With a bird's cry, an eagle arrowed down, before clawing at the frightened lamb that was frozen in the middle of the street.

The crowd gave startled yells, cursing at the eagle that was flying past the shabby houses.

Amidst the raging crowd, a cloaked figure silently trudged through, his face hidden by his dark-brown cloak. Suddenly, the clouds moved, and the scorching sun blinded the streets.

The crowd quieted down, finding shade to shield themselves. So when the cloaked figure kept on walking, as if he was unaffected, numerous eyes gathered on him.

Undeterred, Zethir's steps were steady as he trailed the path to the blacksmith shop. Thinking about it, he couldn't help but pat the sword tied to his waist.

It was an iron sword, a gift from his enemy. As to why his enemy would give him a sword? Of course, because they were already dead when he took his “gift.”

‘Good enemies are dead ones,’ he shook his head at the thought.

A few minutes went by in a flash, and he soon found himself standing in front of a blacksmith shop. The door was made of a special metal, though it looked like pure iron. According to the blacksmith inside…

“Those who can open the door can be my customer. Others, scram!”

Sighing, placed both his palms on the door's surface, and then dug his heels on the ground. Gritting his teeth, his muscles bulged as he pushed the door open with all his might.

CREAAAAK~

The iron door stood its ground, but alas, when ten minutes passed, Zethir pushed the door wide open. As soon as he did, a series of crisp claps welcomed his ears.

“Ten minutes, to the dot! One second less from yesterday, not too shabby,” a loud, gruff voice spoke up. “Quick, close the door and we can talk business.”

Moving his head, he saw a short man wearing a simple beige shirt and brown shorts standing before him, his arms crossed.

Zethir gasped like a dog, his arms about to fall. But seeing the short man turning around and walking toward the table and chairs, he closed his eyes in resignation. Then, walking around the heavy door, he once more pushed using all his strength.

This time, it took him fifteen minutes to close the door.

“Hm,” the short man rubbed his hairless chin. “No improvements there, maybe it's too much to ask. Anyway, little guy, what's your business here?” The short man asked, tilting his head back to maintain eye contact with Zethir.

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Zethir looked down, inwardly wondering how he was the “little guy.”

The short man was no taller than five feet, while he was six feet and six inches tall.

“Falco, I need my sword sharpened,” Zethir said, walking toward the table and sitting across from the short man, Falco.

“Again? I sharpened it just last week!” Falco slapped the table, watching with narrowed eyes as Zethir placed his iron sword on the desk like it was a porcelain vase.

“Did you break it?” Falco asked, his voice carrying a pointed knife.

Zethir took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

A few seconds later, he answered, “No.”

Falco’s left eye twitched. ‘...then why did you look like you were admitting a sin?!’

Coughing to clear his mind, Falco said, “It's dull already? Do you not maintain it? Or is your so-called special swordsmanship just a hot bundle o’ scraps?”

Zethir shook his head. “I just want to sharpen it,” he said, shrugging.

Falco opened his mouth, but in the end, he swallowed his words. “Alright. You know how much it costs, right?”

“Ten thousand mitos,” Zethir nodded.

Falco nodded back, hopping off the chair. After unsheathing and inspecting the sword…

“Hm? There's not even chips ‘n nicks in this bad boy. It's perfectly sharp… be honest, why are you here? Do you like wasting money?” Falco looked into Zethir's ruby-red iris.

Even after entering the room, Zethir hadn't pulled down the hood of his cloak. Thanks to exercise from opening and closing the door, his sweat made the hood stick to his forehead and one of his eyes.

Zethir’s visible eye narrowed. “I'm here to make sure my blade is sharp.”

Falco sighed. “Alright, fine. I'll sharpen it. It won't take long, so I'll give you a… ninety percent discount.”

Hearing this, Zethir's lips curled up. “Sounds good,” he tapped his fingers on the table.

Meanwhile, outside the metal door, Augustin was standing in place with a baffled look. The metal door was engraved with the words “push,” so he did.

“UUUURGH?!”

But even after several minutes, the metal door didn't budge. Not even a millimeter!

“What the fuck is up with this door?!” Augustin gasped. “That rank 6 guy could open it, is there a secret method?”

Thus, he looked around the door for half an hour, finding nothing but a single ant walking on the wall.

Frustrated, he squashed the ant and resorted to banging on the door. Even then, no one answered.

“Tsk,” hands tucked in his pocket, he kicked the door a final time before walking away, rain clouds hanging above his head.

After following Zethir for the entire morning, he had nothing to show!

Meanwhile…

“So, are you satisfied?” Falco pushed the iron sword into Zethir's hands.

Looking at the sharp edge, which seemed to shine, Zethir nodded in satisfaction.

“More than,” he said.

Falco covered his mouth, rubbing his jaw to hide his smile. Then, seeing Zethir rubbing the sword's surface, he licked his lips for a while before asking.

“Are you going to leave?”

“Yes,” Zethir sheathed his sword, before tying it to his waist.

“... you're a mercenary, right?” Falco smacked his lips, words jumbled up in his mouth.

Zethir blinked at him, adjusting the hood of his cloak to properly show his face. “Falco, do you need a mercenary?”

“Well,” Falco scratched his head, turning his head to the side.

Zethir squinted, seeing a faint red appear on the short man's ears. Falco was not young, he was in his 40s, but he looked like he just entered his 30s. His face had very little wrinkles, if any.

But still, Zethir felt like cringing when he saw the bashful blush.

“Damn it! I know my rank is 11, but can you help me out here?” Falco slapped his muscular thighs. “I need some fighters, but I need someone I can trust. Though you just entered rank 6… I know I can trust you. And you're good at killing,” he said.

“Alright. Don't worry, I won't charge you—”

Before Zethir could finish, Falco erupted into laughter. “Bullshit! I'll pay you twenty thousand mitos in advance. After you complete the mission, I'll pay you another hundred thousand. Sounds good, right?” He tutted.

Zethir paused, licking the back of his teeth at the offer. He was rich—his money coming from robbing his enemies and dead allies. But one hundred and twenty thousand mitos…

One could live doing nothing for half a year with that much money!

“What's the mission?” Zethir’s face turned solemn, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“It's simple,” Falco cleared his throat, before walking toward a drawer, opening it. Then, he pulled out a piece of paper, and then a long, brown and black feather.

“I want a bloodbath, and you'll leave this feather in the eye of the strongest person you kill,” Falco said, giving Zethir the feather first before the paper.