Rain wept across the crooked roof of The Hanged Mule Tavern, a steady, rhythmic tapping like an old wound aching in the cold. The wooden sign creaked on rusted chains, its paint faded by years of storms. Thunder rolled low, distant but insistent as if something dark stirred beneath the horizon.
Inside, warmth battled the gloom. Firelight flickered on stone walls and danced across the rims of dented mugs. Patrons hunched over tables, their faces half-lit, half-lost in shadow. The air carried the scents of spilled ale, damp wool, and meat left too long in the pot.
The tavern door creaked open.
A trio of travelers entered, dripping wet, their armor dulled by mud and rain. They looked the sort who'd seen too much and talked too little. The tavern keeper, gray-bearded and one-eyed, glanced up from behind the bar with the weariness of a man long past surprises.
"Seats are yours," he said flatly. "As long as your coin's good."
The three took a table near the hearth, letting the fire chase the cold from their bones. The tavern slowly returned to its murmurs.
"I heard they found a whole village empty," one of them muttered, voice low. "Not razed. Not looted. Just... vanished."
The second man sipped his ale, frowning. "West roads are cursed. Caravans strung up like dolls. No one's daring the pass now. There are things afoot - Dark things."
The third leaned closer. "But there's someone still out there. A man. Wanders from town to town, kills monsters, and takes gold. Asks no questions, shows no mercy."
"The Crimson Reaper," another voice murmured from a nearby table.
"Yeah. That's what they're calling him."
"Mercenary."
"No," the first man said. "Not just that. Something else."
At the bar, a soft chuckle broke the hush.
A man sat there, unmoving, cloaked in a travel-worn coat. A wide bamboo hat covered most of his face, shadowing sharp cheekbones and the line of a jaw that hadn't smiled in years.
The barkeep approached him.
"Another round?"
The man nodded. "And something warm. Stew, if it's still hot."
With a grunt, the barkeep moved to fetch it.
Then, the tavern door slammed open again.
Five men strode in, their boots heavy, eyes scanning like wolves. The leader, tall and lean with a scar running from temple to chin, held a damp bounty poster high.
"We're lookin' for this man," he barked. "Anyone seen him?"
The poster fluttered slightly. The image was crude, hastily sketched, but the name was bold: WANTED – THE CRIMSON REAPER – DEAD ONLY.
The conversation died. Some eyes flicked toward the bar, then darted away. The man under the hat didn't flinch.
The bounty hunters moved closer. The leader slapped the poster down on the bar.
"You," he said to the tavern keeper. "Seen him?"
The old man didn't blink. "Folk pass through. I don't ask names."
The leader's lip curled. "Don't play games, old man."
One of his men glanced toward the lone customer.
"What about him?"
"He's just eating," the barkeep said evenly.
The leader stepped to the bar. "You. Hat-boy. Let's see your face."
The man didn't turn. His voice was quiet. "I don't know you. Just here for food and quiet. Let me eat."
Another thug stepped forward and slapped the bowl from the counter. Porcelain shattered. The stew spilled across the floor.
The man rose slowly. He dropped a few coins on the bar.
"Shame. I was hungry."
He turned and walked toward the door.
"Think you can just walk away?" the leader scoffed.
The barkeep called after him. "Come again, traveler."
Outside, the rain welcomed him like an old, bitter friend.
----
They followed. Of course, they did. Men like that never know when to stop.
He didn't look back. He just walked, slow and steady, down the muddy road. His crimson ponytail flicked behind him, catching the wind like a banner.
When he reached the edge of the square, he spoke.
"You've got the numbers. No need to hide."
Eight of them. Some are still hiding in the shadows. Steel glinted as they stepped into the open.
The leader grinned. "You're the Reaper, aren't you?"
The man chuckled, voice low. "That's what they're calling me now?"
"There's gold on your head. Nobles want you dead real bad."
"Must've done something right then," he said, turning. His eyes, now visible beneath the hat, were like frozen coals.
"You think you can take me in?"
The leader didn't answer. He just nodded to his men.
They charged.
The world slowed.
Rian stepped forward, his blade slipping free like a whisper. The first man didn't even get his sword halfway out before the sword slid across his belly, spraying blood like dark paint on stone.
Another came from the left—Rian pivoted, ducked low, and drove his hatchet up under the man's chin with a wet crunch.
Two rushed from behind. He turned sharply, parried one, and drove his elbow into the second's face. Bone cracked. The scream died in a gurgle.
He was silent, precise. Not a grunt. Not a wasted motion.
They came fast, but they died faster.
Blood soaked the mud. The rain did little to wash it away.
Steel clashed. One tried to flank him—Rian spun, slicing low. The man fell, clutching his leg, before Rian buried the hatchet into his chest.
Another lunged wildly. Too wide. Too slow. Rian's blade opened his throat.
Then silence.
Only one remained.
The leader backed away, his face pale. He turned to run.
Rian threw the hatchet. The hatchet flew.
It sank deep into his leg. He screamed and dropped hard onto the mud.
Rian approached slowly, sword dragging behind him.
"You said a noble wants me dead."
The man tried to crawl, gasping. "Rosswick... someone said they were Rosswick..."
The name stopped Rian cold.
The Rosswicks.
He saw it again—embers rising into the night, the scent of blood, the limp hands of the only family he ever knew. The screams. His own, the loudest.
He knelt beside the man.
"You've seen their face?"
"N-no," the man stammered. "Covered. Voice... distorted. But the coin was real, I swear!"
Rian stared at him. Rain and blood trickled down his cheek. His silence said more than fury ever could.
"Please... I told you everything," the man begged. "Don't—"
Rian pressed his boot down onto the embedded hatchet.
The scream tore through the night.
"You hunted me for coin. You knew nothing. You chose this."
And with one clean motion, Rian severed his neck with his sword.
The dull thud of his head falling from his body echoed.
He retrieved his weapons, wiped them on the nearest cloak, and then picked up the damp poster.
The Crimson Reaper.
He stared at the name.
Then slowly and softly, as if tasting the words for the first time in years, he spoke.
"Rian Rosswick. Still breathing.... Unfortunately."
The rain swallowed him as he walked away.
The past had stirred. And it had whispered a name.
He would follow it—no matter the cost.