The city was suffocating in silence.

  Despite the market's noise—the overlapping voices of vendors and passersby—there was an underlying sense of something broken. Something unseen yet tangible, as if the air itself was thick with anticipation.

  In one of the narrow alleys, where light barely seeped through the tightly packed buildings, a man walked slowly. It wasn’t unusual for someone to be here, but his steps… his steps were different. They were measured, deliberate, as if they concealed something greater than mere movement.

  Each step was like a hammer striking the heart of the city.

  His face bore no obvious emotion, only a false calm. His eyes, despite their stillness, were searching for something—something very specific. When he finally stopped at one of the market stalls, there was no hesitation.

  He stood before the vendor, needing no unnecessary words. When he spoke, his voice was steady, devoid of any attempt at politeness.

  — "I need steel-tipped arrows."

  The vendor, a middle-aged man with a scruffy gray beard, slowly raised his head. A sentence like that, though simple, didn’t pass without weight. He examined the man carefully, then narrowed his eyes slightly before whispering:

  — "No one has asked for those in years… They were only used to slay dragons."

  He expected some reaction—perhaps surprise—but the man before him didn’t change. No signs of shock, no involuntary movements. Just stillness. A small smile, barely visible, crept onto his lips.

  — "Do you have them or not?"

  The vendor hesitated. It wasn’t the question that unsettled him, but the way it was asked. It was as if this man already knew the answer, as if he wasn’t asking, but instructing.

  He stepped back slightly, then spoke in a hushed voice:

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  — "Yes, I have a few… but not many."

  — "Give me all of them. Name your price."

  The transaction was quick, but the vendor couldn’t shake the unease creeping into his chest.

  There was something unnatural about this man. Perhaps it was the mark on his forehead. It was blue—not unusual at first glance—but it seemed unstable, as if it concealed something beneath it, something not easily seen.

  But the man didn’t acknowledge the vendor’s concerns. He took the arrows and vanished into the crowd.

  But the world does not let strangers pass quietly.

  A small boy, no older than ten, dashed through the market, unaware of his surroundings. In one fleeting moment, he collided with the man. The impact itself was insignificant… but what followed was not.

  The boy’s tiny, dirt-streaked hand reached up instinctively, brushing against the man’s forehead and smudging a part of the mark.

  Time froze.

  There was no sound, no scream. Just a single, deathly still moment.

  Then…

  A smile.

  But it wasn’t just a smile. It was a crack in his face, as if it didn’t belong to him, as if someone else was grinning through him. Then, without warning, laughter erupted—a laugh devoid of anything human.

  A laugh carrying something dark, something that should not exist.

  In an instant, the arrows were in his hands. In an instant, he leaped. His body did not move like a man’s, but like a shadow dancing between rooftops, as if he did not belong to this world.

  Then, before anyone could understand what was happening, the arrows began to fly.

  The alley had been bustling with people just moments ago, but now it was becoming something else. No screams, no resistance—just bodies collapsing, one after the other, as if death had decided to walk through in person.

  And when it was over, there was no sound.

  The silence was absolute, as if the city itself had held its breath.

  But this was only the beginning of the fire that would consume the kingdom.

  ---

  Chapter: The Hammer and the Anvil

  When Joe was pulled from the pit, he was not the same person who had entered it.

  His body was frail, weakened, but in his eyes, there was no weakness. There was nothing at all.

  His bones jutted out, his skin stretched tight over his frame like worn fabric, yet he did not shiver. He didn’t even seem to feel the cold, despite the biting air. His smile was there—small, barely noticeable—but it never faded.

  He was given no time to adjust, no chance to breathe. They already knew what they would do with him.

  They dragged him by his arms, pulling him across the coarse sand until he stood before a man who was unlike the others.

  The Slave Master.

  An old man, thin, yet there was something in his eyes that made everyone shrink in his presence. His power was not in his body but in his aura—in the way he made people see him as something more than just human.

  He was toying with the tip of an arrow, twirling it between his fingers as if testing its weight. Then he looked at Joe—not as if he were seeing a person, but as if he were examining something else entirely.

  — "You're new, aren’t you?"

  Joe didn’t answer. He only kept smiling.

  The old man stepped closer, placed his hand on Joe’s head, pressed his fingers slightly, then whispered in a voice barely audible:

  — "You will either be the hammer… or the anvil."

  With calm steps, he grabbed a middle-aged man, yanked him forward by his hair, and threw him to the ground in front of Joe.

  Then, without changing his tone, he extended a wooden club to Joe.

  — "Strike… or be struck."

  The club was heavy in Joe’s hands—not in weight, but in meaning.

  He looked at the man before him. He was trembling, his eyes filled with terror. Then he looked at the old man. There was no threat on his face; he didn’t need one. The threat was in the reality itself.

  Then, the voice came.

  "Do you value his life over y

  our own?"

  But Joe didn’t move. He didn’t need to think.

  Everything was in his hands now.

  To be continued…