The trishaw ride towards the centre of An Vrong had a strange calming effect on the two foreigners. It almost disarmed their sense of caution had it not been for them remembering that they were, for all intents and purposes, inside of enemy territory. Engli’s gaze swept across town, a baleful, alien observer who seemed to regard each nook and cranny with suspicion. Dylus, meanwhile, was more keen on listening to the village chief, ignoring just how uncomfortably close he was to the commissar.

“Slayer, you must have heard of Sawat-Lon. Your people come by here from time to time on their hunts, no?”

“They do, but not me. First time coming around here.”

“Eh? The killer of giants has never crossed the ancient wall? Can’t be, just can’t be.”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m a bit disappointing in reality.”

“But I- we have heard stories about you. Bits and pieces of them, a man who wears sharp teeth upon his brow and with sharper teeth as his weapons, cutting down mad machines and monstrosities from above.”

“That fits the bill, yes.”

The praise that Muzan had for him was corroborated by the sight of three kids playing on the side of the streets. They were little, ragged souls who, upon first sight of the trishaw, called out for the chief in their nasally high voices. When they saw Dylus waving awkwardly, that was when they gave chase in curiosity.

“The Skulled Slayer! It’s him!”

“Woah, gramps wasn’t lying about him!”

Their chase petered out when they reached the centre of town, helped by Muzan telling them to return home before their mothers died of worry- an old folks’ way of saying they shouldn’t be out in these dangerous times. However, he did turn around to chuckle about Dylus’ reputation.

“You see? Even the children here know you. They know your badge.”

“Maybe a few of my mercenaries came here once.”

“They have, long ago. Good men and women, I wonder if they’re still around.”

“I’ll check when I get home,” Dylus said, before prodding the old man with a question, “this town, chief Muzan, how badly has the war affected it?”

“Not as badly as I thought it would,” Muzan responded, “at least, not as badly as the rife between our peoples have.”

Engli spoke up upon hearing a topic she was intimately familiar with, “the civil war, I take it?”

“The root of Sawat-Lon’s aggression,” there was a hint of anger in his voice alongside a very small tinge of sadness, “he and many others from the North were held back by the Oldking, tempered by his prowess and charisma. They were dogs with bark and no bite until our own people suddenly became awash with rage. Where you come from, you will not be able to see how little left we have from the chaos it caused.”

Dylus was curious. Not because there was mention of a monarch or how there could be more enemies of Sawat-Lon’s disposition out there. No, he was curious because the very specific usage of the words ‘awash’ and ‘rage’ told a different story than what RISIKO fed the company.

Yes, rage accompanied conflict. A tyranny begets resistance. The way Muzan said those words, however, made a different perspective possible to consider. The mercenary asked further, “Rage? What do you mean?”

“We are a coalition of peoples, Slayer. The Khayavitis, Ghinchengs, Basramis, all of us bound together to face this increasingly hostile world-”

“And one that escalated our measures of conflict resolution, I might add.”

The chief did not like that remark, judging from the way he coughed and spit. He relented and instead continued, “Then on one night, when the Khayavitis staged a grand reveal, one part of our coalition turned on us. No warning, no words, no attempts to raise concerns. They turned into monsters in a blink of an eye and slaughtered many of the Khayavitis. Your war with us may seem to be ruinous, yet I can say with all honesty that it pales in comparison with what the Oldking and his forces dealt with.”

“How many moons ago?”

“More than one hundred. Not as old as the rift between the officer’s legions and ours, but it did so much more damage than border conflicts and conquests.”

Engli hummed. They were now deeper into An Vrong. From the trishaw, they could now see the town’s more dilapidated areas. Seeing bombed out adobe huts, haphazardly filled craters and ragged tents hosting small families made Engli hide her face beneath her cap. If it truly was their fault, then her mission would be a lot harder here. However, the chief was quick to assuage her fears.

“Don’t feel saddened, officer, these are ruins from Lon’s attacks, not from yours.”

Dylus nodded, “He wouldn’t have let us in in the first place if it was ours, commissar.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Engli said with some hesitation, “but still, why would he attack his own people like this?”

“He takes, we comply. He demands, we resist. Without the Oldking, Lon is free to exercise the might of his thamorja and his followers against us. My family here, all of us, have defended ourselves the best against him.”

“Or maybe he doesn’t want to raze your village, especially with the metal you can make,” Dylus said, noticing a few village militia running around and passing supplies. Their armour, while not as professionally hewn together and reinforced as either the Merah’s armour or his own, had signs of immaculate craftsmanship behind their seams and plates. Their locally produced weapons weren’t shoddy either, especially considering that there were a few machine gun nests and even a few salvaged armoured cars around town, “unless I’m wrong. Probably am.”

“Not far from the truth, Slayer,” Muzan said, “I understand that the commissar’s journey only starts here, am I right?”

“Yes. An Vrong will be a temporary outpost while we negotiate with the other town chiefs. Perhaps you have something to say about that first before we reach the meeting hall?”

She wasn’t paying too much attention to her surroundings, it seemed. Dylus made sure she knew that when the trishaw slowed down, “we’ll probably hear it inside… there, miss. Right there.”

“Oh.”

Muzan got off the front end and reached his hand out to help Engli first, “we are here, we can talk more about the other villages inside. Safe from Lon’s ears.”

“Safe, huh.”

The more he heard about Lon and his thamorja, the more he thought about Yumiko. Not in a bewitching sense, he hoped, but in the sense that extraordinary people like her were exceedingly dangerous prey for them. Muzan certainly regarded Lon as such, so he found it wise to follow his caution. Such caution represented itself in the form of a person who came out of the meeting hall, whose face was shaggy, unkempt and wild as if he had just come back from a few cycles in the jungles. He spoke in a hoarse voice, hoisting a large crossbow marred by bits of charred wood.

“Muzan, bringing these phuruks here is a big, bloody mistake.”

“And you plan to send them back after they’ve come this far?”

The man grumbled. Behind his wild mane, Dylus could easily tell he wasn’t as old as Muzan. Definitely worn, though, and likely a constant survivor of Lon’s attacks. Engli only saw him as a strange little man that she had never heard of and treated him as such with a stoic gaze. The man noticed and pointed it out.

“And she’s scowling. Does she usually scowl? You a scowler? Reminds me of that bastard’s ugly mug-”

“Kwang! Enough,” Muzan suddenly shouted. Dylus nearly jumped from where he stood, despite being used to the ear-breaking sounds of battle, “They need to see what we have been collecting over the last few months, yes? How are our people doing?”

“Good God,” Kwang said, slinging his crossword onto his back, pointing back to the meeting hall, “the wounded are doing okay inside, that wretched beast was less successful today in its frenzy.”

Dylus tilted his head. His habit made him look like a strange, curious bird. Kwang noticed, took a peak at the skull and spoke, “Huh, you’re the slayer everyone can’t shut up about.”

There was shuffling, then an awkward smile and some nervous hand gestures, “yep, that’s me. You don’t look too happy about it though.”

“Happy?” The man said, approaching Dylus with hastened, aggravated steps, “Happy? You see this all around you and call it something to be happy about? You’re fucking daft, I tell you what, ain’t no damn way I’m coddling your feet just because you killed a big ‘un like the rest of ‘em.”

“Kwang.”

“And then you show up here, next to the bastards who’re just as bad as the guys hitting my- our home? I never agreed to this, old man, we should’ve stayed outta this whole shit. I don’t give a damn if that means Lon won’t stop his attacks, but it’s better than painting a big target on us now-”

“Kwang!”

Finally, some silence. The old man approached Kwang and put his hand on his shoulder, suddenly looking much more exhausted than before. There were words he spoke to the young man, but they were not audible to Engli and Dylus. This was what he said.

“My friend, I understand your pain, but getting angry at these people won’t bring them back. Go and help their people unload, then show them the karaakars. They will shield them from Lon’s airborne eyes, and in turn they will help us rebuild our homes.”

“You don’t get a pass even if you don’t use their names, Muzan.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“I do. I am chief of this village for a reason, and I need you to stop antagonising these people. The sooner we embrace the possibility of ousting Lon through any means necessary, the sooner our homes, and the homes of our friends and family up north, can find some peace.”

“Even under a different flag?”

“As long as the flag serves our needs, yes.”

Kwang furrowed his face. He turned around, gave one last look to the two foreigners, and stormed off. Muzan covered for him, hands on his heart, and bowed down.

“I’m truly sorry about that. Kwang here is our militia leader, taking over for his father. We’ve lost a lot of good people over the last few months, most of it people we’ve known for years. Sometimes, we get a little care package from friends on the other side, then Lon comes by to set back the clock.”

“A terrible existence,” Engli said, “no way for people to live.”

The three of them entered the building shortly afterwards, continuing their conversation. Muzan was particularly despondent throughout it all, “The people you see here are either helpers or victims of the newest attack on the village.”

“I heard Kwang say something about a beast,” said Dylus, furling up his cape so that nobody could be caught on it, “seeing the damage, it must’ve been a hell of a beast.”

“So it is. Unfortunately, it wasn’t always like that.”

The meeting hall turned out far larger than the both of them had thought. There were children like the rest outside, except deathly quiet and with various parts of their bodies covered in gauze. In the centre of this place was a massive courtyard, shadowed by a criss-crossed tarp above, and around a dead tree stump were some of the children, rocking back and forth or playing mindlessly with metal scraps.

The sight of the courtyard saddened Engli. It never failed to make her heart heavy, no matter how many times she endured it all.

Muzan made some time to acknowledge the hard-working individuals that went to and fro carrying medical supplies and food. Dylus likened them to busy ants, trying their best to carry the town on their shoulders. This place had clearly seen better days.

“Come, the meeting room is upstairs. Pira has a lot to show you.”

“Pira?”

“Our resident tech and planning expert,” Muzan explained, “While we craft and master the art of steel, she is infinitely more skilled at- what you call it- elecwar?”

“Electronic warfare,” Engli corrected him, “She was the first person we reached out to.”

“Indeed. I’m not quite sure who taught her all she knows, but Kwang trusts her a lot when it comes to managing all of our settlements in these trying times, especially when it comes to defence.”

The three of them stopped just short of a large room on their right. There were windows, but they seemed to have been covered thoroughly to prevent onlookers from peeking into it. There was an iron door at its only entrance, locked by an electronic keypad that Muzan flew his fingers over. The scent of old paper and oil came right out of the room, making Dylus relax even more from their familiarity.

“You may enter, officer. She'll fill you in on the details of this area, make sure you have a safe journey ahead for all of our sake. If you have any questions, come to me after you’re done, alright?”

“Affirm,” Engli said, “wait, what about you?”

“If I may, I’d like to borrow the slayer for a moment.”

Dylus, who was busy watching over the courtyard, attuned to the sight of someone being rolled off on a makeshift stretcher, suddenly perked up upon hearing his name. His voice went high for a moment, “Me?”

“Yes, you. Just for the matters of, well, monster-hunting.”

His eyes lit up, as if the very mention of a duty he was much suited for had energised his mind. At that moment, his cape accidentally unfurled, making him seem larger than life. Muzan beamed with quiet delight.

“It seems to be more suited for your company, if memory serves me right. No offence, officer.”

“None taken,” said Engli, “but why didn’t you inform us about this problem before?”

“I’m sure he will explain it thoroughly once we’ve discussed the matter.”

Dylus nodded, “Sounds good.”

Muzan’s wrinkly face cracked a smile, standing a little higher, “Good, follow me. We will walk while we discuss. Good luck in the meantime, Miss Engli.”

The commissar disappeared into the room. As they walked on towards a hidden staircase, both of them could hear Pira and Engli immediately engage in formalities and pleasantries. By the time they moved on to business, Dylus was helping Muzan down the stairs, seeing his steps miss and wobble. Age was more than likely taking a toll on him, not that his words ever seemed to indicate this:

“I have high hopes, young man, that your lady friend and Pira will get along swimmingly. They have a common goal after all, even if their means and outcomes are radically different.”

“Well, we float on the same boat for that idea,” Dylus said, “means we can all get what we want faster, yeah?”

Muzan hummed, a funny sort of bouncing hum that went ‘hu-hu-hu’, “True. Although-”

The both of them heard someone fall. It was one of the kids at the courtyard, who was not acclimated to his makeshift crutches. His yelp and subsequent crying was made worse when Dylus noticed the leg he tripped on; there was so much medical wrapping on it that his foot was barely visible, made worse by the small bit of red seeping through some parts of it.

Muzan moved to help, but Dylus was much, much faster. With a steady hand and some awkward words of comfort, the boy was slowly escorted towards the tree stump. While the pain wouldn’t subside for some time, the mercenary thought to leave some advice behind.

“Hey, hey. It’s gonna sting, it’s gonna hurt, but you’ll live. Just look here, okay? I’ll teach you something to get through it. Count with me and breathe. Close your eyes too.”

The village chief watched him intently. Without any of the mystique surrounding him from the tales before, the mercenary seemed skittish rather than bold. The commissar was far more aggressive than he was, over the radio and in-person. Of course, he gave Dylus some mental space. These were tall tales after all. How many of them were true?

Seeing him comfort the boy, however, did give Muzan some shred of proof that he was a man of the people. At the very least, he cared. Just like those who wore his badge. After Dylus was done, gently making way for more qualified persons to help the boy, he walked back, adjusted his cape and dipped his head down for a split second.

“Ah, sorry, chief Muzan. I’m sure the kid’ll be fine. Just got a little worried, is all.”

“Don’t apologise for that, young man,” Muzan waved off, beckoning him to rejoin their walk slash discussion, “in fact, I should thank you for that gesture of aid.”

“Nah. I’m doing what feels right. Been doing that as best as I can all my life. Don’t thank me just for that.”

A strange humbleness!

“Now, uh, if you don’t mind me asking,” Dylus twiddled with his fingers, “should we go on with the monster business?”

They reached one of the many exits of the meeting hall. Outside, the sun blasted them with heat, illuminating a small garden that they stood in. All around them were different kinds of plants, some bright and others large, which the old man reached out and smelled while putting together his request.

“Yes, I suppose. It is terribly rude of me to request more than I promised over the radio, especially when we do not have anything to offer compensation with, save for our kharakaars.”

“Well, we’ll work that out,” said Dylus, who immediately retreated to Desjarnes’ earlier mission for him to scope out Lon’s whereabouts, “and in a way, I guess it is rude. We could’ve brought more hunters with us, and I more equipment, had we known.”

“Life has a habit of waking us up with ugly news. This beast shouldn’t have been one.”

“What are you dealing with? Tell me straight.”

Muzan took a breath in and let out a mighty sigh, plucking out a strange flower that he didn’t recognize from the garden, “She’s a massive and dangerous forest dweller, one of many. We call her Rengleb-klaw, the giant claw. The jungles around here and beyond are her territory, so she’s constantly on the move. Rengleb feasts on these,” the chief raised up the strange flower, mimicking its slashes with three fingers striking the flower, “and occasionally, it finds itself hunting live prey.”

“An omnivore, right. What about those claws?”

“Massive,” Muzan tried to estimate its size. His arms were too short to fully capture the true length of Rengleb’s claws, “able to tear through our steel as if they were nothing. But she wasn’t always this aggressive.”

There were more damaged buildings beyond the meeting hall, just in sight of the two while they stood in the garden. Naturally, Dylus’ attention drifted from the old chief to them. The sunny day made it easier to tell that these places had not been hit by bombs, bullets, or anything man could unleash; unless, of course, they had massive claws. From this observation, as well as others like dried splotches of blood on the walls and street, Dylus could paint a simple image of Rengleb in his mind. He let Muzan continue speaking in order to learn more.

“We gave her space, she gave us ours, just like the rest of her kin. Such is the rule of the jungle. One day, however, our hunters came back with us with gruesome news. There had been a massacre of Rengleb’s kind. The corpses were left uneaten, but so badly mauled that they had trouble making out head to toe. A few moons later, the first of many rampages hit our friends in Liuth.”

“That’s the village up north,” Dylus remarked, “the second one we’re supposed to visit.”

“They’re good hunters, like you,” said Muzan, “and they managed to drive her away. Thought it was an isolated accident, until we were attacked the second time around. Since then, she’s been whittling down all of our defences, alongside his band of criminals.”

The mercenary nodded, crossing his arms. He was still missing finer details, however, and moved to ask for some, “This Rengleb is still an animal, chief. What exactly is making it hard to put her down on your own?”

The old man twiddled his fingers, “Many things. From her inability to die, her bulletproof hide, and seemingly untraceable paths that allow her to hide and lick her wounds. All thanks to the sorcerous corruption that has overtaken her.”

“Sorcerous corruption. Take it that it’s similar to Warp madness?”

“Of the sort, yes, but much more directed and insidious.”

The Warp storms that plagued this new world not only brought in frightened beasts from beyond, it would also drive them mad with irreversible rage. This was the Warp madness, a sickness Dylus was certainly most capable of dealing with, but he didn’t want to assume he was fully ready to take on Rengleb. He listened to Muzan closely after asking further.

“The tampering of nature with tharmorja corrupts not only the soul, but the land around it. The deserts surrounding Khayavit are blackened because of this. Because of Lon, it’s now spread here. Trust me, boy, when I say I have great anger in knowing that he was responsible for pervading Rengleb into what she is.”

“Was it on purpose?”

Muzan fervently shook his head, “No. Makes it worse. He only cares about himself and his cabal. The rest of us are animals, fit to be plundered from and left to rot in the wake of his sorcery.”

Two fists were raised, shaking violently in front of the chief’s face. He had been holding onto this anger for a long, long time. Dylus couldn’t help but feel pity for him, as well as all the people here. He shared his growing feeling of resentment with Muzan as well, remembering Miriam’s ominous recollection about the kidnapped soldiers.

“Our people have suffered too long. Every day, our numbers grow shorter. We are a dwindling community-”

“We’ll do it.”

Muzan looked up, surprised at the statement, “Eh?”

“We’ll kill your monsters. It’s what we’re here for.”

“Slayer…”

The old man embraced him suddenly. He was so willing to pass on this arduous task for him that all semblance of stoicness had vanished. Muzan had run out of options long ago, seeing friends and family flee or die at the hands of the mad Rengleb or Lon. For him, the Slayer’s arrival could finally end the madness.

Dylus saw it as such, yet he never forgot what he was here for on behalf of his employers.

“We thank you. There’s not much we can offer compensation with, but I will try to ask around and collect some kind of payment. Will that be okay, young man?”

Dylus rubbed his chin, tapped his foot. After some willful thinking, he offered his side of the bargain, “Tell you what, chief Muzan, I’ll ask for some simple things. One, the head of Rengleb goes to us. The second, just call me Dylus, it’s easier on the tongue. Lastly?”

The mercenary found a wall to lean on. Trying hard to be intimidating only made him look immature in the chief’s eyes, but he was listening intently anyway.

“I want to know how to find Lon’s raiders, then the man himself. Do that, and I can plug a bullet in his brain for all your worries.”