Enevar held a tankard filled with beer, he sipped and leaned at his chair while the Fun Boot Tavern was being continuously filled by patrons.
The Fun Boot Tavern buzzed with an uneasy energy as Enevar observed the patrons. Laughter echoed, but an undercurrent of tension lingered. Mundramon City faced an impending economic collapse, evident in the furrowed brows and hushed conversations among the patrons. Enevar's piercing eyes scanned the room, his strong hands gripping the tankard.
Amidst the revelry, a sense of foreboding loomed. Enevar, clad in his Pristine Robes of Faith, sensed the unease, the whispers of hardship that reached even the corners of the bustling tavern. His long white hair framed a weathered face, a visage that had weathered many storms. Gripping his True Dwarven Steel Long Sword and Holy Silver Dagger beneath his robes, he pondered the city's unraveling fate.
Enevar's black iron hatchet, a symbol of resilience, rested against the chair. As the beer touched his lips, he felt the weight of the city's troubles. The once vibrant hub was now a microcosm of uncertainty. Patrons, oblivious to the storm approaching, reveled in a fleeting escape.
Yet, Enevar, a seasoned warrior, saw beyond the façade. His gaze, like a sentinel, watched as desperation seeped into the laughter. He sipped his beer, the bitter taste mirroring the bitterness of the times. Violent thoughts churned within him, a reflection of the turmoil in Mundramon City. The old man, strong and resolute, knew that he carried not only the weight of his tankard but also the burden of a city on the brink.
And this burden? Enevar would gladly violate this burden— yes, a burden to sin, a burden to commit. Enevar was a very bad man, and he relished what he had become. All those years ago. All of the bad things he had done as a mercenary. They are happy memories for him. An escape to the pain, and more— a release of a dark impulse.
Perking his ears, Enevar listened to the patrons. He secretly took joy at the fact that he was part of the reason why the Mundar Kingdom was about to face an economic collapse. Here within Mundramon City, the Capital of Gold, a great upheaval was almost ready to unfold.
Enevar's eyes glinted with a sinister satisfaction as he eavesdropped on the conversations swirling around him. The tavern's patrons unwittingly discussed the changes befalling Mundramon City, oblivious to the aging mercenary relishing in the chaos he had sown.
"Did you hear about the rise in crimes lately?" a nervous voice whispered.
"Aye, banditry's on the upswing. Merchants disappearing without a trace," another responded, casting wary glances.
Enevar, nursing his tankard, interjected, a twisted grin playing on his weathered face, "Aye, seems like the city's losing its grip, doesn't it?"
Murmurs of agreement filled the air. The once prosperous Mundramon City, the Capital of Gold, now grappled with an unsettling surge in criminal activities. The patrons exchanged tales of thievery, merchants vanishing into thin air, and a mysterious drain on the city's gold reserves.
Enevar, reveling in the shadows of his own misdeeds, couldn't help but stoke the fires of discord. "Perhaps the city's just getting what it deserves," he mused, his voice laced with a malevolent satisfaction.
Everyone knew the King of Mundar. He was a piece of shit. Wensel Ton Mundar was a tyrant, narcissistic, and banal to the bones. Because the mighty King could turn anyone into gold, he was feared. The thing was... it was not just the King who could do it, but also those of his bloodlines. Enevar though knew there would only be a fraction of the Mundar King who could awaken to their latent bloodline potential.
In the dimly lit corner of the Fun Boot Tavern, a barmaid with wary eyes approached Enevar, her steps cautious.
"Old man, Leland's been asking for you," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the tavern's din.
Enevar, ever watchful, nodded silently, setting down his tankard. Without a word, he followed the barmaid through the bustling crowd, out into the cool night air. The alleys of the slum swallowed them, winding paths leading to a clandestine meeting.
The barmaid glanced back, her eyes scanning for prying ears, and then gestured towards a quiet pond. "He's waitin' there. Said it's urgent."
Silently, Enevar followed her through the labyrinthine alleys until the ambient noise of the tavern faded into distant murmurs. Finally, they arrived at the secluded pond, the moonlight casting a silver glow on the water.
Leland, a shadow by the pond's edge, looked up as they approached. "Enevar, good of you to come," he greeted, his voice low and cautious.
Leland hesitated, then spoke cautiously, "I don't want to get more involved with the Enderman."
Enevar's gaze sharpened. "So, you knew. No, you guessed."
Leland nodded solemnly. "You convinced me, of all people, to take the risks. Only someone as devious as the Enderman would suggest a plan like that... to force an economic collapse, to steal a Mundar Royalty who can turn anything to gold at the tip of their fingers, and then, yes, to convince me."
Leland's eyes held a mixture of awe and trepidation. "I think of myself as a very cautious man, but I could not help but bite at your ludicrous plan and manage to pull it off."
Enevar's lips curled into a wry smile. "I don't even wear the ring that symbolized me, but you guessed. Bravo."
Leland shook his head, a serious expression replacing his earlier grin. "Enough. Don't bully me anymore. I knew it better than not to mess with fate... The evil in you was guided by fate, a very rare thing... impossible even. It was either you slept with the Spinner of Fate herself, or she was so afraid of you, that she made you... like that. Untouched by fate, untouched by death."
Enevar's eyes gleamed with a hint of amusement, acknowledging the truth in Leland's words.
Enevar's words cut through the night air, carrying a sinister undertone. "Very poetic, first time I heard that. But you know, I could imagine... or say... guess as to why you bit."
Leland remained silent, his focus on the fishing line by the pond.
Enevar pressed on, his voice low and calculating. "The Thief's Guild is being cleaned up by the Mundar Royalty. You said you were under the payroll of the King, yes? I wonder why would the King do that?"
Leland hesitated before responding, his words measured. "A secret of mine, something I wished never to share."
Enevar's expression twisted into a wicked smile. "You are lucky I don't know this secret. If I knew what it is, you could have died, and maybe that daughter of yours."
Leland frowned, correcting Enevar, "She is my niece."
"Yeah, keep lying to her, and she'd hate you. I know about hate. I have mastered it," Enevar replied, his eyes holding a depth of understanding born from a lifetime of dark experiences.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Leland shifted the conversation, his tone turning practical. "We have prepared an escape route after we nab the Mundar Royal... Are you gonna join us?"
Enevar shook his head resolutely. "Nah, I'll stay. I have unfinished business."
Leland arched an eyebrow, a knowing expression on his face. "Let me guess? The Mundar King."
Enevar's gaze hardened. "Yes, he has offended me greatly."
"Tell Sayleh, my merchant friend, to treat you well," Enevar left with those words, his gravelly voice carrying a sense of finality. The barmaid, a silent observer of the clandestine meeting, nodded in acknowledgment. Enevar's figure vanished into the moonlit night, swallowed by the shadows of the slum.
With firm steps and a heart fueled by most recent grievances, Enevar navigated the labyrinthine alleys. The ambient noise of the tavern and the distant city murmurs faded into the background as he approached the looming structure that dominated the skyline—the Golden Palace, the dominion of the Mundar King.
The night air whispered with a sense of foreboding, but Enevar's resolve remained unshaken. The Pristine Robes of Faith concealed his intentions as he approached the grand gates, the weight of his True Dwarven Steel Long Sword and Holy Silver Dagger hidden beneath. The aging mercenary, driven by a thirst for retribution, prepared to confront the tyrant whose actions had set Mundramon City on a perilous course... and of course had by indirect cause, burned his house.
As Enevar ascended towards the Golden Palace, the moon cast an ethereal glow on his long white hair, a silvered beacon announcing the arrival of a man bound by an evil destiny.
The Golden Palace, usually guarded by an array of formidable soldiers, saw a noticeable reduction in its defenses. The rampant banditry and thieving outside Mundramon City had compelled the royalty to mobilize their army, leaving the palace with a skeletal crew. Many soldiers were now dispersed beyond the city walls, dealing with the external threats.
The results were evident – fewer guards patrolled the majestic halls and courtyards. However, the guards who remained were not to be trifled with. They were all Casters, skilled in the arcane arts, their presence a testament to the importance of safeguarding the heart of Mundramon.
Enevar's stealth didn't last for long. A Caster had seen him, their eyes locking in a moment of recognition. But for Enevar, most Casters were grass. Simple, Casters didn't know combat, especially the Casters of the baneful Golden Palace. As the Caster began to conjure a fireball in their hand, Enevar moved with the speed of a seasoned warrior.
He threw his hatchet faster than the magic could fully form, the weapon's deadly arc culminating in it squarely landing at the Caster's skull. The would-be fireball fizzled out, the silence broken only by the thud of the fallen Caster. Enevar, retrieving his hatchet, eyed the surroundings warily. The sudden confrontation had undoubtedly triggered the attention of others.
Magic power after all created pulses, and even nocixes would know when it was being used.
Enevar proceeded forward with calm steps, the anticipation of the impending clash flickering in his eyes. In a deliberate motion, he took out a Dragonheart scale, a rare and potent ingredient, and stuffed it into a vial of oil. The magical Molotov, now a volatile concoction, pulsed with energy as he held it in his hand.
The air around Enevar vibrated with the gathering magic. With a decisive throw, he hurled the enchanted Molotov toward the main palace. The vial shattered on impact, unleashing a blaze infused with dragonheart magic. The flames danced with an otherworldly brilliance, more potent than their mundane counterparts
Enevar, calculating and strategic, detoured from the immediate vicinity of the explosion. Taking cover in the shadows, he waited for the chaos to unfold on the other exit of the main palace. The crackling flames and the distant echoes of alarm signaled the disruption he had wrought. As the magical inferno raged, Enevar steeled himself for the confrontation that would follow, his gaze unwavering, and the molten heart of the dragon sparking in the flames, a symbol of the fire he had ignited within the heart of the Golden Palace.
The Mundar King, in his arrogance, had centralized the Mundar Kin Royals within the main palace at the heart of the Golden Palace. This foolish decision, perhaps born of hubris, played to Enevar's advantage. His singular goal echoed with ruthless clarity – exterminate the Mundar Bloodline.
As expected, the first to exit the burning palace was the Mundar King himself. Blonde, middle-aged, and adorned in regal robes, he emerged with a sense of urgency. The royal aura clung to him, but panic flickered in his eyes. He was dragging a woman with him – dark-haired, beautiful, and seemingly a Fandralese Woman.
Enevar, concealed in the shadows, watched the pair closely. His eyes narrowed as he recognized the king, the coincidental architect of making him fall into a very bad mood. The crackling flames outlined the contours of the man who had unwittingly set the wheels of his own demise in motion.
The Mundar King's voice carried a tone of desperation as he addressed the woman, "We must flee, Izabella. The palace is lost!"
Izabella's gaze held a mixture of fear and defiance. "T-the Enderman..?" she muttered under her breath, her eyes briefly meeting those of the lurking old warrior.
Enevar, hidden in the shadows, smirked. As the Mundar King scanned the surroundings, the old warrior stepped forward, his long white hair catching the flickering light of the magical flames.
The King, uneasy, demanded, "Who are you? Identify yourself!"
Enevar simply hummed a tune, a haunting melody that echoed in the fiery chaos. The dissonance between the song and the tense atmosphere added an eerie quality to the moment.
At that moment, Izabella hearing the humming could almost hear the lyrics in her head, she had heard the song, many times sung to her to scare her to sleep.
>
>
> "In the shadows where darkness lay,
>
> A tale unfolds, a price to pay.
>
> A song about the Enderman,
>
> The worst of man, a wicked plan.
>
>
>
> "Provoker of evil, finisher of life,
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> Usurper of happiness, bearer of strife.
>
> Wish he'd end you, a merciful plea,
>
> For his wrath knows no boundary.
>
>
>
> "Greediest heart, anger so deep,
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> Petty desires, secrets to keep.
>
> The Enderman walks a treacherous road,
>
> Leaving destruction in his dark abode.
>
>
>
> "Stealer of joy, master of pain,
>
> A dance with shadows, a sinister game.
>
> Wish him content, or your joy he'll steal,
>
> A heart so callous, devoid of feel.
>
>
>
> "He prowls the night, a figure so cold,
>
> A saga of sorrow, a tale untold.
>
> Beware the Enderman, his name a curse,
>
> For encountering him, can be something worse."
>
>
Enevar stepped out of the shadows, his long white hair catching the flickering light of the magical flames. "Cannot remember me anymore, boy? Well, it has been two decades." He brandished his True Dwarven Steel Long Sword, the glint of its blade mirroring the fire's intensity.
Wensel, the Mundar King, drew the sword he always had with him. The regal robes now seemed a stark contrast to the tension in his stance. "And why would I remember you?" His voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty, the recognition not yet surfacing in his eyes.
Enevar's eyes bore into Wensel with an intensity fueled by years of harbored resentment. "You hired me to do a job, offended me in the process... joked about my wife being a whore. When I did the job you asked, I spared one of the Havals hoping he'd deal with you... the brat burned my house."
Wensel, still seemingly confused, drenched his sword with his own blood. "And why are you even here?" He spoke defiantly, his voice laced with arrogance. "A touch from my sword, and you will be turned to gold! I dare you, old man!"
Enevar, swift and calculating, threw a vial filled with acid that landed squarely at Wensel's face. "Well, I remembered being annoyed by you, so I am here..."
Wensel, his vision blurred, cried out in agony, blindly swinging his sword. "Ah—! YOU IMBECILE! I AM—"
Enevar, his patience worn thin, cut through Wensel's words with ruthless efficiency. "A fucking piece of shit." In one swift motion, he beheaded the Mundar King, ending the reign of a tyrant who had played a part in Enevar's... evil.
Izabella, torn between terror and a strange mix of joy and hatred toward the fallen king, pleaded, "P-please spare me."
Enevar, seemingly indifferent to her pleas, drank a vial of Potion of Clairvoyance. He tasted the blood of the Mundar King—a daring move considering the risk of being turned to gold, but Enevar knew better. The dead Mundar King's curse would also die with its host.
As the potion took effect, Enevar's senses heightened. He surveyed the chaotic aftermath, the flames casting an eerie glow on his determined face. The old warrior, now fueled by a relentless clarity of purpose, proceeded to embark on a bloody massacre— he walked to the burning palace with calm steps.
Each strike of his True Dwarven Steel Long Sword was an echo of his petty vengeance. The Mundar Royalty, once secure in their regal abode, fell one by one to the wrath of the Enderman. The echoes of clashes, the cries of the fallen, and the glint of his blade in the firelight created a gruesome symphony of retribution.
All of them were killed, and none of them remained— husbands, wives, siblings, children... and everyone.
With the death of Mundar Bloodline, comes the ensured economic destruction of the Mundar Kingdom.