The sun burned high over the North District terrain, its harsh golden rays casting long, wavering shadows across the dusty streets.
The day was lively, the market bustling with merchants, traders, and vagabonds alike, yet within the confines of The Silver Barrel—a rundown bar tucked between two half-crumbling brick buildings.
It was the kind of bar where desperate men drank their futures away, and nobody asked too many questions—unless they wanted a knife in their gut.
At the far end of the wooden counter, a man slumped lazily over his drink, his tattered black hoodie draped over his head, shielding his bloodshot eyes from the daylight that trickled through the creaky wooden blinds. He reeked of alcohol, his fingers loosely gripping the neck of an empty bottle, and every now and then, he let out a wheezy, stupid laugh—directed at no one but himself.
He was known for his absurd yet oddly successful chicken heists. The kind of man who stole because it was easier than working, and who drank because being sober meant dealing with consequences.
Perched beside him on the counter was his common-level guardian beast—a small, filthy monkey, equally as wasted as its master. Its fur was stained with spilled beer and its eyes were unfocused with intoxication. Its tail wrapped around an empty bottle, its body swaying drunkenly as it scratched its belly and hiccuped.
The bartender, a grizzled man with a permanent frown, merely wiped a glass with an old rag, unbothered by the pitiful sight before him. Drunks like these were common in this part of the district.
The hooded man groaned, shaking the last drops from his now-empty bottle.
"Fuck!" he barked in drunken irritation, slamming the bottle against the counter with enough force to make a few customers glance over their shoulders. "Another beer!" His breath stank of cheap liquor. "And one for my buddy too."
The bartender merely grunted as he reached for another bottle. Around the bar, the regulars mumbled amongst themselves, some slumped over tables, others engaged in hushed, suspicious dealings in the farthest corners. The atmosphere was thick—a blend of low laughter, the occasional clink of coins, and the ever-present stink of despair.
But then—
A subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the air.
A feeling. A presence.
A cold whisper of something that didn't belong in a place like this.
The hooded man felt it before he saw it, a creeping sensation down his spine, a prickling at the edge of his drunken haze. Someone had settled beside him. And it wasn't his monkey.
Slowly, he turned his head to the left.
There, seated beside him as if he had materialized out of thin air, was a man dressed in a pristine priest's outfit. His attire was impossibly clean, untainted by the dust and filth of the North District. A silver cross dangled from his neck, resting against the fine fabric of his white clerical robe.
But the strangest part?
He was reading.
Not drinking. Not engaging in the rowdy chatter that filled the bar. Just flipping through a collection of neatly stacked papers in his hand, his brown eyes scanning each page with an unsettling level of focus.
The hooded man squinted, then belched loudly.
"Hey ya," he slurred, his voice thick with alcohol. "This ain't no place for a priest."
His monkey screeched drunkenly in agreement, baring its tiny, yellowed teeth as it slapped the counter.
But the priest paid neither of them any mind.
He did not even acknowledge the mockery.
Instead, he continued flipping through his papers, his expression unreadable. And then, as if just now acknowledging their presence, he casually spoke.
"Are you Balad, the infamous chicken thief?"
Balad blinked. Of all the things to be recognized for...
"Yeah…" he admitted lazily, scratching his scruffy chin. "But I'd appreciate the absence of such a ridiculous title." He slowly reached for his new beer, freshly placed before him.
"Oh, don't be misguided," the priest chuckled, finally looking up from his papers. His smile was pleasant, almost friendly. "I'm a huge fan of your sinful works."
Balad paused mid-drink. Something about the priest's words—the way he said it—set off alarms in his otherwise dulled mind.
Then, the priest moved.
He extended one of his papers toward Balad and slid it across the counter.
"If it weren't for the likes of you," the priest continued, his voice oozing with mock reverence, "I wouldn't be here enforcing the Lord's wrath."
Then he tapped his gloved finger on a very specific section of the paper. "Can I have your autograph?..." He smirked sharply.
"Just… right… there?"
Balad's fuzzy gaze followed the tapping finger.
And then—his stomach dropped.
It was a bounty notice.
A 'DEAD OR ALIVE' notice.
His name. His crimes. His stupid, grinning face.
Signed and stamped by the victimized community.
Balad swallowed hard. For the first time that day, he sobered up slightly.
He forced a weak laugh, belching to play it cool.
"A bounty hunter, huh…?" he muttered, his hand subtly moving under his tattered cloak. "How the hell did you find me?"
The priest merely tilted his head, his pleasant smile never faltering.
"It's unfortunate," he said, his voice still carrying the same eerie calm. "Evil has nowhere to hide from the light."
Then, his smile widened just a fraction.
"And your victims?… they're so eager to help you find salvation in the afterlife."
Balad barely had time to react.
A flash of steel.
A wet, squelching noise.
A sharp, searing pain bloomed in his gut.
The dimly lit bar fell into a suffocating silence, save for the wet gurgle of Balad struggling against the inevitable. His fingers twitched, clawing weakly at his own throat, where a deep, merciless gash now spewed crimson. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one weaker than the last, as his drunken, unfocused eyes locked onto the priest.
The bounty hunter remained unfazed, his brown eyes reflecting nothing—not malice, not satisfaction, just cold, unwavering duty.
Balad wanted to curse, to lash out, but his voice had already drowned in blood. His lips trembled as he struggled to push out his final words, his mind grasping at a dying recognition.
"I… I know who you are…" he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. His hooded head slumped forward, his forehead smacking against the counter as his body grew still.
The priest exhaled, unfazed.
A few feet behind him, his summoned guardian—an imposing, seven-foot Minotaur with charcoal-black fur and amber eyes—stood motionless, its towering frame barely contained by the tavern's cramped space. Its massive cleaver dripped fresh blood onto the wooden floorboards. It had done its job flawlessly.
As its master gave a subtle nod, the beast vanished into nothingness, dissolving into thin air as if it had never been there at all.
Balad's guardian monkey, still hunched atop the counter, blinked dumbly, its intoxicated mind too clouded to even comprehend what had just transpired. It reached for another drink, its tiny fingers twitching toward an empty glass—only to suddenly burst into ashes.
The priest, still seated beside the corpse, maintained his eerie nonchalance.
Without urgency, he reached out and grabbed Balad's limp, cooling hand, pressing it firmly against the puddle of blood that had gathered on the counter. With an almost ritualistic precision, he lifted the bloodied palm and smeared it onto the bounty paper bearing Balad's name and crimes, leaving a crude yet undeniable stamp signature of death.
"One sinner off the list."
His voice was calm. Collected. Satisfied.
Around him, the few remaining bar patrons dared not speak. Some averted their gazes, pretending they had seen nothing. Others—seasoned criminals themselves—clutched their drinks tighter, instinctively praying that the priest wasn't here for them.
The bartender, accustomed to the occasional bar fight but never outright execution, stared in muted horror, hands frozen mid-polish over a dirty glass.
But the priest paid them no mind.
With a content sigh, he wiped his hands clean with a spare cloth, then returned his attention to the stack of bounty papers in his possession. His brown eyes flicked through names and faces, his expression remaining unreadable.
Until—he found them.
Five faces. Five targets.
Three of them had exceptionally high price tags.
The priest's lips curled into a twisted, anticipatory grin.
"The Lord sure knows His own."
His fingers tapped gently over the bounty sheets, as though savoring the weight of their worth. They weren't just common sinners—they were big game.
Jasmin. Laria. Daryl. Naritsa. Nebula.
A slow chuckle rumbled from deep within his chest.
"The next phase of evangelism begins soon."
He mused, already contemplating his next move.
Would he hunt alone, reveling in the thrill of a personal crusade?
Or should he share the gospel, calling upon other bounty hunters to join in the divine hunt?
A cold, calculated gleam flickered in his eyes.
Either way, judgment was coming.
******