Sein still wasn't sure how it had all gone wrong so fast.
Barely a day ago he'd strutted into the Laundry Gang's hideout with a fresh cut on his cheek and the cocky grin of someone who finally belonged. Now he sat cross-legged on a beer-sticky floor, shoulder to shoulder with cutthroats and spell-slingers, staring at the battered knight who had turned their evening upside-down.
The door had crashed open minutes earlier, and a figure out of nightmare strode in armor battered and scarred like a map of old wars, cape torn to ribbons, dented helmet catching the firelight. The visor hid his eyes in black shadow, leaving only the lower half of his face exposed: a weathered mouth and a thick, frost-white beard bristling against the steel.
In one gauntleted hand he held a leather-bound book like a holy weapon.
"Listen up, you obnoxious sacks of shits!" he had roared. "I am a knight! And I will tell you the true story of my life every heroic feat, every absurd magical disaster, every impossible thing I survived!"
For a heartbeat the parlour went dead silent, even the hearthfire seeming to pause. Then the gang erupted in jeers and laughter until the knight casually blasted a hole through the ceiling and, with one contemptuous gesture, flung their leaders into the night.
Now Sein sat frozen, the scent of scorched wood still sharp in the air.
He'd joined the Laundry Gang for glory, for coin, for the thrill of belonging to the most feared crew in the neglected outskirts of Novaria kingdom, a town called laundry town a town so abandoned by the kingdom that even merchants refused to visit. He'd imagined wild robberies and initiation brawls. He hadn't imagined…this.
Through the jagged hole in the roof, the wind carried a view that churned his stomach.
The gang's two mighty leaders men he had admired since childhood were sprawled in the street like broken dolls.
One lay facedown in a puddle of mud, rear end pointed skyward in a posture so undignified it hurt to witness. The other lay half on the cobbles, half in a ditch, perfectly still except for the mangy street dog that had chosen his shoulder as a latrine.
Sein blinked hard. Those are… them.
Just yesterday he'd watched the pair duel each other for sport, conjuring second-class tier spells magic that most knights trained a lifetime to master something only the steel class knights were capable of. They were living legends in a world where strength ruled.
And yet here they were: one snoring in muck, the other baptized by a mutt.
A nervous laugh caught in Sein's throat. Admiration still burned in him how could it not? but the sight twisted something deep inside. If the strongest men he knew were humiliated this easily, what kind of force had just walked through their door?
Inside, the knight shifted, metal boots thudding like war drums. He rested a gauntleted hand on the diary and smiled wiide, toothy, and far too calm as the room held its breath.
Sein stared at the knight in uneasy fascination.
The longer he watched, the more the thrill of joining the Laundry Gang curdled in his stomach.
Maybe signing up with a crew of half-drunk spell-slingers hadn't been the smartest decision of his life but it was far too late for second thoughts now. All he could do was sit still and pretend his heart wasn't trying to escape through his throat.
Beside him, someone shifted.
Thorus the skinny, dual-dagger-wielding bastard with a nose like a thorn and hair that looked as if it had lost a brawl with a broom slowly drew a blade.
The metal whispered as it left the sheath. His eyes, sharp and jittery, never left the knight's back.
"Soon as that bucket of dents turns around," Thorus murmured, almost to himself, "I'll put a hole in him."
A pause. Then, with a thin, mean smile: "No… two holes."
Sein glanced sideways. Two?
Thorus's brow furrowed in visible calculation. "Maybe three. I'm bad at counting," he added under his breath, and tightened his grip.
Sein could only stared at him in astonishment. What kind of gang is this?
The knight did not move.
Only the steady clink of his armor and the quiet crackle of the hearth filled the room, every sound stretched thin with tension.
The knight's voice cut through the tense silence, low and cold enough to rattle the mugs on the tables.
"If anyone so much as unsheathes a weapon while I tell my story," he said, "I'll make more holes in this tavern....using your bodies as the drill."
His helmet turned a fraction, visor still hiding his eyes. "Especially you. The bastard with the needle nose."
Thorus froze. "M–me?"
The knight tilted his head. "Yes, you. The one whose nose could skewer a rat from ten paces. I can smell the metal on your blades."
A strangled squeak escaped Thorus. Both daggers clattered to the floor as he hastily shoved them back into their sheaths. Sweat poured down his temples like he'd just run three miles uphill. His gaze darted to the gaping hole in the ceiling, and Sein could practically hear the thought forming: He'll throw me through it. He'll use me as the next projectile.
Sein exhaled a long, weary sigh.
First night in the gang and already he was sharing air with lunatics one threatening to turn people into construction tools, the other ready to volunteer. He buried his face in his hands and silently asked every god he could name why he'd ever thought joining the Laundry Gang was a good idea.
Too late now, he told himself, staring at the knight's looming figure. Way, way too late. The knight snapped the diary open, pages whispering like dry leaves.
"Before we begin," he said, his voice a low rumble behind the visor, "tell me, do any of you know the name Willem Herald?" A ripple of murmurs slid through the gang. Sein felt every eye shift nervously, but no one spoke. He cleared his throat. "Willem Herald… the Hero Knight?"
The room stilled as he found his voice. "The knight rumored to have reached the Mythic Realm the highest tier a magic knight can reach. Protector of the Trialian Empire. The messenger of the Sun God Soluria. The strongest knight in all of Soloris. The one who banished the Gray Knight Volor Demanoir the monster knight who terrorized Soloris for years?"
The knight's helmet turned toward him, slow and deliberate. For a heartbeat, Sein thought he'd overstepped. Then the knight huffed a sound half-sigh, half-smug chuckle. "Yes," he said, lips curling into a sharp grin. "That guy."
Sein blinked. "So… what about him?"
"What else about him?" the knight replied, the corners of his mouth lifting until his teeth gleamed in the firelight.
"He's me."
The room inhaled as one. A wooden chair creaked loudly. Someone swore under their breath. Sein felt the hairs on his arms rise. He couldn't tell if the knight was bragging, mad, or something far more dangerous. And yet, in that moment, he almost believed it.
"HUUUUHHH?!"
Thorus shot to his feet, daggers clinking against his belt. "What the hell are you talking about? You can't possibly be that rumored knight!"
The knight didn't flinch. "I am," he said simply, the words flat as a hammer blow.
Thorus gawked. "The....then why would someone like you show up in a dump like this? The Laundry Tavern's the lowest pit in all of Novaria, inside the lowest town in all of Novaria the laundry town. Even the kingdom's rats won't crawl this far."
The knight tilted his head, the visor catching a shard of firelight. "Because," he said, "I felt like it."
Thorus blinked. "That's it? Because you felt like it?"
His voice pitched higher. "No. No, no, no. I refuse to believe you're the esteemed Hero Knight!"
The knight's grin widened, teeth gleaming white beneath the shadow of his helmet. "And why is that?"
Thorus swallowed, eyes darting toward the jagged hole in the roof and the street beyond where their two mighty leaders still lay humiliated in mud and dog urine.
"B–because… uh…" His voice cracked.
"Speak up," the knight said, the words sharp enough to slice the air.
Thorus felt a chill crawl up his spine. For a heartbeat, he swore he could see eyes burning behind the visor demonic, furious, the kind of gaze that could punch a hole through bone. He opened his mouth, but only a strangled squeak came out.
The knight shifted, lowering himself slightly until one elbow rested on a dented knee. The motion was casual too casual like a man settling in for a leisurely chat rather than an execution.
"Listen here, you woodpecker-looking bastard," he said, voice smooth as cold steel. "If you don't speak up, I'll use you as a new scabbard for my sword."
A hush fell so complete that even the hearthfire seemed to draw back. Thorus went rigid, eyes round as coins. His throat bobbed in a dry swallow. Sein felt the chill ripple through the room. New scabbard? he thought. That's… disturbingly specific.
Around them, gang members exchanged uneasy glances."What kind of "Hero Knight" talked like this?"
Not the shining champion of legends. Not the Sun God's chosen protector. The knight tilted his head a fraction, visor still hiding his eyes, and tapped a gloved finger on the hilt of his blade as if considering which part of Thorus would make the best fit.
Thorus made a sound halfway between a whimper and a hiccup. "I—I just meant—!" he blurted, voice cracking. The knight leaned forward, elbow balanced on a dented knee.
"If you don't believe me," he said, voice smooth as cold steel, "then prove to everyone I'm an impostor. Use your best attack. I won't even lift a finger."
A long, stunned pause. Thorus blinked. Then a dangerous sparkle lit his eyes. An opening. A glorious, stupid opening.
With both leaders still unconscious outside one face-down in mud, the other serving as a dog's personal landmark, this could be his moment. If I pull this off, he thought, I'll take over the Laundry Gang… rename it the Counting Gang… maybe finally learn to count to ten without sweating.
"You'd really let me?" he asked, voice tight with excitement.
The knight tilted his helmet slightly. "Your name?"
"Thorus."
"Well, Thorus," the knight said, almost kindly, "I promise I won't defend myself. Hit me with your best." A ripple of anticipation passed through the room. For all his reckless talk, Thorus had talent: an initiate knight already able to conjure second-tier magic the coveted Iron Knight class. Against someone standing still, that meant real danger.
Thorus grinned wide enough to split his face, daggers flashing like twin stars. "Don't regret this," he hissed. Magic hissed across his body as he summoned speed and blade-enhancement in a single breath. "Second-tier spell, Swift Strikes!"
Floorboards quivered beneath his enchanted feet, both daggers glowing with lethal light something only a Steel Knight should manage. Even Sein, jaw slack, couldn't help but be impressed.
The knight only tilted his head.
"Too flashy," he said calmly. "Three openings before you even moved. Focus on your form before the spell."
Thorus lunged, a blur of violet and steel. The knight moved exactly once.
He caught Thorus's wrist mid-swing, as if plucking a falling feather. Time folded in on itself. In that suspended heartbeat, Thorus's mind unraveled:
My dream of the Counting Gang… gone.
My plan to marry that pretty tavern cook....what was her name?
My hope of someday counting to twenty on my fingers… crushed.
I never even named the dog I don't have yet.
Regret piled on regret, ridiculous and tender all at once.
The knight's visor lowered a fraction, as if studying him. Then came the quiet verdict: "See? Flash without focus."
BOOOOM.
A deafening crack of air and wood. Splinters and dust rained down as Thorus's body shot through a brand-new skylight, vanishing into the night like a badly thrown javelin.
Silence.
The only sound was the soft whistle of wind through two ragged holes in the roof. Sein swallowed hard. Around him, every gang member sat stiff and pale, no one daring to breathe too loudly. In perfect, terrified unison they all shared the same thought:
…You fucking liar.
The scrawny gang member half-dragged, half-carried the unconscious trio back inside and laid them in a crooked row near the hearth. They slumped like oversized laundry sacks, still breathing, still blissfully unaware.
The knight gave a single approving nod, visor glinting in the firelight.
"Good. Everyone's present. A proper audience deserves a proper start."
He tapped the leather-bound book against his knee, the thump echoing like a judge's gavel. "Now… how much do you lot know about my personal life?"
The room went very still. Sein swallowed and, after a quick glance around, ventured, "Not much, sir. Only… only that you were a just and noble knight. A hero."
The knight tilted his head, considering. "Just and noble," he repeated, as if tasting the words. Then he gave a small, satisfied grunt. "Correct. I am indeed."
A flicker of relief passed through the gang...until he continued.
"I was born in Dartasan," the knight said, voice dropping into a deep, resonant storyteller's cadence. "A scrappy town clinging to the stone roads near the heart of Novaria's capital, Forlia. Narrow alleys, smoke-stained chimneys, and the smell of iron in the air. That's where Wilhem Herald...." he thumped his chest with a gauntleted fist ".....began."
He paused, letting the name hang heavy in the smoky tavern air. "Every stone in that town knew my footsteps. Every corner knew my temper. It was there that I learned the weight of a blade and the absurdity of the magic that floods our world. It was there the first sparks of legend were struck."
The knight leaned back, opening the diary with a slow, deliberate motion, pages whispering like secrets. "And tonight," he said, visor tilted toward the wide-eyed gang, "you will hear it all."
The gang huddled closer despite themselves, the battered tavern suddenly feeling less like a hideout and more like a cathedral awaiting revelation.
Sein couldn't tear his eyes away from the man in battered armor. The name Wilhem Herald still hung in the smoky air like a bright, impossible star. His strength was undeniable Sein had seen the holes in the roof, had heard Thorus's distant landing. But… could this really be the hero knight of every tale and ballad?
Sein tried to picture the figure from the old stories: gleaming gold armor, a radiant banner, a noble smile.
All he found was this scarred stranger with a torn cape, visor shadowing his eyes, white beard curling against a smirk that felt more dangerous than holy.
Is he telling the truth? Or is this some grand lie that even the gods would applaud? The knight flipped a page in his diary, the parchment crackling in the hush. Then, without warning, he asked:
"What is magic?"
The question dropped like a stone into still water. Silence spread through the tavern. No one moved. The fire popped in the hearth. A chair creaked as someone shifted, then froze.
Sein blinked. Of all the things he'd expected a heroic anecdote, a bloody boast...this was not it.
The knight tilted his helmet, waiting, visor hiding his eyes.
"Well?" he said softly, almost playfully. "What is magic?" The question hung there, heavy as a hammer. Sein darted a glance around the room. No one met his eyes. A few mouths opened, closed, opened again. Daggersmen, pickpockets, even the half-conscious leaders every one of them had cast spells, stolen spells, lived by spells…
…and yet not a single one seemed to know what to say.
For the first time all night, the Laundry Gang looked less like a pack of thugs and more like children caught without their homework.
Finally a voice, dry and tired, drifted from the far wall.
"Magic," said the thin man with the apple-smeared hair—the one still tied to a beam, spectacles crooked and cracked. "Magic is the law that governs Soloris."
Every head swiveled toward him.
He gave a small, awkward shrug, rope creaking against the post. "That's what the scholars say, anyway. The first principle. Magic is the law, the rhythm of everything that moves."
The gang stared as if a broomstick had started lecturing. Someone muttered, "Huh," in a tone that meant never thought of it like that. The knight tilted his visor toward the thin man, unreadable behind the shadow.
At last he chuckled, a low, metallic rasp. "Interesting," he said. "The law that governs Soloris…"
The knight inclined his head toward the thin man."Thank you for that answer. What's your name, scholar?"
"Ed—"
"Man Tied to a Stick," the knight declared, cutting him off without so much as a pause, as if that were the most natural thing in the world.
The gang blinked. No one dared comment. The knight continued smoothly, turning a page in his diary. "Tell me, Man Tied to a Stick," he asked in the same calm, commanding tone, "how does magic work to help govern the world, then?"
Ednar now Man Tied to a Stick stared back, mouth half open, ropes creaking as he shifted. The nickname went unchallenged, hanging in the smoky air like a perfectly ordinary fact.
Ednar cleared his throat, ropes creaking as he shifted. "Magic is everywhere," he said carefully. "The world itself is made of it. We all depend on it like air, or water. Magic is… simply how the world works."
The knight stayed silent, visor lowered, the only sound the soft crackle of the hearth. For a moment it seemed he might just move on. Instead, he slowly raised one gauntleted hand.
With no incantation, no gesture beyond a flick of his fingers, a small flame sprang to life above his palm. It hovered there, steady and bright, heat shimmering in the smoky tavern air.
"How," the knight asked quietly, "does magic work?"
The question landed heavier this time, the dancing flame throwing long shadows across his dented armor. No one answered. The gang sat frozen, transfixed by the effortless fire. At last Sein swallowed and found his voice.
"Magic… works through mana," he said. "Everyone has a core that collects it. We draw on that mana to cast spells. That's… that's how it works."
The knight tilted his head, the flame reflecting off the steel of his visor, and gave a single slow nod, as if weighing the words in silence. The knight let the hovering flame dance a heartbeat longer, its glow reflecting in a hundred wary eyes. Then his voice came, low and deliberate.
"Then… what is mana?"
Sein stiffened. "Mana is…" He faltered, the words crumbling in his throat. "It's just… there."
He glanced around, hoping for help, but the rest of the gang avoided his gaze like the plague. "It's just… everywhere," he finished weakly. "That's all." The knight tilted his helmet as if studying the boy's face.
A soft fsshh sounded as the flame winked out between his fingers.
"Yes," he said at last, tone almost approving. "Mana is everywhere. It is simply there." He paused, leaning back on the stool. "But what is it really?" No one dared to answer. The knight let the silence stretch until it felt like a weight in the room. Then his voice shifted, thoughtful but edged with curiosity.
"There is another field of study," he said, "one that claims to explain how the world works. Science. It measures stars, weighs mountains, names every grain of sand. But even it cannot explain mana—cannot explain magic. No numbers, no laws, no clever instruments can tell you why a spark of power sleeps in every stone and every soul."
He tapped the diary with a gauntleted finger, the sound a soft, deliberate knock. "Magic simply… is," he said, almost a whisper. "And that is why it amuses me so." The fire popped sharply in the hearth, and not a soul in the tavern dared breathe too loudly. The knight rested his elbows on his knees, the diary balanced loosely in one gauntleted hand.
"That question," he said quietly, "first came to me when I was a boy in Dartasan."
The room stayed hushed, even the unconscious gang leaders seeming to listen. "While the other children spent their days studying spells and honing their mana control, I kept wondering about something no one else bothered to ask."
He tapped the metal of his visor with one finger, a soft clink that cut through the silence. "Magic," he said, "is not normal." A few brows knitted, but no one dared interrupt.
"How," he continued, voice gaining an edge of incredulous amusement, "can I simply hold out my hand and conjure a flame from nothing? Science yes, even the scholars of Forlia can tell you how to create a natural fire. Strike flint against steel, build heat through friction, combine the right chemicals. They can chart every spark, measure every ember."
He opened his palm, empty now, and stared at it as though he could still see the vanished flame.
"But the fire I call forth with a thought? It appears from nowhere. No fuel. No spark. No explanation. I cannot explain it. And yet" he gave a small, dry laugh—"we humans are fragile, easily burned, yet we summon flame as casually as a yawn."
The knight leaned back, the leather of his armor creaking softly. "To the young Wilhem, that was… absurd." His voice lowered to a near whisper.
"That question, how magic works, why it shouldn't work, was the start of everything. The thought that shaped me, that set me on the path to everything I became. To the life of Wilhem Herald… and the legend you all think you know."
He let the words hang there, heavy and electric, before flipping the diary open with a single deliberate motion.
Something began to grow in Sein as he listened small at first, like a single spark in a dark alley. Was it curiosity? Wonder? Some dangerous hunger he didn't yet have a name for? He didn't know. He only knew the feeling was new and alive. Half the knight's words slid past him, full of strange terms and ideas. Science, laws, absurdity, concepts that usually would have bounced right off his skull.
But here, in this smoke-choked tavern with the roof blown open to the night, each syllable hooked into him like a fishhook.
The battered knight's gravel-rough voice carried a weight, a rhythm that made even the wildest talk of impossible flames sound inevitable.
Sein tried to focus on the cracked floorboards, on the unconscious leaders slumped by the fire, on anything else but the pull of that voice was stronger.
Every time the knight turned a page of his diary, the soft rasp of paper sounded like the start of a storm. He could feel the rest of the gang leaning forward too, though no one dared move or speak.
It was as if the whole room had been caught in a spell not of magic, but of story. A spell cast by words, by certainty, by a man who could level a building with a shrug and then ask a question no one else had thought to ask.
And in that hush, something clicked inside Sein.
This was the start.
The start of the Laundry Gang's climb from forgotten gutter-rats to something more.
The start of his own journey, though he couldn't yet see where it would lead or what it would cost.
He felt it in his chest like a heartbeat made of thunder.
It all began here-....on a night smelling of smoke and spilled ale, beneath a roof full of holes and a sky full of cold stars when a Maniac Knight told a story.