….
Zayn exhaled slowly, feeling the ache in his bones settle at last. The day had wrung him dry. Five bounty hunters—armed, seasoned, eager to carve him apart—had hounded him through the forest like starving wolves. Gods, they were infuriating. Persistent. Annoyingly competent. But despite their efforts, not one of the five had managed to land so much as a scratch on him.
A fact that still surprised the few who witnessed the chase.
A fact that irritated Zayn least of all.
He pushed open the tavern door, stepping into the warmth and chatter of the countryside pub. It smelled of old wood, warm ale, and the smoke of too many cheap candles. He didn't care. It was quiet. It was distant from the city. And—most importantly—it was a place where fewer people knew his face.
He slid onto a stool.
Zayn's appearance drew the usual scattered glances—his pale complexion, slightly slanted eyes, and long dark hair that spilled well past his shoulders resembled something between a mercenary and a noble's disgraced son. His armor was cheap but well-maintained, stretching over toned muscle that made it clear he was far from fragile.
A few patrons stiffened under his presence. He ignored them.
"A glass of ale, please."
he muttered, voice low—quiet, but with a natural authority that made the nearby server snap to attention and hurry off.
For a moment, Zayn allowed himself a small sense of peace. He had been living in the countryside for weeks now, having realized the city was no longer safe. More travelers meant more chances to be recognized. More bounty hunters. More problems.
And today's five were proof enough. Had it been Saturday in the city, he would've been fighting fifteen.
He took a slow sip.
Even at rest, his expression remained a calm mask of seriousness—an unspoken warning that he'd strike down anyone foolish enough to stand in his way. The locals had picked up on that almost instantly. The chatter dipped when he entered, the atmosphere tightening like a bowstring.
Still, someone always felt brave.
Or stupid.
This time, the challenger was a tall, well-built man with a shock of messy blonde hair slicked loosely back into a style that looked both deliberate and wildly unkempt. His frame was thick and broad, and the way he walked—heavy, confident, almost theatrical—told Zayn everything he needed to know.
A warrior.
A drunk.
And an idiot with an inflated sense of his own strength.
The stranger took the seat directly beside Zayn.
"A jug of mead, please."
He set a massive double-edged axe on the counter, letting the steel ring loudly against the wood—as if announcing himself. Zayn's gaze narrowed, glancing sidelong at the man with thinly veiled disdain.
But the blonde didn't pay him any mind. Not yet. Not until after he had taken a long, hearty swig of his drink. Then—finally—he turned.
"Don't seem like you're from around here, stranger."
The accent was unmistakable. Plugish. Thick and confident.
Zayn sipped his ale. "I thought the countryside welcomed anyone who doesn't cause trouble."
"Oh, you're causin' plenty."
The man rose to his feet, broad shadow stretching across Zayn's stool. Conversations died; chairs scraped. The tension in the tavern grew palpable, pressing like humidity before a storm.
"You walk around with that big sword on your back," the Plugishman said.
"Do you lack that much self-awareness, boy?"
Zayn stood slowly.
The man was taller—much taller—but Zayn's gaze remained unshaken, dark and unwavering.
"Where do you know me from to call me 'boy'?"
"Oh, I know plenty." The stranger's grin widened.
"Zayn Weissland. The churches say you've got the devil himself inside you. I figured I'd see if it's true—once I'm lookin' at your guts."
The tavern buzzed with sudden whispers, murmured speculation spreading like wildfire. Zayn's stomach sank. If word spread here, too, he'd lose the countryside just like the city.
Damn it.
He touched the hilt of his katana, drawing it just enough to let the dim tavern light dance along the polished silver blade. A few patrons gasped quietly. Katanas weren't exactly common in places like this.
"So," Zayn said calmly, "you want my bounty. Shame. A capable warrior throwing away his life for pocket change."
The man barked a laugh. A loud, uncontrolled, amused laugh.
"HAH! I like you, boy. But no, I don't need money. I'm well off on my own."
Zayn raised a brow.
His ragged clothes said otherwise.
"I'm here to test my mettle. Heard plenty about the Forbidden Child of Weiss. Maybe after this we'll be companions—!"
The axe came down without warning.
A blur.
A scream.
Zayn vanished.
Only the barkeep—a frail older man—remained directly in the line of fire, ducking just in time as a few strands of grey hair fluttered to the floor.
"Ehhh? Where'd ya go, devil boy?" the Plugishman muttered, whipping his head left and right.
Zayn's boot slammed into the side of his skull.
The man staggered, clutching his head. Zayn was already moving—drawing his katana and flicking the weapon free. The blade flew through the air like a projectile, and its pommel cracked sharply against the man's forehead. His posture snapped backward.
Zayn surged forward, reclaiming the katana mid-stride and launching a fierce upward kick to the man's chin, sending him crashing into a table. Glasses toppled. Alcohol splattered across the floor.
"Ahhh, bloody hell…"
The man groaned, pushing himself up. Blood traced a thin line down his face, his hair now hanging heavily over his brow.
A grin formed again.
"You're a dirty little fighter, aren't ya?"
Zayn advanced, blade in hand.
The Plugishman recovered surprisingly quickly, lifting his axe. The two warriors' eyes locked with a mixture of challenge and anticipation.
CLASH!
The katana met the axe, steel grinding against steel. Sparks flared.
"That puny toothpick managed to damage my axe!?" the man shouted—right before he slammed a heavy boot into Zayn's stomach.
Zayn staggered, breath shoved from his lungs. The man's boots were weighted—he could feel it.
He regained his footing just in time to dodge the next attack. The axe swept down with frightening force, slicing a few stray strands of Zayn's long black hair.
The man's strength was… absurd.
Each swing of his axe carried the weight of a falling tree.
And yet he wielded it with the speed of a swordsman.
The barrage began—fast, heavy, unrelenting.
Zayn moved with precision born of survival, parrying when he could, dodging when he had to, retreating step by step. Sparks ignited with every clash.
He needed to turn the tide.
If he didn't, the next hit wouldn't miss.
————————————————————
WORLD INFO >>>Warrior's Heart — Spiritual Potential.
In an age long before kings carved their names into stone,
when magic still clung to the air like morning fog…
there existed a world shaped not by gods,
but by the hearts of the warriors who walked it.
This world was called Edacia—
a world where kingdoms rose on the strength of steel,
and fell to the weight of arrogance.
For in Edacia, power was not inherited.
It was forged.
Eight centuries ago, a wandering philosopher from the empire of Drenmarch named Kurio Witlash uncovered the truth that shaped the fate of nations:
"A warrior is not built from muscle or magic…
but from the balance between humility and pride."
From this revelation came the ancient doctrine of the:
✧ WARRIOR'S HEART ✧
The spiritual core of every fighter— paving the way to the potential of a soul.
From that potential blossomed Spiritual Force, also known as eminence.
manifesting as elemental magic, secret techniques,
or strength beyond mortal limits.
the essence that defined all warriors:
To the arrogant, it granted sharp, explosive power…
yet shattered the moment defeat humbled them.
To the timid, it remained vast but unreachable…
locked behind their own fear.
Across Edacia, kingdoms embraced this teaching.
Empires rose upon it. Legends were born from it.
All except one.
✦ The Nation of Plugand ✦
A land ruled not by warriors,
but by a Pope who cast magic aside as heresy.
He condemned Witlash as a fool.
He denied the existence of Spiritual Force.
He declared the warrior's path a sin.
This ignorance left Plugand vulnerable—
and when the dark mage Kelios descended upon them,
the country paid in blood.
Even now, Plugand clings to its denial.
Even now, its people fear what they do not understand.
And even now…
It hunts those born with power.
Including the child they whisper of in dread—
the Forbidden Child of Weiss.
————————————————————
CLANG.
The katana bit deeper into the axe with each exchange, its superior craftsmanship evident. But the Plugishman's raw power kept the balance even.
"RAHHH!"
he roared, delivering a downward blow that cracked the floorboards where Zayn would have been standing—had he moved a heartbeat later.
Zayn felt the heat of adrenaline surge, muscles tightening, eyes narrowing. The tavern was a storm of splintering wood and flying sparks.
He couldn't win by staying on the defensive.
He needed an opening.
He needed it—
Now.