Silver's peak / capital of the southern kingdom
Silver's Peak bustled, a chaos of shoppers and merchants navigating the crowded street market. Amidst the noise, a fat old merchant argued fiercely with a customer – a young man, likely still in his late teens, with striking light-yellow hair and intense purple eyes, dressed in a long white jacket.
"We had a deal, old man!" the teen yelled, his voice cutting through the market din. "Three barrels for 450 – that's 150 each! You gave your word you'd hold the price!"
The merchant, his face flushed red with anger, spat back, "You think I run a charity? An agreement means nothing when prices jump like this! Maybe if they only hit 200, fine. But they're 285 now! That's 855 for three barrels! I'd be ruined!"
The young man sneered, his purple eyes flashing. "Fine. Learn not to make promises you won't keep, you old liar. I'll take just one barrel of caramel today. Consider my business lost."
He hefted the heavy caramel barrel onto his shoulder and started marching through the streets of Silver's Peak, the Southern capital.
He ignored the imposing sight of soldiers patrolling nearby – over two thousand of them in formation, clad in shining black and silver armor marked with a five-star pattern, accompanied by dozens of tanks rumbling past.
His focus was broken by a man shouting from a makeshift platform, his voice raw with anger, like someone who had stared into hell. "Never forget!" the man raged to the gathering crowd.
"Pass this down through generations! Remember the crimes Lord's Vault committed on our lands 500 years ago! The False Sun Knights brought death! Chaos! They burned our ancestors alive, ordered by Ferdinand Zauberstern – him with the cursed eyes! We demand revenge! Justice for our ancestors!"
The crowd roared back, a unified chant: "Death to the Knights! Death to the Knights!"
Then, two men dragged a terrified woman forward, forcing her towards a wooden stake. The speaker held a lit torch high. "This woman," he declared, "is daughter to one of Lord's Vault's leaders! Today, our vengeance begins! Let them feel the pain our ancestors suffered!"
The woman wept, pleading, "Please! My father's work has nothing to do with me! I beg you!"
"Did the innocent farmers have anything to do with it?" the man retorted coldly. "They burned regardless!" He tossed the torch onto the kindling at the stake's base. Flames began to lick upwards.
"Burn her! Kill her!" the crowd screamed initially. As the flames climbed her legs, the woman shrieked, "Please! PLEEEASE! AHH, HEEELP MEE!"
The man watched, face triumphant. "Witness the terror they inflicted! Now feel it!" But then, the crowd's mood shifted.
A murmur started – "Stop him," someone said. "Someone help her!" The speaker's expression faltered as the bloodlust turned to unease. "Call the guards!" another voice cried. "Someone do something!" The raw reality of the burning woman clashed horribly with the abstract call for ancestral vengeance.
The young man with the barrel had tried to walk away, but her final, agonized scream – "WHAT DID I DOO?" – stopped him cold.
He pushed hard through the now-hesitant crowd. As he walked towards the stake, he simply raised one hand. A visible wave of purple force pulsed outwards, smothering the flames instantly.
Without breaking stride, he reached the speaker, grabbed the man by the head, and slammed his face violently into the ground.
"Listen to me, you pathetic coward," the young man snarled, standing over the dazed speaker. "You want revenge for your ancestors? Go fight the Knights! Don't torture defenseless girls!" A thought seemed to strike him.
"In fact," he continued, his voice dangerously calm, "I am from Lord's Vault. You want revenge? Let's settle it. A duel. Right here, right now. Heart to heart, blood for blood. Winner walks away, no judgment."
The downed man scrambled up, pointing a shaking finger, his voice hysterical. "HE'S ONE OF THEM! SEIZE HIM! TIE HIM TO THE STAKE! WE'LL BURN THEM TOGETHER!"
But the crowd stood frozen, watching the young man with a mixture of disgust for the speaker and unease towards the newcomer. They instinctively formed a wide circle, creating space for the confrontation he'd demanded.
"According to tradition, a challenge of heart-to-heart can be declined, right?" the young man noted, his purple eyes sweeping the crowd. "But would your followers be satisfied with just talk now?"
The speaker looked trapped, terrified, seeing his influence crumble. The young man began walking towards him slowly, purposefully. The crowd, sensing the shift, started chanting, but for the newcomer: "FRED! FRED! FRED! FRED!"
"You see?" Fred said, his voice carrying clearly now, his expression deadly serious. "People instinctively know right from wrong, even when fueled by hate. They know I'm from Lord's Vault, yet they cheer for me now. Why? Because your pain isn't their pain.
They can't feel what their ancestors felt five centuries ago, and neither can you. Everyone here knows you don't truly care about them.
You just want to spread hate, to make yourself a symbol." He stopped directly in front of the trembling man. "If you truly want to be a symbol, start by proving your conviction. Fight me. Beat me to death. Come on," Fred taunted softly, "I don't look that strong."
The man, desperate, tried to bolt back into the crowd, but they wouldn't let him pass, pushing him back towards Fred. Cornered, with no choice left, he let out a furious yell and rushed Fred blindly. "TAKE THIS, YOU BASTARD!"
Fred stood perfectly still, waiting. As the man swung a wild punch aimed at his face, Fred moved with blinding speed. He caught the man's arm, twisted violently, and simultaneously delivered a brutal strike to the jaw.
There was a sickening crunch of bone and teeth. The man's arm snapped audibly. He couldn't even scream, staring into Fred's impassive purple eyes in utter shock, a flicker of horrified recognition crossing his face just before he collapsed unconscious. He managed to gasp out two syllables: "Cu—rsedey—"
A roar went up from the crowd, cheering Fred's swift victory. Just then, city enforcers arrived, weapons drawn, surrounding Fred. "Freeze!" their leader ordered. "Hands behind your back! You're under arrest for aggravated assault!"
Before Fred could react, a man from the crowd stepped forward boldly. "That's incorrect, officer! It was a formal challenge – heart-to-heart, blood for blood! Everyone here witnessed it!"
The lead enforcer looked at his partner, then addressed the crowd. "Is this true?" A resounding "YES!" came back from hundreds of voices. The enforcer holstered his weapon and nodded to Fred. "In that case, you're clear. May I ask why the challenge was issued?"
Fred simply pointed towards the stake, where several people were now gently tending to the rescued woman, her legs showing horrific burns. The enforcers saw her condition, their expressions hardening. "Get an ambulance here, now!" one ordered into his communicator.
Fred hefted his caramel barrel back onto his shoulder and started walking away from the scene. He eventually turned down a path leading towards a large mansion set within expansive gardens.
As he walked up the path, a calm, steady voice called from behind him, "You seem troubled, my love. What happened?"
He turned. Standing there was Princess Juliana 3RD PRINCESS OF THE MIDDLE LANDS, her pale blonde hair intricately braided with fine silver threads that caught the light.
A delicate, coronet-style crown of polished white steel, shaped like interlocking sun-rays, rested on her brow. She was dressed not in a simple gown, but in a formal, high-collared white dress of heavy silk, its clean lines speaking to the rigid elegance of the Middle Lands court.
Her blue eyes, sharp and intelligent, watched him with a concern that seemed at odds with her austere attire. Fred set the heavy barrel down with a thud. "You know how business works in this city, Juliana," he began, sighing. "That merchant, he—"
"Did you beat him to death?" she interrupted quietly.
"What?" Fred asked, startled.
"Your hands," she pointed out gently. "Why are they covered in blood?"
"Oh," Fred looked down, realizing the state he was in. He then recounted the entire incident at the stake – the mob, the near-burning, the duel.
Juliana listened patiently, her expression softening. "You did the right thing, Fred," she said finally. "I know you dislike violence, but sometimes situations demand such actions."
"I know it was right," Fred admitted, looking down at his bloodied knuckles. "I'm just... tired of all the fighting, Juliana. Tired of the wars, the hate."
Just then, Fred's phone chimed. He pulled it out.
"Who is it?" Juliana asked.
"It's Chain," Fred replied, his expression shifting slightly.
"Oh? It's been some time since you've heard from him. What does he want?"
Fred read the message, then looked up at Juliana, a new seriousness in his eyes. "We need to go to Star's Bridge."
Thump. Thump. Thump. Someone was knocking. Not with a hand, but with the heavy, armored gauntlet of a False Sun Knight.
"Fred," Juliana hissed, drawing a concealed dagger of white steel. "The enforcers didn't let you go because of a 'challenge.' They let you go so they could follow you home."