The weed fields burned like a celebration that had lost its invitation list. Flames rolled low and wide, devouring rows of cultivated plants with a hungry patience that felt almost deliberate. Thick stalks collapsed inward as resin-fed fire chewed through them, the leaves popping and curling as oils ignited.
Smoke rose in heavy spirals, sweet and cloying, a green-tinted haze that smeared the stars and made the moon look like it was watching through half-closed eyes.
What should have been screaming panic dissolved into something else entirely.
The fight had stopped without anyone quite agreeing to stop it.
Adventurers stood shoulder to shoulder with dealers, enemies reduced to silhouettes dancing against the firelight. Someone laughed too loud. Someone else sang a song that had no beginning and no real end, just verses stitched together by enthusiasm rather than talent. Boots stomped in uneven rhythm, and a few people spun in circles until they fell over laughing, arms flung wide as if the ground itself were a trusted friend.
The fire became a bonfire.
Not a neat one, not a controlled one, but a sprawling, living thing that pulled people toward it. Sparks drifted upward like glowing embers of laughter, the smoke thick enough to taste, settling on tongues and lungs alike. Every breath carried warmth, sweetness, and just enough dizziness to make the world feel softer at the edges.
Arthur pushed himself up from the ground.
His muscles complained, legs stiff and heavy as if they belonged to someone else. He planted his boots firmly and straightened, shoulders rolling back as he forced his body into something resembling discipline. The smoke clawed at his throat again, and he coughed once, sharp and involuntary, before steadying his breath.
His head felt light.
Not weak, not exactly, but off-center, like his thoughts were arriving a heartbeat later than usual. He blinked hard and focused, eyes sweeping across the chaos.
Fire. Dancing shadows. Laughing faces.
But no sign of the dealer.
Arthur's jaw tightened. His gaze sharpened as he searched, cutting through the absurdity of the moment. He turned slowly, eyes tracing the edges of the field, looking for movement that didn't belong, for
someone running instead of swaying.
Gone.
The realization settled heavy in his chest, sinking past the smoke and noise. He had lost him.
Arthur exhaled through his nose, frustration burning hotter than the flames.
Then hands closed around his arms.
His body reacted before his mind did, muscles tensing, posture snapping rigid as he turned—
—and froze.
Two women stood pressed against him, one on each side, holding his arms as if he were a particularly sturdy railing. One wore the loose leathers and half-buckled armor of an adventurer, her face flushed red and smeared with soot, eyes glassy with delight.
The other was unmistakably a dealer, clothes saturated with the smell of smoke and cannabis, grin wide and unbothered.
Both were very, very close.
"Hey, big guy," the dealer said, her voice thick with laughter as she leaned into his arm. "Rest with us, big bad criminals."
The adventurer nodded enthusiastically, her grip tightening just enough to be noticeable. "Yeah," she added in a childish, sing-song tone. "Why don't you take a load off?"
Arthur's mind stalled.
Heat rushed to his face, his ears burning as if someone had shoved him closer to the fire. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then tried once more.
"I—this is—please let go," he said, words tumbling over each other as he attempted to step back, only to realize they had no intention of moving.
They laughed.
The sound was light, carefree, utterly disconnected from reality. Arthur swallowed hard, staring straight ahead because he had no idea where else to look. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, uncertain whether to pry them away or surrender to the absurdity of the situation.
Somewhere behind him, the bonfire roared, and for a brief, humiliating moment, Arthur wondered if this was what losing control actually felt like.
The dealer ran.
His lungs burned as he tore through the smoke, boots pounding against the ground as laughter and fire faded behind him. The chaos swallowed sound, the singing and shouting dissolving into a muffled roar as the warehouse came into view ahead.
It stood solid and dark, a block of shadow against the glowing fields.
Safety, or at least familiarity.
He pushed harder, legs screaming, heart hammering as he reached the door and burst inside. "Rothan!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Rothan, we got a problem!"
Inside, the warehouse was tense and quiet by comparison, the air thick with anticipation rather than smoke.
The gun pressed firmly against the back of Oscar's head.
"Don't move," the man holding it growled, his voice low and sharp with irritation.
Oscar swallowed, sweat sliding down his neck as the dealer staggered forward, words spilling out in a rush.
"They're everywhere," the dealer gasped. "Adventurers, guards, all of them. The fields are burning!"
The gun pressed harder for a heartbeat before easing, just slightly. Oscar's thoughts raced, panic clawing at his chest. His mind latched onto one sharp, bitter question.
How does he even have a gun?
In Colorada'Sierra, firearms were not just illegal; they were almost mythical. Outlawed to civilians entirely, restricted even among knights, guns were reserved for wartime declarations or states of national emergency. Possession alone could ruin a life, strip titles, erase names. The black market existed, but guns were rare prizes there, traded in whispers and blood, their prices inflated by risk and scarcity.
Which meant the man behind him was no small-time enforcer.
He was connected.
"Slow down," the gunman snapped, turning his head just enough to glare at the dealer. "What are you saying?"
"The crops are gone," the dealer said, gesturing wildly. "Fire everywhere. People laughing like it's a festival. The boss is gonna kill us!"
Rothan's face darkened.
"I know ,you idiots were supposed to keep things quiet," he hissed.
Oscar felt it then the pressure easing from his head. Just a fraction, but enough.
Enough was all he needed.
He moved.
His body twisted on the ball of his foot, muscles coiling and releasing in one desperate motion. Both hands tightened around the metal box as he spun, momentum carrying him forward.
The box slammed into Rothan's face with a wet, cracking sound.
A tooth flew free, spinning through the air before skittering across the floor.
The gun fired.
BANG!!
The sound exploded inside the warehouse, deafening and sharp. The bullet tore past Oscar's head, close enough that he felt the heat and pressure brush his skin like a warning whisper.
Rothan stumbled back, crashing hard onto the floor, blood spilling from his mouth as his eyes struggled to focus.
Oscar didn't stop.
He stepped forward and brought the box down again, striking the side of Rothan's head. The man groaned, fingers twitching as the gun clattered from his grasp and slid across the concrete.
Oscar hit him once more, harder this time.
Rothan went still.
The warehouse fell silent ,leaving the roar of the fire to echo insides inside.
Oscar stood there, chest heaving, ears ringing as adrenaline roared through his veins. He stared down at the unconscious man, then at the box in his hands. A smear of blood marred its black surface, dented but intact.
His hands shook as he opened it.
The documents were still there.
He exhaled, sharp and shaky, then sucked in another breath, forcing himself to stay upright.
Behind him, the dealer who had burst in froze, eyes wide as he processed what he had just witnessed.
Then he screamed.
"You bastard!" the dealer roared, charging forward with his fist raised. "I'll kill you!"
Oscar sighed ,he didn't want another fight.
His eyes flicked to the gun on the floor.
He grabbed it.
The weight felt wrong in his hands, heavier than it should have been, history and consequence pressing down through cold metal. He aimed low, heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears, and pulled the trigger.
BANG!!
The sound of the shot echoed ,deafening within the warehouse walls and from so up close.
The dealer screamed as the bullet tore through his leg, his momentum dying as he crashed to the ground. He clutched his wound, face contorted in agony as his shouts filled the space.
Oscar approached slowly, breathing hard.
The dealer looked up, terror finally overtaking anger. "Wait—please—don't!"
Tossing the gun away ,Oscar, hurriedly raised the box. "I really don't want to do this," he said quietly.
He brought it down.
WHACK!!!
The dealer went limp, knocked unconscious.
Oscar stood there, lungs dragging air in and out as the intensity of the moment began to fade. His hands steadied, his thoughts catching up as the echoes of gunfire died away.
Outside, the fields still burned.
Inside, the warehouse held the aftermath in silence.
Oscar leaned against the desk for a moment, head bowed, breathing deeply as he tried to calm the storm inside his chest.
This was not over.
Not even close.
But for now, the night had given him a sliver of space to breathe, and he intended to use it.