"Seems like the brat wants his tongue out of his mouth."
The voice was coarse, deep, and laced with menace — like someone who gargled gravel for breakfast and threatened orphans for fun.
The words echoed off the alley walls, low and dangerous.
The dim glow of a single, flickering bulb above cast harsh shadows on their faces.
The first man turned around.
Azel's breath hitched.
The man was bald, his skull shining under the sickly yellow light.
But what caught the eye wasn't the lack of hair — it was the network of jagged scars running from temple to jaw.
They crisscrossed his face like lightning etched into skin, remnants of wars, battles, or simply a violent lifestyle.
One eye was milky-white, blind, while the other glinted with cold delight.
He looked like someone who killed people for the sound they made when they begged.
"Try pulling against those chains again, runt," the bald man growled. "See if I don't yank your tongue out and use it as an accessory."
Azel said nothing. His instincts told him not to test this man.
But if that wasn't enough to freeze him, the second captor certainly was.
The robed figure turned slightly, letting the dull light spill across his face.
Or rather — what should have been a face.
Instead, a serpentine head stared down at Azel.
It had narrow eyes and slitted pupils.
The gleam of fangs peeking from between thin lips.
His skin which were scales shimmered a faint green beneath the brown cloak.
His hands, clawed and scaly, held the chain like it was a leash.
Azel tried not to gulp.
'A beastkin? No — he's not beastkin. He's a lamian. An evolved variant. A rare enemy class from the game. Why the hell am I chained up by a rare enemy unit?!'
"I told you," the lamian said calmly, "there's no time for that. We need to get him to the Unders as soon as possible."
His voice was smooth like velvet dipped in poison.
Azel stiffened.
The Unders.
In other games, it'd be called the black market, a neutral zone full of seedy merchants and shifty-eyed traders.
But in Fall of Ares, the Unders were hell.
An underground empire rooted beneath the slums, where illegal auctions were held, where rare beastfolk were sold in cages, and where unlucky commoners ended up as lifetime slaves.
"Once you're in the Unders, you don't come back."
He remembered that line from an NPC. He hadn't thought much of it back then.
Now it was echoing in his skull like a damn drum.
His heart thumped.
He tested the chains again, slowly, carefully — but the bald man immediately yanked him forward.
"Try that again, boy. See what happens."
"I… I wasn't," Azel muttered. "I was just — uh — adjusting. My… spine."
He didn't even know what he was saying.
'I need a plan. I need a miracle. I need divine intervention. Or a meteor. I'll take a meteor at this point.'
…
The alley finally opened into a broader street.
Rain still drizzled, soaking the ground, but the clouds had begun to break.
Pale moonlight peeked through the veil above.
The street was quiet. The buildings here were cracked and moss-covered, with broken signs and shuttered windows.
It was the kind of place where hope got mugged and never reported it.
Then —
Footsteps.
Slow. Purposeful.
Azel's eyes flicked forward.
A man was approaching.
He wore white robes that looked freshly pressed — utterly out of place in this filth.
A crimson insignia gleamed on the left breast — a sword embedded in a crown of roses.
His long, silver hair fell to his shoulders, barely shifting in the wind.
His eyes, sharp and ice-blue, held an emotion Azel couldn't quite place.
He looked as if he saw everything.
Azel recognized him instantly.
Steven Thorne.
The Sword Saint of this world.
A legendary NPC who, in the game, trained the protagonist in the spirit arts during the third arc.
Known for his peerless swordsmanship and tragic backstory — his only daughter had been taken and killed by slave traders years ago.
And he hated them.
The lamian and scarred man paused.
"You don't belong here," the lamian said, suspicious.
Steven's voice was calm and clean, like clear water running over steel.
"Neither do you."
His hand moved slowly, reaching into his robe. The pace made Azel shiver, he was taking his time.
Steven pulled out a parchment scroll.
"Gorran Slade," he said, reading aloud.
"Wanted for illegal slave trafficking, five counts of magical branding, two counts of assaulting a knight of the realm, and one incident involving a goat and a lute."
The bald man — Gorran — sneered. "That was never proven."
Steven didn't even blink. "Also, Rekk'sa of the Lamian Brood. Listed as a rogue beastkin and charged with unauthorized teleportation into human territory. Two counts of flesh-marking, one count of heart theft—"
"That's a misunderstanding," Rekk'sa muttered.
"—and accessory to Gorran Slade's crimes."
Both men exchanged a look. Chains clinked as Azel took a careful step back.
"Now," Steven continued. "You can release the boy and surrender quietly… or you can resist."
He gently reached to his hip and unsheathed his sword.
A beautiful silver blade, elegant and long, that hummed with energy.
The moment it left its sheath, the air changed.
Azel felt it instantly.
Aura.
His aura was blue, wrapping around the blade as pressure descended upon the three of them.
Azel's knees bucked as he fell to the ground, unable to move a muscle.
This was not a man you could beat in a quick-time event.
This was endgame material.
Gorran growled and raised his fists, cracks forming in his skin as magic flared.
Rekk'sa hissed, his tongue flicking out. "This isn't worth it."
"You think we can run?" Gorran snarled.
"No," Steven said simply. "You can't."
And then he vanished.