In the middle of the dimly lit warehouse, I rested my legs atop the worn wooden table. My face lurked in the shadows as I relentlessly hammered a dagger into its surface. With each strike, a shiver coursed through the room, the blade mercilessly chipping away at the table's aged edge.

Surrounding me, the air hung heavy with the cruel cracks of whips lashing against flesh, their echoes reverberating in every corner and infusing the room with a malevolent rhythm. Men, their bodies broken and battered, cried out in agonizing torment, their pleas for mercy falling upon deaf ears.

But I remained unmoved by their suffering. To me, their pain served as nothing more than a backdrop, an inconsequential distraction from my singular purpose: to give them an actual taste of their own medicine.

"That should be enough, lord," Finnan, seated across from me, said, his voice subdued in the face of the cruelty. "They already hate you enough. Why go so far?"

"Because," I answered, driving the blade into the edge once more, sending broken splinters flying in all directions, "I want them to hate me properly."

No matter how ridiculous it may sound, my reasoning was precisely that. Once released, these morons would employ every trick in the book to end my life, all while feigning cooperation. So, why not stoke the flames of revenge to ensure they remember me and plan out their attacks accordingly?

However, by doing so, I was signing my own death sentence. But that decision had already been made when Finnan brought them here. I was merely escalating it to its zenith. So, when they realize they could do nothing to win against me, I would have a nice laugh while sipping wine.

Now, that may sound like pure BS. What could one lone man with a ten-man squad possibly do against these hundreds, if not thousands, of organized crime members? Yes, the nobility factor could come into play, but it would only shield me for so long. One way or another, they would reach me.

To counter that, I conceived an idea that seemed viable in my world, but here, it wouldn't bear much fruit. Then, my boy Finnan stepped into the game and presented something that tipped the scale in my favor, and I was damn sure that if executed correctly, I would be secure while reaping the rewards.

"But lord, these men, they won't be able to..." Finnan tried to object, but a glare from me silenced him.

"Are you finished writing?" I inquired.

"No, lord," he pushed two pieces of old-looking parchment my way. "You haven't specified which one we should proceed with."

“What?” I thrust the dagger into the surface and retracted my legs. Settling myself in the chair, I focused on the parchments, an integral part of the idea I had come up with.

The plan was simple: bind them in a contract they wouldn't dare to escape. For that to happen, I had to figure out what they feared the most. And Finnan suggested that everyone feared the almighty King the most.

I had to involve the king in this contract. If done on blank parchment, I would need that supreme being's signature, which he wouldn't give for obvious reasons. Then Finnan stepped in again and informed me that there were ready-made contract parchments for that special purpose.

That was it. I rejoiced, until now.

I never expected that a contract issued by the king would have types. Yet here I was, seeing them. They each had distinct headings, written in stark red, contrasting against the murky parchment.

"Issued by the Kingdom of Arcanoria. Overseen by the Duke of Thorneshire. Enforced by the Count Willard and his lineage," I read the three lines from the first, prompting Finnan to explain.

"This particular contract is directly issued to us by the kingdom, indirectly by the king," he said. "We enforce it when necessary, and if we fail, the Duke of Thorneshire, our direct lord, takes over."

“This Duke of Thorneshire? Is he strong?” I asked. “Will they fear him?”

“He is known to be quite a rational and kind soul, lord,” he responded. “People respect him more than fear. And if he learns of this contract, he will shred it to pieces, calling it a misuse of authority.”

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“We don’t need a goodie-two-shoes anyway,” I pushed the parchment aside and focused on the next, which read mostly the same, but instead of the duke, it was replaced with the King, who would take over if the Count failed.

“This could work,” I said aloud, raising an eyebrow.

"But I warn you, that contract is strictly to be used between lords," he cautioned. "The King doesn't like to be disturbed for petty reasons."

"You know you proposed this idea, right?"

"I did, lord. And I am sure it will work, only if the king never learns of it," he clarified.

"He won't. We only need his name, not his attention." I smiled, sliding the parchment towards him. “Write the details down. It’s about time we finish this.”

"Lord!" With a sharp nod, Finnan got to work, and I shouted at Wilhelm to stop his men and drag our guests to my feet.

They obeyed the order swiftly, and in a matter of minutes, the battered men were forced to kneel before me. Their eyes were brimming with tears, and blood trickled down from the numerous cuts, painting a grim portrait of their suffering.

As I swept my gaze over them, taking note of their defeated and broken appearance, I decided to forgo any further torture. Simple words would suffice.

“I know it has been a hard day," I said, maintaining a calm demeanor. "But it ends here. You have been through enough."

"Why..." My ears caught a weak voice from the left, and as I focused, I spotted the beggar who demanded 10 million earlier.

"Mind repeating that?" I urged, leaning to his side to hear clearly.

"Why... Why do you want to kill us when we already agreed to your demands?" he posed the obvious. “We are not even a threat to you. What... did we do wrong?"

"You did nothing wrong,” I sighed. “I just wanted to make sure you become a threat to me.”

“Wha…t?” Someone to my right responded, gasping through tears. “Why... would you do that?”

“Why shouldn’t I? I don’t want to get stabbed in the back, which all of you will surely do, sooner than I expect.”

“You... are making your own prophecy,” the obese man in the middle mumbled, eyes cast downwards.

"Sure I am," I leaned back. “But at least I would be in control.”

"You… will never be," the tall man spat at my feet, and in response, one of Wilhelm's soldiers smacked him in the head, sending him crashing to the floor. He lay there, defeated, his mouth now full of dirt.

"We will see about that," I replied, my heart calm. Was it because I expected this outcome? Or made it happen. Well, it didn't really matter.

"You done?" I glanced at Finnan.

"It's nearly done, lord," he answered. "Give me another 5 minutes. I will finish it."

"No need. You can finish after they sign it."

"But lord…” Finnan paused, exchanging a brief look with the crowd below. “They can't all sign one contract. There's not enough space."

"That's your worry?" I scoffed. I thought it would be against some ancient law, but no, it was all about space. "Cram it." I ordered.

Finnan nodded, wearing a skeptical look in his eyes. And I shifted my focus back to the group. “Sign this contract that lists all my requirements, and you are good to go.”

“We… would have done it even without you beating us to death,” the heavyset man added with a tone of bitterness. “Admit it, you did it just because you wanted to see us suffer.”

“Hmm…” I stroked my chin, feigning thoughtfulness for a moment. “More or less, yes. Don’t you hate me more than before?”

“Hate is a weak word to describe how I feel for you.” he spoke through clenched teeth.

“Then my goal is achieved.” I chuckled briefly, but it quickly gave way to an expressionless demeanor. “Now, on your feet. We have work to do.”

Wilhelm’s soldiers grabbed the hefty man by the shoulders and guided him to the table, where Finnan handed him another quill. Leaning on the table, the man sighed, his gaze fixed on the feather for an extended period.

Simply put, it was a colossal waste of time, but I didn't intervene. Allowing him a moment to contemplate all the life decisions that had led him to this point was the least I could do.

“So… Where do I sign?” he groaned, and Finnan forwarded the parchment. His eyes skimmed through the half-written contents, and the man started laughing, a laughter that soon turned into maniacal hysteria.

I probably knew the reason behind his laugh, but I couldn't help but ask, "What's so funny?"

"You!" he answered without even bothering to look back. He wrote his name where Finnan pointed, then took a drop of blood from his wounds, rubbed it between his thumb and index finger before pressing his thumb over his name.

“Thank you,” Finnan said, taking back the quill and parchment. “Next, please.”

As the man walked back beside me, he paused. “I wish you luck, lord, for whatever endeavors you plan to embark upon,” he whispered, his voice loud enough for me to hear. “And I hope we have a pleasant relationship all throughout.”

“We will.” I smiled. “I am counting on you.”

“You should.” He rejoined his group, and one after another they came forward to sign the parchment. Some raised their noses while reading it, some chuckled, and some just stared blankly. But in the end, they all signed it without much protest.

“Clean them, feed them, and tend to their wounds,” I instructed Wilhelm. “Wait till night, and find me when they're prepared to leave.”

“Lord,” the captain nodded, and his men dragged the captives to another corner of the room, away from my sight.

When they were gone, Finnan rolled his eyes, inspecting the signs. “I have to write small, now,” he mumbled, voice tinged with frustration.

"Stop whining," I retorted. "I know you can handle it."

With a long, exasperated sigh, Finnan dipped the quill into the inkpot and leaned over the parchment. Just as he was about to write, he met my gaze, a stern expression in his eyes. "Your prophecy, lord... I believe it will come true."

I sighed deeply, gazing up at the weathered ceiling. "We'll see."