Absolute Cheater

The winner's blade still dripped red as he shoved the corpse back inside the tavern, leaving a long smear of blood across the stone. The people nearby barely reacted. Dice kept rolling, voices kept murmuring, boots kept shuffling along the street, as if nothing had happened at all.

Asher's gaze stayed on the tavern door for a few extra moments, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. He wasn't surprised by the violence—he had seen far worse—but he was judging. Fights in places like this weren't about pride or honor. They were reminders, sharp and simple, of who was strong enough to walk safely and who would be left to rot before the night ended.

He walked on, his cloak brushing against the uneven stone walls of the Outer Rings. The streets here were tighter, filled with a smoky haze from braziers burning strange herbs that twisted the mind. Whispers followed him wherever he stepped—offers for hired blades, trades of stolen treasures, and hushed talk about abominations appearing in faraway rifts. Every word was bait, every whisper set like a trap.

A group of mercenaries slouched against a wall ahead, watching. One of them, an orc with a scar cutting across his cheek and silver eyes that gleamed in the dim light, grinned wide when he saw Asher.

"Fresh blood," he said to the others, his voice low but meant to be heard. "No banner on him. Must be green."

The other two chuckled, shifting their stance as if ready to block the way forward.

Asher didn't slow down. His boots clicked against the cobblestones as he kept walking, his gaze sliding over them. The weight of that single look was enough. The orc's grin twitched, then faltered. There had been no threat in Asher's expression, no movement of his hand toward a weapon—only a silent heaviness in the way his crimson eyes lingered, too sharp, too calm.

By the time Asher passed them, the three mercenaries had gone quiet. Their laughter died away. Like beasts realizing they'd mistaken a predator for prey, they decided against testing him.

The alley stretched into a larger square, lit with lanterns burning ghostly green flame. Around the edges, stalls waited in silence. Their owners stood cloaked and hooded, faces hidden. Goods here weren't shouted about like in the market districts; they were displayed with small signs of power. A vial glowed faintly as the soul inside scratched against the glass. A dagger shimmered like it swallowed every flicker of lantern light into its hungry edge. Parchments curled and squirmed on their own, covered in laws so warped they seemed to crawl off the page.

Asher walked through the square at an even pace. His face stayed still, unreadable, but his senses sharpened with every step. He weighed each presence, measured the air around every stall, marked who was strong and who was desperate. A few merchants looked up and noticed him. Some stared too long, eyes curious or calculating. None of them spoke.

Then a voice slipped out from the shadows, smooth and steady.

"You walk alone, crimson-eyed. Either you're a fool, or you're someone worth paying attention to."

Asher turned slightly toward the sound. At the edge of the lanternlight, half-hidden in darkness, stood a figure draped in black cloth. Their face was hidden, but their eyes shone faintly from under the hood, fixed on him with the careful focus of a hunter who had spotted something unusual.

The air between them grew taut, a faint pull like invisible threads stretching thin. The square went on around them as if nothing had changed—traders bartering, people walking past—but to the two of them, the moment stood still.

Asher didn't answer. Not yet.

He simply stood there, silent and unmoving, like a statue, waiting for the hooded figure to act first.

Asher's boots crunched softly against the broken gravel as he stopped, his crimson eyes narrowing. The faint stir of wind carried with it a scent that wasn't natural to this world—an almost oily sharpness, like metal dipped in rotting incense. He turned his head slightly, voice calm yet edged.

"Who are you?"

The stranger's mouth curved in a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. His voice was low, measured, almost mocking."I am just… another wanderer like you. But one who has already been bitten by the roots."

The words came out layered, half-muttered, half-sung, and Asher caught the slip immediately. Roots. His gaze hardened. That wasn't the language of an innocent nomad.

The man continued, tilting his head as though savoring the look on Asher's face."You see, where you stand proud and whole, I've already tasted what lies beneath the veil. I am marked. Chosen. Worshipper of what your kind refuses to name."

The fantastic gleam in his eyes—the almost reverent shine—told Asher everything. His hand curled slightly, blood stirring with warning.

Eldritch worshipper.

And here he stood.

Asher's lips pressed into a thin line, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut steel.

"You're the spy."

The man chuckled, low and humorless.

"Spy? Call me… a herald, if you must. I don't fight for the elves, nor for the beastkin, nor for your kind. I fight for what seeps through the cracks—what's older than your stars, deeper than your bloodlines."

Asher's gaze sharpened, voice as cold as drawn steel.

"Aren't you too bold? Exposing yourself so openly, lying here like this?"

The man only chuckled, the sound dry and sharp. "Not a lie. An invitation. Join me—it will be good for you. Refuse, and I'll kill you. No one will know, no one will care. You'll vanish like dust on the wind."

Asher gave the faintest nod, a shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Yes… but can you?"

In the next breath, the air shuddered. The faint, invisible weight of a horror older than stars pressed against the chamber, brushing the edge of reality itself. Even so, Asher moved through it without hesitation. His hand shot out, closing like a vice around the man's throat, lifting him slightly as if he were no heavier than a rag doll.

The man's eyes widened—not in fear of death, but in disbelief. The borrowed aura behind him roared like an unseen ocean, yet Asher stood unmoved beneath it.

"I've heard whispers," Asher said, his grip tightening as the man's breath rasped. "Rewards, offered for letting your kind seep in. A prize for the weak who kneel."