's conclusion, began to disperse, their attention shifting to the next spectacle.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"The tour is over," Buren said, looking at the Captain like it was an afterthought. "Dismissed." Seldan quickly and respectfully gave his farewells and hastened back towards the barracks.

Flynn voiced his disbelief. "We're just letting them go?"

Buren's eyes remained inscrutable, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of calm determination. That was not his intention, not in the long run, but he kept his plans to himself.

A sudden outbreak of violence in the crowd, seemingly out of nowhere, was a stark reminder of the volatility of the Eastern District. Two men, fueled by anger and desperation, clashed in a brutal dance of fists and fury. The crowd, ever eager for a distraction from their daily hardships, cheered and jeered, forming a makeshift arena around the combatants.

The guards, perhaps eager to assert their authority in front of their superiors, intervened with a brutality that surpassed the initial brawl. Their batons fell with ruthless efficiency, beating them to the ground with more violence than they could have unleashed on one another. The two fighters were quickly subdued.

Amidst the chaos, a subtle gesture went unnoticed by most. A stranger, cloaked in the anonymity of the crowd, pressed a folded note into Buren's hand. The gesture was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but its implications were profound. Buren, ever vigilant, pocketed the note discreetly, his curiosity piqued. The message it contained could wait. For now, the streets of the Eastern District demanded his attention.

Buren stood concealed in a shadowed alcove, untouched by the pale luminescence of the gibbous moon that filtered through the sparse clouds overhead. The hastily scribbled note he'd received bore a location and time in delicate, feminine script. From his hidden vantage, he could survey the designated spot, himself merely a wraith amongst the shadows, draped in a black hooded cloak that enveloped him entirely. The obsidian veil, combined with the uncanny agility his right arm granted him, had enabled his silent escape from his chambers. He had decreed that he remain undisturbed that night, ensuring his clandestine venture would elude any watchful eyes within his stronghold.

The soft patter of hurried footsteps in the mud heralded the arrival of a diminutive, cloaked figure. She clung to the building's exterior, her demeanor reminiscent of a skittish bird poised for flight. Buren's eyes darted about, searching for any hint of an ambush. Stealthily, he closed the distance between them, using the darkness and her hood's blind spot to his advantage. Hidden beneath his cloak, his fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger, his metallic talons ready to strike.

As she turned, her eyes widened in alarm upon discerning his silhouette, and she stumbled backward, landing with a startled cry. It was the same girl he'd glimpsed earlier, departing the guard captain's quarters without shoes.

When he didn't move—to attack, nor to offer help—the girl got up. Her lithe frame bore the hallmarks of manual labor, likely on a farm. Her broad shoulders and sun-kissed skin, traits the courtly ladies would've concealed with layers of fabric and powder, spoke of her humble origins.

"You came," she whispered.

His head tilted slightly, his gaze seemingly distant, yet ever vigilant for potential threats.

"Please," she implored, worried he might leave as soon as he had appeared, "I need your help."

He briefly met her gaze, then resumed his watchful survey of the surroundings. Her words should be brief, she realized, with no assurance of his commitment forthcoming.

"People are vanishing," she began, her voice quivering. "My sister is among them. Rumors abound of slavers prowling the streets, preying on the solitary and vulnerable. Those taken are never seen again."

For all of three seconds his look indicated she had his full attention.

"Initially, it was the solitary newcomers. Now, even girls from the brothels have disappeared. Only the truly desperate dare to tread these streets at this hour."

Tears streamed down her face. "We were the sole survivors from our family, escaping the undead. Bereft of all possessions, my sister turned to prostitution for our survival. Now, she's gone. I sought the guards' aid, but to you can guess how that turned out."

Her hands reached out to him, a silent plea in her eyes. "You're the hero who vanquished the Malignant One. If you choose not to help, who will?"

He stared past her at the mud of the street. The mud that supposedly was his responsibility. Memories of his conversation with King Devon echoed in his mind, a stark reminder of the mantle he'd been forced to bear.

"Choose?" he mused internally, bitterness tinging his thoughts. "Does a plough horse choose its path?"

He nodded slightly in response to her plea.

Her smile of relief was a radiant beacon on her otherwise weary, emaciated face. "Thank you. My only lead is that my sister worked at the Blooming Rose brothel and was last seen with a slight, balding man who frequents the establishment. While he doesn't seem capable of harming her, he might know something."

Buren queued outside the brothel, blending in with the other patrons. He mused that by politely waiting his turn, not to attract attention, he was showing more deference to the rules of a brothel than to the royal palace. His hooded cloak concealed his identity, and the doorman barely glanced at him. Inside, he sought a discreet corner to survey the room, but all the secluded spots were occupied by men and the paid women gyrating in their laps. The dim lighting, however, worked in his favor. The floor was tacky with spilled drinks and other unidentifiable substances, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat and the smoky aroma from the fireplace and the strategically placed bulbous candles with brooks of white molten wax running down their sides and spilling over the candle holders below.

"Hard to believe people would be willing to pay for a dump like this," Buren pondered, watching a rat scurry from a hole in the wall to grab a morsel from the floor and vanish back where it had come from.

"Must be easy money," he realized.

An older woman approached him. Her face was heavily powdered, and her hair was styled in intricate curls, adorned with a preserved red rose. Her corset was so tight her bosom seemed about to burst, and her dress shimmered in the dim light.

"Howdy-do, stranger," she greeted with a chirpy tone. "I'm the matron of the Rose. I don't recall seeing you here before, and I remember everyone who has set foot here, but rest assured, I never kiss and tell. Tell me what you desire, and we'll ensure a memorable evening."

Without turning to her directly, he replied, "I'm in search of a particular girl..." He described the girl who had sent him, mentioning that her missing sister, Jyhanna, was her twin.

Her practiced smile remained, but her eyes flickered with recognition. "We don't currently have anyone fitting that exact description, dear sir. However, we have a plethora of country girls that might... pique your interest."

"I'm inquiring on behalf of a friend. Perhaps you know him?" He relayed the description of the balding man last seen with Jyhanna.

Her demeanor shifted instantly. "Has he changed his mind? I can't possibly find another girl fitting his criteria with only an hour left before our agreed meeting."

He took a moment to consider the implications of her words before answering: "Then what do you have to offer him?"

"A girl that met his specific requirements: a healthy virgin whose absence wouldn't be noticed, plus an additional girl, as per his usual request."

Buren pretended to grimly consider her offer, and her fate, for a moment.

"The merchandise had better be to his satisfaction," he mused, then ventured further, "Is everything prepared for his arrival?"

"Absolutely," she replied, relief evident in her voice. "The master suite has been meticulously prepared and kept vacant all evening, just as instructed."

"That will suffice. I'll take the room adjacent to his."

"Very well. And whom might you choose for company? Compliments of the house, naturally."

He paused, strategizing. "Present me with your newest selections."

With a smile, she vanished momentarily behind a crimson curtain, reemerging with a retinue of a dozen girls. They lined up before him, some coyly smiling and casting flirtatious glances, while others stood with slouched shoulders, their gazes fixed firmly on the floor. His choice was the girl who seemed the most out of place: a slender figure with straight brown hair, barely fifteen, who lingered at the back as if wishing to blend into the shadows.

"A fine choice," the matron commented, dismissing the others. As he began his ascent to the private chambers, the girl hesitated. The matron, with a firm push, urged her to follow. They climbed the groaning staircase, passing the cheaper rooms filled with multiple beds for those who desired company but had no money or inclination for privacy. They continued past single rooms, their doors fitted with peepholes, guarded by a disheveled man ensuring only paying patrons took surreptitious glances. Rounding a corner, they reached the corridor housing the establishment's most lavish accommodations. At its end, Buren halted before a sturdy door, unlocking it with a weighty brass key provided by the matron. Adjacent to it, another door adorned with a painted red rose signified the master suite.

Once inside, the girl stood silently by the bed, her demeanor a mix of uncertainty and apprehension. Buren, paying her little mind, methodically inspected the room. He checked behind artwork and furnishings for any hidden peepholes, covering one he discovered with a draped tablecloth. The windows, which offered a view of the neighboring rooftops, were promptly curtained. Now, the only illumination came from an oil lamp on a bedside table, its light casting a warm glow over a rickety bed stacked with a surprisingly thick mattress. The floorboards beneath the legs of the bed bore the scars of countless previous encounters.

Suddenly, he moved towards the girl, causing her to stiffen. Swiftly, his left hand emerged from beneath his cloak, covering her mouth as he gently pushed her onto the bed, positioning himself beside her. Her initial panic had her crying out and struggling against his grip, the bed creaking in protest. But as moments passed and he made no further advances, her resistance waned, leaving her gazing up at him, her eyes a whirlpool of fear and bewilderment.

"Good," he murmured. "Though they might not see us, if they're eavesdropping, that should convince them we're engaged in is expected of us." From his belt, he retrieved a coin pouch with his metallic arm, placing it deliberately on the nightstand. Her gaze darted between the coins, his mechanical limb, and his face.

He fished a few coins from the bag, piling them on the table. "Answer my questions, and I'll ensure you have enough to escape this place, and to take your family if you have one." She nodded, and he cautiously removed his hand from her mouth.

"What have you heard about the disappearances?"

"Rumors say it's the slavers from Nammu-Thum. They weren't satisfied with the ones who joined them out of desperation."

"Have you seen them?"

"No one has, as far as I know."

"Then how can you be certain?"

"It's just whispers. They view us all as potential slaves, don't they?"

"Who told you this?"

"The missionaries."

"Do you know of an elderly, bald man who frequents here?"

"Yes. We're not supposed to gossip, but word gets around in the back rooms."

"Could he be involved in the abductions?"

"He might be connected, but he isn't the one doing the dirty work."

"Why do you say that?"

"You'll see what I mean when you meet him. But if you want more details, you shouldn't have much trouble shaking them from him."

"Any idea where the missing might be taken?"

"I'm not sure. That's all I've managed to gather."

He added a few more coins to the stack on the table and instructed, "Make it sound like we're intimate until I give you the signal to stop."

She looked at him, a mix of confusion and mild reproach in her eyes. Swiftly, she pocketed the coins and began to simulate moans, rhythmically rocking the bed. Meanwhile, he deftly carved a small peephole into the wall separating their room from the suite. However, his vantage point only revealed an unoccupied corner. He discreetly covered the hole with a cloth to prevent any light from betraying his actions. He then approached the door, extracting the key. Through the sizable keyhole, he had a clear view of the hallway and the door adorned with the painted rose.

He hadn't been waiting long when his quarry emerged. Immediately, he understood the girl's conviction that this man couldn't be the abductor. The man was ancient, his frailty making him seem almost desiccated. His bald head was the only expanse of smooth skin; the rest was a labyrinth of wrinkles, so deep they obscured his eyes. He was diminutive, his limbs as thin as the brittle twigs that snapped underfoot during woodland strolls. Two girls, presumably the ones he'd requested, supported him on either side, as the ascent up the stairs seemed too taxing, even with his gnarled walking stick.

"Shake information from him?" Buren mused, recalling the girl's words. "He looks as though a mere handshake might shatter him."

One of the girls opened the door to the suite, and once they were all inside, it closed behind them. Buren signaled for his companion to quieten and took his position by the spyhole. Soon, the rhythmic creaking of the bed and soft moans emanated from the room. He listened intently, ignoring the judgmental looks from the girl, confident that someone would eventually arrive to seize the girls.

However, the gentle creaking escalated into a violent pounding.

"She's really giving this guy her all, he thought, but reconsidered when the moans transformed into piercing screams of agony. The cacophony was abruptly silenced by a sickening thud and a wet, tearing sound.

His companion had turned ashen. "Tell no one of the money, and flee this city immediately," he instructed her before leaving the room. As expected, the suite's door was locked, but a single blow from his metallic arm shattered the wood around the lock.

Upon entering, the pungent stench of gore assailed him. One girl sat in a corner, her knees drawn up to her chest. The other lay on the bed, her torso grotesquely torn open, intestines spilling over the bed's edge and a pool of still-warm blood seeping into the floorboards, so hot it steamed. Over her corpse knelt a man, drenched in her blood, clutching her quivering heart. Buren watched in horror as the man took a savage bite, chewing and swallowing. The man then turned to Buren, his grin a macabre display of gore. "Care for a taste?" he taunted.

"Where's the old man?" Buren demanded, noting the absence of the frail figure and spotting a door leading to a balcony with stairs descending to the street. Had the elderly man merely been bait, luring unsuspecting victims into the clutches of this monster?

The shocked girl remained unresponsive, her gaze vacant. The man, still feasting, replied nonchalantly, "You just missed him."

He rose with a deliberate languor, advancing towards the cowering girl, the half-devoured heart still clutched in his grasp. Taller than Buren, his thick, raven-black hair cascaded to his mid-back. He wore only loose trousers, the blood from his feast dripping down his chiseled torso, pooling beneath his bare feet. Buren interposed himself between the girl and the advancing figure. Up close, he noted the man's eyes, so dilated they appeared as voids of black.

"Halt," Buren ordered. The man merely smirked in response. With a swift motion, Buren thrust his metallic arm forward, aiming to shatter the man's left shoulder. He intended to follow with a swift blow to the head, incapacitating him for interrogation. But as his arm blurred forward, the man's own arm moved with equal speed, intercepting the strike and gripping Buren's metal fist, halting its momentum. Shock registered on Buren's face as he swiftly drew his dagger, aiming for the man's exposed side. The blade barely pierced the skin, refusing to sink further despite Buren's force; the man's flesh was as unyielding as stone.

Caught off-balance, Buren felt a crushing blow to his abdomen, lifting him off the ground and sending him crashing into the wall, splintering the wood. Gasping for breath, he watched as the monstrous figure approached. His legs felt like jelly, but The Gauntlet, impervious to his body's frailty, propelled him upwards. He clung to a ceiling rafter, then launched himself to the room's opposite end, embedding The Gauntlet's claws into another beam, suspending him out of reach. Wheezing, he turned to face his adversary.

But the man had vanished. Bloody footprints marked where he'd stood but didn't lead to either door.

A warm droplet splashed on Buren's cheek. Wiping it away, he realized it was blood. Looking up, he found the man perched on the very beam he clung to, staring down. Reflexively, Buren released his grip, but the man swiftly reached down, seizing Buren's iron wrist and hoisting him back up. Buren's left fist connected with the man's face, but the impact felt like striking stone, and pain shot through his hand. The man retaliated, a fist to the face knocking Buren's head back so blood burst from his nostrils, the following blows rocking his body like a punching bag, cracking his ribs, a barrage of blows that left Buren battered and broken. When the onslaught ceased, Buren dangled limply, every breath a symphony of agony.

The man grunted dismissively. "I expected more."

The man let go of Buren and he plummeted onto the bed below, splattering the girl's blood. A horrified scream pierced the room as a prostitute at the doorway fled in terror towards the common area.

The man sighed, a hint of regret in his voice. " Well, this night's ruined," he mused, landing gracefully beside the bed. Leaning down, his face loomed over Buren's, his tone light, almost conversational. "I would have relished tasting you, but someone as lean as you must be savored in small bites to avoid an upset stomach."

With ease, he hoisted the trembling girl over his shoulder. "Avoid crossing my path again, or you won't be so fortunate next time," he warned, before making his exit through the balcony, vanishing into the night.

The clamor of footsteps echoed from the hallway, indicating the prostitute had rallied reinforcements. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Buren forced himself upright. Being found in such a compromising situation would be a challenge to justify, especially to King Duriel, the sole authority over a District Overseer's actions. He staggered towards the balcony.

" You there in the black cloak! Halt!" a burly man, wielding a cudgel, bellowed as he burst into the room, flanked by a group of patrons. The trail of bloody footprints ended abruptly at the balcony, and Buren knew that tracking the man in the muddied streets would be futile. Recognizing his inability to outrun them in his current state, he sidestepped out of their view and scaled the building's exterior, ascending to the roof. Each movement sent sharp jolts of pain through his body, as though his very sinews were tearing apart.

With a final push, he leapt onto the adjacent building's rooftop, his legs buckling upon landing. A sharp cry of pain escaped his lips, but the chaos from the brothel drowned it out. Slipping down into an alley on the opposite side, he embarked on a torturous journey back to his fortress.