The bar was called "The Last Gulp of Xalizar." It stood on the street of the rich, the one the poor called "the street of rotten gold"—not because the gold was fake, but because the smell of blood and exploitation was so strong that even precious metals seemed to rot.
The man in the black cloak entered without making a sound.
The door, which creaked for every other customer, fell silent when he touched it. The steps, which groaned under the weight of drunks and merchants, made no sound when his feet trod upon them. It was as if the bar, in that man's presence, had learned to be afraid.
He wore a tattered black cloak, with a hood that hid most of his hair. But what escaped—long black locks that fell over his shoulders like a cascade of ink—was enough for the few customers who were still awake to look at him with a curiosity that quickly turned to indifference. In Xérius, strangers were common. The dead were too.
The man sat at a table near a noble from X—a fat man, with a red face and eyes clouded by alcohol. He wore expensive clothes, with gold and silver embroidery, and his ringed fingers drummed on the table to the rhythm of a song only he could hear.
The man extended his hand to him.
"A noble," he said, his voice deep but calm. "From a small, insignificant planet in R."
The noble looked at the outstretched hand. Then at the face barely visible beneath the hood. Then at the tattered cloak. He laughed.
"R?" he repeated, his voice slurred. "The galaxy that is as important as Z? The home of the great destroyer?" He laughed again. "And you're from there? You look more like a beggar than a noble."
The man didn't respond. He just kept his hand extended.
The noble, who was too drunk to care about the strangeness of the situation, grabbed it. The man's hand was cold, but not in an unpleasant way—it was the cold of a stone that had never felt the sun.
"What do you want?" asked the noble, letting go of the hand and calling the bartender with a gesture. "Two drinks of royal fruit with alcohol! The good stuff! The best you have!"
The cloaked man raised his hand, in a gesture that could be refusal.
"That's not necessary," he said. "Besides, I prefer Oséfery Gin and Jultarantha. With a slice of apple."
The noble frowned. Oséfery Gin was expensive—very expensive. But pride was stronger than stinginess.
"Change it to what he asked for," he said to the bartender, with a dismissive gesture. "And bring it quickly."
The bartender, a thin man with graying hair and tired eyes, nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
The noble turned back to the man.
"So," he said, his eyes gleaming with drunken curiosity. "What brings a noble from R to these parts? Here, in Xérius, on the street of rotten gold?"
The cloaked man didn't answer immediately. His head, tilted, seemed to be listening to something the noble couldn't hear.
"Justice," he said, finally. "I came looking for justice."
The noble laughed. It was a loud, off-key laugh that echoed off the bar's wooden walls.
"Justice? In Xérius?" He wiped a tear of joy with the back of his hand. "My friend, here you'll only find injustices and plenty of destruction. If you want true justice, you should go to Z. But the king of Z..." He paused, his eyes gleaming with a malice that alcohol couldn't hide. "The king of Z is missing. They say he's in X, but no one believes that."
The atmosphere grew tense. The cloaked man didn't move, but his fingers, which had once been still on the table, contracted slightly.
"Missing?" he repeated, his voice neutral, without inflection.
"They say he's around these parts," the noble continued, his voice lower, as if sharing a secret. "The prince of Z. The destroyer of Endomyar. But that's a lie. He's dead. Or else, he's hiding. And those who hide..." He laughed, softly. "Those who hide are those who are afraid."
The cloaked man didn't respond.
The bartender arrived with two drinks—the Oséfery Gin, with a slice of apple, and the royal fruit drink. He placed them on the table with a quick gesture and moved away to attend to other customers.
The noble picked up his drink and took a sip, his eyes fixed on the man.
"And this justice?" he asked, his voice now more suspicious. "What justice is a noble from R seeking in Xérius?"
The cloaked man picked up the gin. His hand, steady, brought the glass to his lips. He took a sip. His eyelids closed for a moment, as if savoring something he hadn't tasted in a long time.
"A man," he said, setting down the glass. "A man who forcibly impregnated three maids. One of them..." He paused, his eyes beneath the hood fixed on the noble. "One of them was still a minor."
The noble paled. His face, once red from alcohol, was now pale as snow. His hand, holding the drink, trembled slightly.
"Wha..." he began, his voice trembling. "What man?"
The cloaked man didn't respond. He just raised his left hand. The black bracelet, once hidden by his sleeve, shone with a golden light.
The noble looked at the bracelet. At the broken chains. At the way the light danced over the metal, as if it had a life of its own.
"Guards!" he screamed, his voice breaking. "Guards! Call the guards!"
The bartender looked at him with an expression that wasn't fear—it was resignation. The other customers, the few that remained, rose from their tables with brusque gestures, ready to flee.
But there was no time.
The explosion was golden and silent.
There was no sound. No bang that one would expect from such a destructive force. Only the light, a light so pure it seemed to come from before time, that spread from the cloaked man in all directions like a wave of divine heat.
The bar's walls disintegrated. The ceiling, once made of wood and tile, disappeared as if it had never existed. The people—the customers, the guards, the bartender—evaporated. No bodies remained. No ashes. Only absence, as if they had never been.
The marble floor remained intact. The bartender's counter, of dark wood, also.
The cloaked man stood, his left hand raised to the sky. In his hand, a golden axe—enormous, gleaming, with a blade that seemed made of condensed light. The chain connecting it to the bracelet stretched back, still attached to his wrist.
He looked at the axe. At the light emanating from it. At the marble floor, clean of blood, clean of everything.
"Will there be a single good person in this city reserved for the rich?" he asked, aloud, to no one.
Silence answered.
"No," he said, with a sadness that wasn't feigned. "There isn't."
The cloaked man set the gin glass on the bartender's counter—the only thing still standing—and left a few gold coins beside it. He paid for the drink. Paid for the death. Paid for everything he owed.
He stepped away from the counter. His boots, once dragging on the wooden floor, now trod on the intact marble.
The guards were approaching in the distance. Voices, confused and frightened, echoed in the streets. But the man didn't seem concerned.
Slowly, he raised his hands to the sky. Both bracelets, left and right, shone with the golden light. The chains, once attached to his wrists, began to grow, to extend, to rise to the sky like two metal serpents.
They rose. And rose. And rose, until they were lost in the darkness of Xérius's sky.
And then, at the end of the chains, two golden axes appeared. Not as if they had been forged, but as if they had always been there, waiting to be called.
The man raised his head. The hood, which once hid his face, fell.
The face revealed was beautiful—a beauty that didn't belong to this world. The features, mature, resembled those of a thirty-five-year-old uncle, the kind nephews thought were "cool." His long black hair fell over his shoulders like a cascade of ink. His eyes, with irises so dark they seemed to absorb light, had a cut on the left eye—a scar that didn't impede his sight.
He looked at the sky. At the axes. At the chains that connected them to his wrists.
"Zirinos," he said, his voice low. "The prince of Z. The destroyer of Endomyar. And my brother's plaything..."
His eyes, black and deep, fixed on the void.
"Should I let someone as dirty as you live?"
The question hung in the air, like a note that didn't want to end.
The guards were approaching. The voices, now closer, shouted orders that no one obeyed.
The man didn't pay them any attention. His eyes, still fixed on the sky, shone with a light that wasn't human.
"Perhaps," he said, finally. "Perhaps I should sleep with a woman before I hunt him. I don't care about the universe's consequences."
His lips, thin and pale, curved into a smile.
He raised his arms. The axes, in the sky, shone with an intensity that blinded.
"ETHERNUM-LUN-ZERMA!" he shouted.
The shout echoed. Not only through the streets of Xérius, not only through the city, not only through the planet—but through the universe itself. The gods, wherever they were, heard. Death, bound in her chains, felt it. The Universe trembled.
The light that followed was white. Not the pale white of Orthid, not the sickly white of neon—the white of creation, the white of destruction, the white that existed before everything and would exist after everything.
The city—the street of rotten gold, the buildings, the houses, the people—disappeared. No ruins remained. No ashes. Only absence, emptiness, silence.
The bar's marble floor, once intact, remained intact. The bartender's counter, of dark wood, also.
The cloaked man stood, alone, in the middle of nothing.
The axes, once in the sky, began to dissolve into particles of light. The chains, connecting the axes to his wrists, faded slowly—the left chain dissolved first, then the right—until only the black bracelets remained.
Rhinorius Sturk lowered his arms.
He looked around. At the absence. At the void. At the silence.
"R," he said, aloud. "My beautiful shithole of a home."
His black, deep eyes fixed on the horizon.
"And you, Zirinos," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. "You are my next target."
He turned. His boots trod on the intact marble. His hand, once holding the axe, was now empty.
The hood, which had fallen, was on the ground. He picked it up, placed it over his head, and began to walk.
Behind him, the city no longer existed.
Ahead, the universe waited.