As the morning light crept in, it revealed the full extent of Rogue’s ruin. Black blood stained the stone plaza, its sheen dull and sickly in the early sun. The gates themselves were destroyed—splintered wide, hanging in shame—and beside them, a building gaped open where a wall once stood. Wood fragments littered the ground, scattered like the remains of a storm no one saw coming.

  “Did anyone see that? Tell me someone saw that?” Basic danced around Skippy’s body, giddy with triumph.

  Alistair, battered and bloodied, began to rise. He limped through the smoke, following the fleeing horde out of the gate.

  Basic moved to stop him. “Alistair, you rambunctious ball of chaos, we’ve won. No need to finish them off, it’s time to celebrate.“

  Each time Basic pulled him back, Alistair tried to trudge forward again, his features dark and hollow. Eventually, Basic rolled a barrel toward him and stuffed him inside. Alistair squirmed weakly, trying and failing to climb out.

  “Rest, my champion.“

  Basic turned to Sir, eyes bright. “How are you still standing!? You crashed through the gates—bam—you must’ve killed like twenty people. They were screaming ‘oh no, don’t kill me,’ and slice—you mad bastard.“

  He tried to hug Sir, who grunted in pain, his armor split and bleeding through the seams.

  “I sure hope Steed is okay. That gate was mighty thick.“

  They both looked at Steed. The poor beast stood stiff-legged, eyes glazed, tongue hanging from his mouth—clearly concussed.

  The doors of nearby buildings creaked open. People began to fill the plaza, staring in horror at the wreckage—the shattered stones, the blood, the massive corpse of the fallen giant.

  One woman stepped forward. “What of our husbands? Where are they?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  Basic straightened, smiling proudly. “They fought valiantly,” he said, pleased with himself.

  Another woman stepped out from behind her. “So… where are they?“

  Basic’s smile faltered. He looked around at the carnage. “Well… some are here.” He pointed to a fresh bloodstain. “Others there.” He gestured toward a pile of dark, smoking remains.

  “Jeffrey!” the first woman screamed. Others joined her, their cries rising through the square.

  Sir, limping badly and using his sword as a cane, raised his voice. “Your husbands… Brothers… have been possessed by the shadow. Stolen in the night… Yet they still live.“

  The women turned on Basic, their grief hardening into fury. He stumbled backward, hands up.

  “Listen, they were brave men. You should all be proud.“

  “Were?” the lead woman repeated.

  Basic stopped retreating. “Back I say! I’m stronger than I appear.“

  He raised a fist, but the woman struck first, slapping him across the face. The blow knocked him to the ground.

  “Ow, that hurt!“

  He scrambled up and tried to grab her, but when he went to lift her as he had the giant, she didn’t budge. It was as if the woman weighed a thousand pounds. She shoved him back down, and the others joined in, stomping until the so-called giant slayer lay flattened in the dirt.

  “Show mercy, my ladies! We aim to rescue the men in your lives,” Sir said, forcing himself upright. His voice cut through the commotion. “They are servants of the one called Serpentine—the whisperer.“

  “…You've brought the Serpents wrath upon us!” an elderly man shouted, his voice cracking with despair.

  “They will come for us all!“

  Basic, unable to grasp the gravity of the situation, retorted with a cavalier smirk, “Fantastic news… we won't be here when they do arrive. Hopefully, they’re not on their way now.” Looking around for any signs of an evil lord.

  The women resume stomping the words out of Basic.

  “Pay him no mind.” Sir commanded. “Allow us to leave with our lives and we shall meet Serpentine in battle. I swear to you they will be returned.“

  The women hesitated. “And what good is your word, sir?” one asked.

  Basic, covered in dust, raised his head. “Oh, you know him? What’s my name?“

  The lead woman kicked him in the forehead, then turned back to Sir.

  “That bald fool saved us all.” Sir said, pointing toward Skippy’s grave.

  The crowd turned, staring at the giant’s body still embedded in the cratered stone.

  “My father was taken by the shadow… I know of the grief you carry in your hearts… We will return the families of all those stolen in the night—I swear to it.“

  Basic lifted his head again. “We will?“

  Sir kicked him lightly in the forehead.

  The women proceeded to strip the concussed Basic of the coins he managed to keep secret from Alistair, muttering that they would be waiting for their loved ones. They had little choice but to let the battered heroes go.

  Basic groaned and pushed himself to his feet. Sir, wincing, whistled softly for Steed. The faithful donkey staggered over. Sir gathered what strength he had left and pulled himself onto its back.

  Basic walked beside them, blowing a kiss toward the women—his parting gift. The women turned away, disgusted.

  At the gate, where Steed had first crashed through, Sir pointed toward the barrel. Inside it, Alistair’s unmoving form leaned against the side.

  “Carry him,” Sir said.

  “Carry him?” Basic repeated. “But he’s heavy.“

  He bent anyway, lifting the nobleman easily, hoisting him over his shoulder. Alistair’s limp hand slid against Basic’s neck, lifeless.

  “Wow,” Basic said. “There’s not

  a muscle on him.“

  Sir could only watch. The light in his eyes was dimming beneath the weight of his wounds.

  Together they left Rogue behind—a city of outlaws and shadows, a ruin born from their victory. The broken gate swung in the wind behind them, the plaza silent except for the sound of their retreat.

  Sir, valiant but severely beaten, managed his pain with grim determination, leaning heavily to one side in his saddle to prevent further agony from overtaking him. Beside him, Basic, carrying the near-lifeless body of Alistair, looked down at his friend with concern. Alistair's face was swollen, his eyes shut tight, his skin darkened and his clothes tattered from the brutal encounter with the gatekeeper.

  “Alistair, can you hear me?” Basic called out, his voice tinged with worry. After several attempts met with silence, Sir, through gritted teeth, responded, “He's been consumed by shadow… but he lives.“

  “I know he’s alive,” Basic retorted, slightly annoyed. “I need to ask him if he saw me slam Skippy or not. I can’t become a legend if my own companion doesn’t know of what I accomplished! “

  Hearing this, Sir winced, not just from his physical pain but also from Basic’s insensitivity. “This is hardly the time for pride.“

  Basic, somewhat taken aback by the rebuke, covered his tracks. “Well, at least you saw me vanquish that foul beast. His legs in the air, wiggling, and I with the mercy of the mother released him into the dirt.“

  This display of pride annoyed Sir, who barely managed to respond amidst his pain. “Eh, it was dark. I don’t know what it is that I saw.“

  “Yeah, it was… wait, what?” Basic replied, catching onto Sir’s ruse, his tone a mix of realization and resignation. Sir, too exhausted to delve deeper into the conversation, could only muster a concerned “Yes, I saw” as he focused on managing his own pain.

  As they continued their slow and painful journey away from Rogue, Basic kept the conversation going, partly to distract himself from the grim reality of their situation. Glancing down at Alistair's unconscious form, Basic shook his head and muttered to Sir, “You know, Alistair doesn’t drink ale, doesn’t smoke the flumpy leaf… he eats, I don’t know, grass. No mutton or sausages. Can't trust a guy that doesn't eat meat.“

  Sir, barely keeping himself upright on his horse, managed to summon a weak smile. With a laborious effort, he raised his sword slightly, as if toasting to Basic’s odd revolution.

  “Aye, meat.” Sir managed to utter, his ribs cracked, the gesture both an acknowledgment of Basic's words and a sardonic salute to the lesser worries of their world. His sword, lifted in a weary arc, caught a glint of the fading sunlight.

  As they trudged along, Basic continued his peculiar line of conversation, seemingly oblivious to the gravity of their injuries. “Alistair was mad for fighting that gatekeeper,” he remarked casually. “He should have simply ran away.“

  Sir, each word pained and labored, responded with a grimace. “He… tried… I impaled… the bastard.“

  Basic continued his one-sided conversation as they moved slowly along the path. Looking over at Sir, who was slumped over his horse in a near-faint, Basic's mind wandered back to the chaos in Rogue.

  He chuckled to himself, recalling the intense moments they had just escaped. “The way you were slashing down villagers, man, it was awesome! Slish, slang. One guy said he was searching for his evil daughter or something, I told him I had no idea, and slish, down he went. Chaos, pure chaos!“

  Sir remained silent and motionless, his condition worsening. Basic, still talking, didn't seem to grasp the gravity of Sir's state. “You know what's interesting?” he asked, looking at Sir expectantly. Met with silence, he continued, “I couldn't carry a sack of flour without toppling over, but now here I am, carrying this grown man. Must have been the training, I wonder. Let me propose a test, I’ll drop the sleeping beauty here and try to pick you up. Bet you can't weigh that much. Come on, Sir, get off the horse.“

  With a troubling lack of understanding for Sir's condition, Basic gently laid Alistair beside the road. Alistair's skin was noticeably darker, a sign of his worsening state. Basic, undeterred, attempted to rouse Sir from his horse, chatting away as if they were merely taking a break from their adventure.

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  As Basic maneuvered around the fallen Sir, the knight mustered what little strength he had left to issue a warning. His arm weakly raised, he pulled out his sword, not with the intention to strike, but as a way to focus Basic’s scattered attention. “Stay back… you fool” Sir muffled out, his voice barely a whisper as he teetered on the edge of consciousness.

  Struggling to keep his eyes open, Sir pointed down a fork in the road. “Merrytown… help,” he managed to say, each word punctuated by labored breaths.

  Basic, hearing the name ‘Merrytown,’ reacted with an involuntary shudder. “Merrytown? Really?” He scoffed at the overly cheerful name, his imagination painting images of relentless joviality. “Just seems so… merry—like a place of laughter. Certainly, laughing would do you further harm at this point.“

  Seeking alternatives, Basic’s eyes scanned the surroundings and landed on another path, this one leading in the opposite direction. With a mischievous grin, he suggested, “What about Diesville?” pointing toward the ominous-looking sign as if the name alone promised a more appropriate destination for their grim situation.

  Sir, too weak to argue and desperate for any real help, could only groan in frustration at Basic's lack of urgency and understanding.

  As Sir struggled with consciousness, Basic, ever the optimist but seldom a realist, concocted a plan that he voiced with unnecessary enthusiasm. “I have an idea,” he declared, looking down at the beleaguered knight. “I'll follow you to Merrytown and afterwards I'll carry Alistair over to Diesville. How's that sound?“

  Sir, unable to muster the strength to respond, found himself helpless to challenge the asinine plan. His eyes weary but unmoving as he watched the bald hero take his initiative.

  As Basic turned to retrieve the laying Alistair, he paused, his expression shifting from determination to confusion. “Well then. We have an issue,” he declared, scanning the area where Alistair had been laid. “Alistair’s gone,” he announced with a hint of theatrical flair that the situation did not warrant.

  Sir lifted his head with great effort, squinting and turning his head, searching for any sign of Alistair, but found nothing. Basic, in a tone far too casual for the gravity of the moment, continued, “Oh no, my dear friend Alistair has gone missing, and so sickly!“

  He pondered the situation for a moment, then came to a swift conclusion. “Guess you'll just have to go to Merrytown alone,” Basic declared, as if the solution was obvious all along.

  Sir, trying to gather his wits and perhaps protest or formulate a plan, barely managed to open his mouth before Basic took action. With a mischievous grin, Basic slapped the back of Sir’s humble steed. The horse, startled by the sudden jolt, took off down the path leading to Merrytown. Sir’s grunts of dismay faded into the distance as the horse carried him unwillingly away from the scene.

  Left alone, Basic looked around, slightly bemused by the turn of events. “Well, off to find Alistair, then,” he muttered to himself, setting off in the opposite direction with a shrug, seemingly unfazed by the chaos of his own making or the seriousness of Alistair’s disappearance. The adventure continued, albeit in a direction as haphazard as Basic's plans.

  As Basic strolled down the path toward Diesville, the stillness was broken by the sound of shuffling through the underbrush beside him. Peering into the dimly lit woods, he spotted a shadowy figure moving clumsily among the foliage. It was Alistair, his appearance ghastly, navigating the forest with his eyes swollen shut.

  “Quite the guy, aren't you? Traveling through the forest without eyesight!” Basic remarked, half impressed, half concerned as he caught up to his friend.

  Alistair gave no response. Basic, ever oblivious to the cues of distress, chuckled lightly. “Ah, the knightly humbleness strikes again. Admirable, really.“

  Noticing Alistair’s continued march away from Diesville, Basic mused aloud, “You know, Diesville is back the other way. Are you sure you won’t get help there? But you've got a plan, right?” He took Alistair's silence and determination as a sign of a grand strategy forming. “Always the strategist, coming up with our next big scheme. Lead on!“

  As they moved deeper into the forest, Basic couldn't help but bring up their failed mission of retrieving the gold from Rogue. “We went to retrieve our gold and I ended up losing the rest of mine… Not my fault, though, what with those deathly assassins and all. Those women were fierce, and funnily enough, gold their only weakness.” His tone was light, almost joking, failing to grasp the severity of their situation.

  Alistair paused briefly, the mention of the gold and the reminder of their peril sinking in despite his physical agony. After a moment's reflection, he resumed his laborious trek through the dense woods.

  Basic, interpreting Alistair's pause as thoughtful contemplation, nodded to himself. “Right, then. Onward it is!” he declared, following closely behind Alistair, ready to support his friend through whatever lay ahead, still largely unaware of the depth of Alistair’s suffering and the true nature of their predicament.

  The forest had begun to change without him noticing. The air grew syrup-thick and sweet, carrying a faint hum that vibrated in Basic’s jaw. Leaves shimmered faintly, as though painted in bruised light.

  Exhausted from hours of trekking through dense underbrush, Basic trudged along, his steps growing increasingly heavy. He glanced at Alistair, who seemed more like a shadow than a man, his form darkened and movements sluggish.

  Even the ground beneath them pulsed faintly, soft and purple like overripe fruit. Basic swallowed, his mouth suddenly watering with the cloying sweetness that hung in the air.

  “Alistair, you haven't used the bathroom since we left Rogue. At least, I don't believe so,” Basic observed, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Wait a second, you haven't eaten or drinken’ anything either. Come to think of it, neither have I…“

  His stomach growled so loudly it startled him. Whatever hung in the air wasn’t just sweet—it smelled like bread baking and meat roasting.

  His mind, ever prone to leap to odd conclusions, suddenly sparked with suspicion. “I bet you have Lumpkin cakes, you devil!” he exclaimed, convinced that Alistair was hoarding food.

  Without further ado, Basic lunged at Alistair from behind, trying to catch him off guard and uncover the supposed stash of food. Alistair, despite his dire state—sick and wounded—tried desperately to fend off Basic and keep moving, his body barely cooperating.

  Their clumsy fight echoed through the glowing trees, snapping branches and scattering the hum into jagged bursts. Something deeper in the forest stirred in answer, a slow, guttural noise that rolled like thunder through the mist.

  As the scuffle ensued, with Basic grappling and Alistair weakly trying to push him away, a voice cut through the woods, startling the giant slayer.

  “What's going on here?” called out the voice, clear and authoritative, breaking through the absurdity of their struggle.

  Startled, Basic and Alistair ceased their tussle, turning toward the source of the voice. Through the trees stepped a figure, yet unseen but evidently curious about the peculiar scene before them. The interruption was timely, perhaps preventing further folly or misadventure between the two hapless travelers.

  The suspicious man eyed Basic warily as he rose to his feet. “You there, bald one,” he called out again, his tone laced with skepticism. “You’s a recruiter? What are you doing with a puppet?“

  Basic, ever eager to assert his newfound role, responded with a bow. “Nice to meet you, good sir. I suppose I have a follower,” he said with a flourish that only he found fitting.

  “Is that right?” the man questioned, clearly confused by Basic's demeanor. He looked from Basic to the silent Alistair, who remained as still as a statue, seemingly waiting for direction.

  “You must be new to this,” the man mused, scanning their odd assembly.

  “Oh yes,” Basic replied, his chest puffing out slightly with pride. “I’ve been doing this for a few hours or so. We were on our way to Diesville.“

  The man, appearing through torch light in the same military attire as Bill had worn, shook his head slightly. “No sense in going there. Diesville is already an audience. We are to report back to the tower.“

  “Ah, the tower, so that's why we’re in the woods,” Basic responded, trying to piece together his scattered thoughts into something resembling a plan.

  “Where did you come from?” the man pressed; his interest piqued.

  “Rogue,” Basic answered confidently.

  “Rogue,” the man repeated, a hint of recognition in his voice. “You know of Bill?“

  “Oh yes,” Basic replied eagerly, “I’ve met Bill.“

  “So, you heard the rumor of the giant slayer? The marauder Skippy was defeated by a lowly commoner.” the man inquired, his gaze narrowing as he assessed Basic's claim.

  “Oh, but it wasn't a rumor,” said Basic proudly, unable to resist the urge to embellish his role in the tale. “And he was a great hero,” he added, referencing himself.

  The man chuckled dismissively. “Makes for a good song. The bottom feeders love feeling significant.“

  “It happened!” Basic insisted, desperate for recognition of his supposed heroic deed.

  “The thing with our line of work,” the man commented, a smirk playing on his lips as his zombie minions began to gather behind him, “We have proof of our conquests.“

  Basic, undeterred by the growing threat, continued to stand his ground, oblivious to the danger or perhaps too caught up in his narrative to care.

  The man revealed himself as Bronson of Bumbridge, standing confidently among the numerous afflicted he referred to as “puppets.” He eyed Basic's solitary companion with a mixture of amusement and disdain. “Only one? Master will have something to say about that.“

  “And have his say, he shall,” Basic replied nonchalantly, unfazed by the threat or perhaps not fully grasping the severity of Bronson's words.

  The sheer absurdity of the conversation left Bronson questioning the reality before him. Examining Basic’s bald head and his poor, mismatched attire, the man resembled a puppet more so than a hero. Bronson struggled to reconcile the truth surrounding Basic’s identity.

  Bronson approached Basic, his slippery eyes looking down on the bald hero. “No fool, even one as surely touched as yourself, would dare question Serpen's power so openly,” replied the recruiter through gritted teeth.

  Bronson turned to Alistair with a calculating look, seeking to understand the connections and loyalties of the strange duo before him. “Do you know this man?” he asked, nodding toward Basic.

  Alistair, despite his weakened state, straightened slightly, adopting a tone of formal acknowledgment. “I do, my lord,” he replied firmly.

  Bronson's eyes narrowed as he turned his attention back to Basic, who returned the gaze with a blank expression. “Was he in Rogue when the attack happened?” Bronson pressed further.

  “Yes, my lord,” Alistair confirmed.

  The questions continued, each one adding weight to the inquiry. “Did he fight in the battle that took place there?“

  “Yes, my lord, he did,” Alistair answered again.

  “Did he fight for our side?” Bronson's voice held a hint of urgency now.

  “He fought for both sides,” Alistair responded, causing Basic to look confused by his own actions as described.

  Bronson, puzzled by this revelation, asked, “How can someone fight for both sides?“

  “He caused as much damage to the civilians as he did our outfit, my lord,” Alistair continued, his voice low. “Those who were hiding from the danger, he led into conflict.“

  Basic, misunderstanding the gravity of the accusations, chimed in, “I was giving them the chance to be brave. Am I so unjust for inspiring courage?“

  Bronson, half amused and half appalled, remarked on Basic's sick logic in a jokingly accepting manner. Yet, he had one more crucial question that could determine Basic's fate. “Did he slay the giant in Rogue?“

  Basic perked up, eager for recognition of his supposed heroic deed. Bronson's eyes fixed on Basic, his hand subtly inching toward a hidden blade, ready to swiftly deal with a potential liability.

  Alistair began to respond, his voice uncertain. “I don't know, my lord. Through chaos and darkness, I could no longer see.“

  Basic, ever oblivious to the tension, added sarcastically, “Yes, let's listen to him. He whose eyes were shut. If only your mouth was swollen.“

  Bronson, sensing the futility of getting a clear answer and wary of Basic's unpredictable nature, turned sharply to Basic. The tension palpable, he commanded, “Silence. I’ll let my master decide your fate.“

  With that directive, Bronson signaled for the group to move out, keeping a wary eye on Basic. The ambiguity of their past actions hung in the air as they marched through the woods, each step taking them deeper into uncertain territories, with Basic's role in recent events shrouded in mystery and controversy.

  As the party moved cautiously through the lush, ominous forest, Bronson ordered Basic to take the lead. “You, Rogun, out front so I can see you,” he said with a stern command. Basic, nonchalant and oblivious to the underlying tension, shrugged and started walking ahead.

  The forest around them was both beautiful and unsettling. The trees were lavishly adorned with yellowish-green leaves, and their trunks bore a darker shade of wood tinged with purple, a detail that made Basic think of the bedtime stories that Bumbling would read. The unique vines that crisscrossed the treetops featured dark, unusual sprouts, and the birds that flitted by seemed off-color, almost as if they were rotting. The heavy humidity of the place lent a feeling of weeping to the forest, enhancing the eerie atmosphere.

  “What is this place?” Basic enquired, breaking the silence. Bronson, focused and unresponsive, wanted no part in potential distraction.

  As night deepened, the forest’s ethereal purple hues became more pronounced. The crunching of twigs underfoot seemed to fade away, leaving Basic feeling strangely isolated, as if stepping further into another realm. Chanting—distant yet dense—filled the air, mingling with a singular, closer voice that was equally indiscernible. Entranced or merely clueless, Basic continued forward, drawn by the enigmatic sounds until suddenly, he emerged from the forest's edge.

  Stepping out into the clearer area felt like awakening from a dream. The world seemed sharp and vivid after the surreal episode. Bronson followed shortly after, scanning the surroundings with a critical eye. “We’re in the wrong spot,” he grumbled, glaring at Basic. “You idiot, do you not remember the tower's location?” His voice carried a mix of frustration and disbelief over Basic's hapless navigation.

  As they skirted the tree line, careful not to reenter the forest, Basic, still puzzled by the experience, asked about the noises. “Did you hear the chanting?“

  Bronson’s patience wore thin. “Yes, I heard the magical cries of fairies and succulent sounds of cream topping a pastry.” he retorted sharply. “I’m going to laugh when my master reverses your insides.“

  Basic, his mind still reeling from the transition between the forest’s dreamlike state and reality, responded with a confused, “No problem, thank you.“

  Bronson shook his head, dismissing Basic's remark as yet another example of his incomprehensible foolishness. The journey continued, the mysterious forest behind them and the unknown challenges of Serpen’s domain ahead.