Joruk, with bleach-blonde hair and eyes that could kill, hailed from the far south—a land dubbed savage by the other realms. The rest of the world labeled them as such, and Joruk couldn't entirely fault them. In the southern lands, there was no structured society, only nomadic marauding brigands wandering the mountainous terrain. Despite the barbaric reputation, Joruk often mused that those from other realms could be even more savage than his own kin.

The Foolish Goat Tavern, early morning, echoed with emptiness, its wooden stools and tables bereft of patrons. Only Joruk and the barkeeper could be seen in the tavern.

The creaking floorboards beneath Joruk's boots hinted at the quietness that enveloped the quaint establishment as if the world outside had yet to awaken.

In the Foolish Goat Tavern, the morning sun spilled through dusty windows as Joruk addressed the barkeep.

"Hey, barkeep! Good morning to you! Isn't it too early for you to be polishing mugs?" Joruk grinned.

The barkeep shot back, "And you, isn't this too early for a lazy man such as yourself to be up and about?"

Joruk chuckled, "Barkeep, a mug, please. I'd rather drink than hear your insults." And also at the back of his mind, cure his hangover with more booze.

The barkeep, pouring ale into a mug, retorted, "So polite. So what now, Joruk? Had enough of Mandoor City's nightlife?"

Joruk nodded, "Yeah, I had enough of whores and gambling... I should save some coin for the future!" His words were slurred, but he strangely sounded eloquent. Most often, he was violent, except when he was mind-addled with alcohol.

The barkeep raised an eyebrow, "Future whores, and more gambling, eh?"

Joruk burst into laughter, "Whores, gambling, and maybe a new axe." The tavern echoed with his boisterous laughter, patrons yet to flood the establishment.

Exactly at that moment, an axe cleaved through the air, severing Joruk's right hand in one swift, brutal movement. The Foolish Goat Tavern's calm quiet was broken as the barkeep turned in surprise at the new arrival. Simultaneously, two thumb-sized pebbles zipped toward the barkeep's eyes, too fast for him to identify the assailant.

The barkeep winced as the pebbles hit their mark, surely blinding him. There was strength in the throw. Amidst the commotion, a figure emerged—a white-haired old man adorned in pristine white robes, holding the bloodied axe.

Joruk's laughter abruptly transformed into a guttural gasp as his severed hand fell to the tavern floor. Shock etched across his face, he turned to face the assailant.

The barkeep, now in a state of panic, stumbled blindly, his hands desperately reaching for anything to steady himself. Tears of blood streamed down his face, painting a gruesome picture of agony.

The barkeep's cries continued to echo through the tavern, a haunting symphony of pain. His panicked pleas for mercy reverberated against the tavern's wooden walls, mixing with the metallic scent of blood and ale.

Joruk, still reeling from the shock of his severed hand, felt a chill crawl down his spine as recognition dawned. The old man stood before him. The memories of the robbery, the stolen treasure, and the Gray Wolf comrades flooded Joruk's mind like a relentless tide.

With a mixture of fear and fury, Joruk gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowing at the old man. "You... You old man! Why are you here?!" His voice carried a desperate edge.

The tavern, in the early hours, remained devoid of customers, a quiet haven disrupted only by the cries of the wounded barkeep. Enevar, the old man with a purpose, looked down at Joruk, his gaze held a hint of... Melancholy? Amusement? No, it was prejudice. It was Luck had favored the old man in the emptiness of the establishment, but it mattered little to the determined seeker of justice.

"I have stalked you for some time in the past few days," Enevar declared, his voice a calm undercurrent beneath the chaos. "You were the typical kind of mercenary, my kind of mercenary... so I am fairly certain you will crack easy."

Joruk, his hand covered by a makeshift bandage from the tablecloth, glared defiantly at Enevar. "I will kill you!" His words, though laced with fury, echoed hollowly in the empty tavern.

Enevar dismissed the threat with a scoff. "Empty threats." Gripping Joruk by the scruff of his neck, he steered him towards the back kitchen of the tavern. The confined space added to the mental torment, the oppressive atmosphere intensifying the weight of impending interrogation.

Enevar, with a steely gaze, forcefully seated Joruk against the corner of the kitchen wall. "I will ask, you will talk. Easy," he declared, his tone carrying a hint of danger.

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

Joruk, undeterred by his predicament, retorted with a defiant glare. "You think of yourself so bold, old man? Give me an axe and I will fight you! No! I will end you!" The words, spoken through gritted teeth, resounded in the confined space.

Enevar, unswayed by the bravado, revealed a chilling truth. "Did you think it was an accident I chopped your right hand? No, I knew it was your dominant hand. Make sure you keep pressure on your wrist or you might just die of blood loss."

Enevar, with a deliberate movement, drew a vial of dark red liquid from beneath his robe. The container glimmered in the dim light, a mysterious elixir cradled in his weathered hand. "What is that? A vitality potion? How mighty nice of you. I saw this trick too many times already," Joruk scoffed, his skepticism evident.

The wounded mercenary's mind raced with imagined scenarios. He envisioned a window of opportunity, a moment when Enevar's guard might momentarily slip. "You would heal me, then torture me, then repeat," Joruk muttered, painfully aware yet confident.

Joruk watched the old man who seemed to be unmoved by what he just said, yet he hoped that his revealing the trick would at least unnerve the old bastard

As Enevar began to unstopper the vial, Joruk's eyes fixated on the dark liquid.

Enevar, with apathy in his tone, admitted, "Yes, it was a potion of vitality."

Joruk, intrigued but wary, decided to take the chance and drank the offered vial. Almost instantly, a surge of strength coursed through him. "Good stuff!" he exclaimed, fueled by newfound vigor. With surprising agility, he lunged at Enevar, ready to turn the tables.

However, Enevar, anticipating the move, was faster. He swiftly drew a dagger and stabbed it into Joruk's shoulder. "Easy now... I don't want to accidentally kill you," Enevar cautioned, his voice calm despite the violent act.

Joruk, his initial excitement replaced by searing pain, cried out, "Aaah! What is this?!" The burning sensation from the knife turned the moment of strength into an agonizing ordeal.

Enevar, with a cold admission, stated, "I lied."

Joruk, taken aback, demanded, "What!?"

Enevar, devoid of remorse, continued, "What you drank wasn't a vitality potion, but diluted vampire blood. Vampirism is now in your veins."

Joruk, struck with genuine fear, whispered, "No!"

"And the dagger that dug into your shoulder? It was made with holy silver," Enevar revealed with an emotionless voice. "You are done, mercenary..."

In that dimly lit kitchen of the Foolish Goat Tavern, the revelation echoed like a death sentence.

Joruk, faced with the grim reality of his fate, stammered, "I... I..."

Enevar, still emotionless but relishing the moment, stated, "You only have two options now. It is either you give me the pleasure of killing you now, or you give me the satisfaction of killing you later."

Joruk, overwhelmed and desperate, pleaded, "P-please kill me now!"

"Then all you have to do is answer my few questions," Enevar declared, Joruk's confidence rising.

Joruk, his voice shaky, stammered, "A-ask..."

Enevar, devoid of sympathy, questioned, "Where is my treasure?"

Joruk, feeling the weight of truth and consequences, stuttered, "R-royal Bank of Mundar..."

Enevar's annoyance surfaced, "Your comrades. Where are they?"

Joruk, a sense of resignation in his tone, revealed, "Disbandment. About a month ago... The G-gray Wolf Mercenaries were n-no m-more... I don't kn-know ab-bout the others..."

Enevar, undeterred in his pursuit of information, pressed on. "Your leader, Lanor. Where is he?"

Joruk, struggling with the limited knowledge he possessed, deflected, "I don't know, b-but Kael knows..."

Enevar continued his interrogation, "Where is Kael?"

Joruk, feeling the weight of his ignorance, replied, "Don't know."

Enevar, maintaining his emotionless demeanor, posed a broader question, "What do you know?"

Joruk, grappling with the lack of information, stammered, "I... I don't..."

Enevar, unimpressed, stated, "You displease me."

Joruk, fumbling for words, managed, "Uum... I..."

Enevar, withdrawing the dagger and sheathing it back, remarked, "It looks like I will be having neither the grim pleasure nor satisfaction of killing you."

Joruk, caught in a moment of uncertainty, remained silent.

Enevar, revealing a petty side, continued, "I am a very petty person, so I have decided to let you live."

Joruk's expression transformed, a look of immediate joy spreading across his face.

Enevar, revealing the depths of his deceit, uttered chilling words. "Just to enlighten you, I lied about another thing... I omitted the fact it wasn't 'just' diluted vampire blood, but mixed with it was a lethal poison that would hurt you perpetually, and gnaw at your mind. It will be so painful you would wish yourself dead."

Joruk, now faced with an unbearable reality, pleaded, "No! Please, no!"

Enevar, indifferent to the pleas, continued the cruel revelation. "But that was not where it ends... When you so choose to die, you would still continue hurting... Your soul would fail to pass into reincarnation, unwelcome to the Beyond... Ultimately, your soul will be damned, the poison forever clinging to you even in the afterlife."

Joruk's desperate cries filled the dimly lit kitchen of the Foolish Goat Tavern, as the sinister truth wrapped its tendrils around his fate, leaving him entangled in a web of perpetual torment and spiritual damnation.

Enevar, walking away with a sick smile, reveled in the extent of the harm he had done. He had lied about another thing. Although he acknowledged the existence of the divine, he was fully aware that the afterlife, reincarnation, and the beyond were never real. In his self-assured certainty, he confirmed that he had no soul. To him, the concept of the soul was nothing more than a construct, a figment of imagination given definition. Thus, he concluded, there were no souls.

As Enevar disappeared from the dimly lit kitchen, his parting revelation left Joruk in a state of profound despair, entangled in a fabricated web of torment and damnation. The Foolish Goat Tavern, once a quiet haven in the early morning, bore witness to the aftermath of the Enderman's twisted ways.

When others would think of ways to kill a man, the Enderman would think of ways to hurt a man.

While others would contemplate how to cope with sadness, the Enderman would literally just steal the happiness of others.

As many would have referred to him, the Enderman, Enevar Lifer was the finisher of life and usurper of happiness.

And I should say this to you— at this point— the Enderman had truly been reawakened.

So beware.