Somehow, the streets were emptier than they were at that time of night; it was quiet, with the only sound being the scraping of his own boots against the cobblestone and the light snores of his friend that slipped in-and-out of slumber.

“...Huh?” Bastian let out quietly as a moisture befell his cheek.

As he looked up, droplets of water descended at an infrequent rate before slowly beginning to shower down with a light rain.

“Rain? Better get moving,” he mumbled to himself, adjusting the arm of his companion around his shoulders as he continued along.

Along the now rain-slick cobblestone, he walked, going uphill with his exhausted body. It didn’t occur to him until then just how tired he was, though it was understandable when considering all he had done that day.

“Hey, Bas…” Gaston murmured, not opening his eyes as he stayed slump.

“Just keep sleeping,” Bastian responded, continuing to look forward as rain continued descending, causing his hazel hair to dampen.

Gaston was quiet for a moment before speaking again, “You should do it…go higher, I mean…I know you’re scared of it, but…I remember it used to be your dream.”

“--” Bastian didn’t reply, continuing to walk for them both.

“Try it again…go to the church…I know you’ll get a Blessing this time…I know…” Gaston said, breathing heavily between his words.

As Bastian looked to the side at his slumped companion, the bandana-wearing man had already slipped back into sleep. Though they were the words of one far from sober, he couldn’t help but think about what he was told.

“A Blessing, huh?” Bastian mumbled to himself.

Bearing that thought in mind, the home of the intoxicated adventurer was found as Bastian carried his friend up the small steps that led up to the front door. It was a humble cottage of pale, stone bricks, drenched in the rain.

“C’mon. Let’s get you inside,” Bastian said quietly as he patted his friend’s pockets, reaching his hand in as he retrieved the key to the cottage.

The end of the key neared the lock, about to slide in before–

“You’re out late.”

“Couple a’ drunkens. Reckon they’ve got some coin.”

Two, distinct voices spoke from behind him; tones that held anything but friendliness, reeking of hostility.

Without even yet turning around, he already knew what he was dealing with as he slowly knelt down, setting his snoring friend down against the steps gently.

As he stood back up, he faced the strangers, confirming his suspicions: a group of men of varying ages, in tattered, dirtied clothes and looks of greed in their eyes. At the forefront seemed to be the leader of the grouping of thugs–a man with a square jaw and long, black hair in a ponytail, tall and built like a wall of bricks with knuckles that looked enlarged from continuous use.

“Hate to break it to you, guys, but I don’t have any money,” Bastian said, standing in front of the cobblestone cottage, between his unconscious companion and the thugs.

The thieving member of the group with scarred arms and messy, pale hair waved a curved knife around with a twisted smile, “We’ll see that for ourselves! Empty those pockets!”

“That’s not happening, sorry,” Bastian let out a perturbed sigh.

It was clear there was no talking his way out of the thug’s plans. With that much being certain, he tightened his gloves as he looked side-to-side, counting the opponents around him and taking note of their weapons.

‘Five in total. The small one with the bob-cut keeps reaching under that coat—he probably has a knife. Burly fella is wearing steel knuckles, could be a problem. Lanky guy with the underbite has that shortsword, but he’s trembling like a mouse—I’ll start with him,’ he analyzed.

Before any of the scoundrels could make their first move, the adventurer sprung forward off of his right foot, heading straight towards the frail, tall thug that looked like a frightened kitten at the sudden approach.

“H-hold on—!” The lanky scoundrel with shaggy, black hair reacted, stumbling back.

He spun around in a swift movement, going for a spinning kick primed for the tall one’s chin before—

“—Oh,” Bastian reacted as his boot missed by a good portion, causing him to stumble as he bounced on one foot a good couple meters.

As ungraceful as it was, he caught himself without falling, looking at the thugs who were stunned by the quick, but failed first attack.

‘Guess I’m still tipsy. This is going to be an adventure,’ he thought.

The first of the group of hooligans to approach him was the burly one with a large gut and tattooed arms, showcased by sleeves that were clearly torn away.

“He’s justa’ drunk fool! I’ll smash ‘im!” The curly-haired, goliath of the thugs roared as he began swinging his fists wildly.

The fists of the muscle-bound scoundrel were each as large as the young man’s head, keeping him on his toes as he backpedaled while bobbing his head past each blow.

“Woah there,” Bastian remarked, keeping his eyes locked on the wild haymakers.

“Rah! Rah! Stop…movin’!” The musclehead bellowed as he began sweating through his relentless tossing of fists.

From behind the nimble man, one of the thugs with blonde, braided hair rushed in with a stick of wood, swinging it, “--I’ve got him!”

Bastian glanced back, feeling the other approach from behind as he swiftly ducked down, “Nope, ya don’t.”

WHAM

‘Gyuh–!” The burly man spat out, stumbling back as the stick from his friend smacked him square in the nose.

Seeing the failed coordination of the desperate scoundrels only made Bastian laugh, though it was likely the influence of the alcohol in his system.

“Pffft,” Bastian tried to hold back his clear laughter.

“Jiro!” The stick-wielding thug called out in guilt before turning his attention back to the lone fighter, “Yer dead, bastard!”

This time, he was attacked by three of them, having to evade the wild swings of one’s stick, the stabs of the short one’s knife, and the shortsword of the lanky one. Fortunately for him, the misdirected attack they just suffered made them all war to recklessly swing their weapons, leading to brief, one-on-one encounters.

“This is personal now! Imma smash that face of yers in!” The braided thug exclaimed as he slammed his stick down, attempting to bash in the skull of the hazel-haired man.

A slick backstep caused the wooden stick to smash against the cobblestone, causing it to snap in half.

“Wha–?!” The braided-haired thug let out.

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Bastian immediately jumped back in, smacking his elbow against the jaw of the gang member with the broken stick of wood. Immediately after knocking one down, he felt light footsteps rapidly approach him from the side–

“Yer dead!” The hostile words came from the one as tall as a child, holding his knife forward before–

“Nope.”

Bastian interjected with a casual kick, smacking the bottom of his boot against the knife-wielding thug’s face as he knocked the small one back dramatically.

The difference in ability and experience was as clear as day, with the untrained thugs seeming like flailing children against the competent skills of the adventurer.

“If we’re done here, I’d like to go home–” Bastian casually said, though was cut off as he felt something behind him.

Before he could turn around, two, burly arms slipped beneath his own before locking him in place. The grapple felt impossible to escape, going as he was outsized by the one that caught him gravely.

“I’ve gotcha now, rat!” The disgruntled voice of the muscle bound thug said.

As much as he tried resisting, the bear hug from behind had him good. Each of the members from the lowly gang picked themselves up, bloodied and holding utter malice in their eyes as they picked their weapons up.

‘Shit—!’ He thought.

“Ke-he-he…”

Foul chuckles fell from the mouths of the thugs as the tipsy adventurer was bound and helpless. The tall, thinly scoundrel approached him, holding his rusty, dull blade up.

‘—Just my luck,’ he thought.

“…Hey, whaz goin’ on here? That’s my friend ya’ got there…”

The slurred words met the young man’s ears like a heavenly hymn as he tried to look back, already knowing who it was:

There he was, the drunken, bandana-wearing friend of his, picking himself up from the small steps like an undead risen from a grave. Rain continued showering down as his fiery-red hair draped down.

“Gaston!” Bastian called out.

The drunken man swayed side-to-side just standing himself up, looking as if he was barely conscious still.

“What the hell…?” The short thug remarked.

“He’s drunk—we can deal with him after,” the shaggy-haired one said.

They continued to approach the restrained man with their weapons bear and their hostility clear, leaving him with little options to escape.

Suddenly, another yell came from the drunken companion as he began to run towards the action, “—I’m comin to save ya’, Bas!”

“What the—?!” The burly one that restrained the man glanced back as the intoxicated youth rapidly approached with uneven, frantic steps.

Gaston arrived behind the muscle-bound oaf, kicking his leg back before sending it forward with all of his booze-empowered night, “Unhand my best friend, fiend!”

“Pyuh—!” The burly thug spat out air as his eyes reddened, bulging at the sudden spike of pain.

“—Ngh?!” Bastian coughed out the air from his lungs as well as he felt a brutal impact connect with him as well.

It was perhaps something he didn’t account for when hoping his drunk friend would aid him: that very friend’s intoxication made his aim a dangerous factor.

The leg of Gaston had slammed into the crotches of both the thieving brute and Bastian himself.

It felt as though his stomach was in knots, resonating with a primal pain that made his body quiver and only gasps to leave his mouth.

‘…Am I dying?’ He questioned, perhaps his thoughts slurred by his tipsiness.

Though it felt as if a few generations of his bloodline had been voided by a single kick, he found himself in a fortunate turnaround as the oaf had released him. He picked himself up, sweating and huffing as he swallowed the pain that swirled in his gut, glancing back to see the burly thug keeled over in pain.

Gaston stood beside him, back-to-back against the remaining members of the gang as he groggily held his fists up, “I’ve got yer back…bleeeh,” a belch left his mouth.

“Yeah, don’t throw any kicks near me, please,” Bastian mumbled.

The lanky, adolescent with the dull short sword waved it around angrily, seeming nervous as he yelled, “Don’t think yer gonna get outta this!”

“Yeah! Yer dead meat!”

The booze in his body seemed to instill courage in Gaston as he yelled in return, “Come n’ get me, then!”

‘He’s going to really get us both killed,’ Bastian thought.

Not only were they outnumbered, but the thugs were clearly more hostile than before, especially the dreadlocked goliath who held his crotch as if protecting a precious object while getting up, caked in sweat.

“I’m gonna smash yer faces into red paste!” The burly thug roared.

They were completely surrounded, with nowhere to run; no spectators witnessed the uneven encounter as heavy rain kept those in the quiet sector inside–not that anybody would choose to intervene.

“I’ll take, err…the small one and the skinny guy,” Gaston whispered to him.

“Oh, how fair,” Bastian sarcastically responded.

It wasn’t the first time, but potentially the last, that the two found themselves in an encounter with the lowlives that lurked the city after a night of drinking.

They crept closer, the thugs seeming to bear some caution after realizing the two they had cornered were properly trained fighters–though Gaston's was unlikely to give them that idea.

“Halt! Drop your weapons!”

A voice suddenly boomed, commanding power and authority. The masculine shout made each of the thugs go pale as if they had seen ghosts, exuding a cold sweat that was clear to see.

“Wha–!?”

“It’s the City Guard! Run!”

“I’m gettin’ outta here!”

Like rats discovered in a kitchen, the scoundrels fled, nearly tumbling over one another as they did.

Gaston, still with flushed cheeks, waved his fist around, “Yeah, you better run! See that, Bas? They were scared of us.”

“I don’t think that was it,” Bastian replied, letting out a sigh of relief.

Stepping out from the shadows of the cobblestone street was a figure dressed in silver armor that seemed to glisten beneath the moonlight. It was a man of princely features; a chiseled jawline and a blemish-free face, as pretty as a girl’s own, with short, well-kempt hair of a bright-red shade, dressed in his knightly armor with a black, fur cloak draped from his shoulders.

“It seems you’re both magnets for trouble, Bastian, Gaston,” the armor-clad stranger remarked with a small smile.

Bastian had a relaxed smile of his own, responding to the figure, “Thanks for the save, Sigurd.”

“Si-sigurd?! Why’re you here?! I totally had ‘em under control–hck!” Gaston sloppily complained, stumbling towards the princely stranger.

The silver-armored man chuckled before catching the intoxicated man by his wrist just as he slumped off into a sudden fit of sleep, holding him up as he looked at the other adventurer, “It’s you that has my thanks, Bastian. It seems that once again my little brother has made trouble for you.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Bastian assured.

“Is that so? I’m glad he has a friend like you nonetheless,” Sigurd said kindly.

He watched as Sigurd hoisted his now snoring Gaston up, carrying him in his arms before they walked up to the rain-slick house together.

Bastian held the door open while the knight carried their unconscious companion in, escaping the downpour that had occupied dusk. The silver armored man carefully set his younger brother onto his own bed, pulling the blanket over the drenched man.

“Get away…ya low lifes…I’m tryna drink here…” Gaston mumbled in his sleep, seeming to have dreams not far off from reality.

Sigurd smiled while looking down at his slumbering sibling, “He’s never been one to handle his mead.”

“What about you? It’s been awhile since we’ve all been out together. I know it’s a mountain of responsibility being a knight, but you’ve got to refresh every now and then, right? Gaston would definitely like that,” Bastian suggested.

The knight adjusted his hair as he slowly walked through the room, inspecting some of the trinkets on the dresser that seemed to stoke some memories of his own.

“I would very much like that, some time. As you’ve guessed though, the duty of a knight is one that doesn’t leave much for outings,” Sigurd said with a quiet sigh as he stopped by the doorway, “I’ll be taking my leave now. I’m technically still on watch, actually. I just heard the commotion nearby before heading over.”

“Alright, be seeing ya’ then,” Bastian nodded, watching as the knight took his leave.

Sigurd nodded to return the gesture, “Until next time.”

‘Sometimes it’s difficult to see how they’re brothers–Sigurd Vandelheim: the “Knight of The Rising Dawn”, a prodigal knight that has quickly risen to fame in Velmusia. Meanwhile, Gaston is…well, Gaston. Gotta say, those expectations gotta suck,’ Bastian thought.

It felt like a near eternity later that he returned home to his own bed, crawling into his blankets as his head rang and his body felt warm and heavy. A yawn left his lips as he laid his head against his pillow, briefly watching the ceiling.

‘What a long day. I have a feeling it’ll be an even longer one tomorrow,’ he thought.

Before calling it a night, he noticed the sealed document that was beside him, finding himself curious about the mission’s details.

He reached over and retrieved it, pulling on the cobalt string that kept it rolled up before inspecting what was written. As promised, the finer details of his contract were listed, along with where he was to meet with his partner in the endeavor.

‘Nothing too complicated. I guess the complication comes from the eleventh floor itself,’ he thought to himself before setting the document aside once again.

A short time passed before he soothingly fell into slumber, allowing his exhausted body to finally rest through the night.