In the back alley of a crooked tavern—one that had more rats than customers and more unpaid bar tabs than drink choices—a group of less-than-stellar criminals huddled around a battered table under the dim glow of a swinging lantern. Their names weren't important. Their IQs, less so. But their attention was locked on something very specific: a rough sketch of a smug, floofy creature with eyes full of contempt and the power to commit several federal offenses just by sneezing.
"That's the one," the leader grunted, tapping a meaty finger on the paper. "The fuzzball with the kaboom."
"You sure it wasn't just special effects or somethin'?" the scrawnier one muttered, squinting. "Looked fake."
"Fake?! He leveled a ten-foot beast with a hairball. A hairball, Benny!"
"...Yeah but like, maybe it was a staged show? Beast tamers are weird."
The leader slammed his fist on the table, causing it to shudder like it owed him money. "I'm tellin' you, that thing ain't natural. He's a walking goldmine of illegal potential. If we nab 'im, we're talkin' top-dollar. Kingdom-wide bounty. Black market bidders. Maybe even a sponsorship deal."
A hush fell over the group. Not because of the brilliance of the plan, but because they were all collectively picturing Poffin in sunglasses holding a branded drink.
"Alright," one finally muttered. "So what's the play?"
"We wait," the leader said, cracking his knuckles. "They're gettin' comfy. Celebratin' like they just saved the world. But when they let their guard down... we strike. with this..."
The leader then pulled out a sack infused with mana.
In the distance, a goose honked ominously.
---
The tavern buzzed with warmth, candlelight flickering in the low-lit room as the party lounged around a round table far too small for their stories, much less their personalities. Plates clattered, mugs clinked, and laughter mixed with the gentle thrum of a lute being half-played by someone who only knew three chords and a dream.
Seren had her boots kicked up on a stool, her knuckles wrapped and still stained from yesterday's friendly community outreach. She was mid-tale about "accidentally" slamming a man into a table after he dared to wink and insult her in the same breath.
Kale and Vix sat noticeably not next to each other, but their body language betrayed the recent awkward topple. Vix occasionally shot him sidelong glances. Kale pretended not to notice. He noticed.
Lyra nursed a drink with the long-suffering expression of someone trying to scrub the mental image of the grumpy Poffin in a tiara from her memory. It wasn't working. The image was somehow burned into her psyche with glitter glue and a sense of both appeal and disappointment.
Ash sat at the edge of the group, quiet, contemplative, occasionally glancing toward the tavern door. Just once or twice. Not more than a dozen. Absolutely not because someone named Velvet had occupied his thoughts with more subtlety than a warlock's curse.
And at the center of it all—Poffin.
He stood atop a stool, fur freshly fluffed, dramatically sipping from a shot glass of milk as if he were the king of the tavern. Which, arguably, he was. Even if no one understood what he was saying, his smugness transcended language.
The tavern had grown too warm, too loud, and Poffin was starting to feel like his fur might frizz from the sheer proximity to chaos. So, with a subtle hop down from the table—unnoticed by the party engrossed in an argument over whether Vix's cooking qualified as a weapon—he padded out into the cool night air.
Cobblestone streets lay quiet under starlight, except for the occasional bark, chatter, and the sweet, sweet scent of street snacks. Poffin moved like a seasoned veteran through the alleys, eyes glinting with mischief as he sniffed out his prey: a honeyed pastry left cooling on an unattended windowsill.
"Amateur mistake," he muttered to himself in his yips and chitters. "Always guard the glaze."
With the precision of a practiced thief and the dramatics of a stage actor, he made his move—leaping onto a crate, onto a barrel, and then the window's edge.
Snatched it clean. Divine.
But just as he considered whether this counted as dessert or appetizer, something else snatched him clean.
A cloth sack dropped over him. A sack. The indignity.
There was a muffled yelp, a flurry of kicks, and the faint sound of a half-chewed pastry hitting the ground with a sad squish.
"He's heavier than he looks," someone grunted.
"Shut it, we got the payload. Let's move."
Poffin struggled, fur sparking, growling threats that sounded like a feral teapot. But before he could go full thermonuclear hairball, a strange powder wafted into the sack. It smelled of herbs. And betrayal.
His limbs felt like pudding. His thoughts like molasses.
And then—blackout.
---
Back in the tavern, Ash blinked suddenly. "Where's Poffin?"
The others looked up from their drinks and debates.
"Oh gods, not again," Lyra groaned, already reaching for her boots.
Seren cracked her knuckles. "Who wants to bet he caused another explosion?"
"Not betting," Kale muttered. "Too obvious."
Outside, somewhere in the shadows, the sack wriggled faintly before going still again.
---
The thugs knew exactly what they were doing. None of those elaborate rituals or calming incense. No, they went old school. No frills, no sparkles—just one artifact:
The Null-Sack.
A large sack that' roughly the size of a large coconut. Fused with an ancient sealing rune, with a devious and grotesque face printed onto it by design. Once opened, it clamps down around a target and click—shuts tighter than a miser's purse but had one major flaw, it can be torn from the outside just as easily as a normal fabric.
And once it's shut?
Magic? Nullified.
Explosions? Canceled.
Once it's torn? It goes back to being an old useless rag.
Poffin was snatched mid-dessert contemplation—half a candied yam still in his mouth—when the sack split open like a grotesque clamshell and chomped around him like an enchanted bear trap.
Inside, it was dark. Cold. Not uncomfortable, but eerily silent. No spark of energy. No ambient mana. Not even static fur.
He tried to growl. Yip. Yell. Even sassed a bit internally. But the world gave no response. No sound. Just the subtle hum of a sealed dimension and the existential realization that this is what being in a Ziploc bag must feel like.
The thugs, meanwhile, carried it with reverence—and just a hint of fear.
They whispered to each other:
"As long as it stays shut, we're safe."
"We sell this thing to the right bidder, and we're rich."
They had no idea what they were carrying was less of a beast and more of a natural disaster in a plush wrapper.
---
The thugs didn't waste time. Word was passed. Signals were sent. And before long, in the dimly-lit basement of a very definitely illegal auction house (that was also moonlighting as a very definitely unsanitary noodle bar), the bidding began.
The Null-Sack, humming faintly and pulsing with the restrained fury of one mildly offended cottonball, sat center stage on a pedestal. Sealed tight. No warnings. No explanations. Just a label hastily scribbled:
"Highly Explosive – Handle With Care – Also Cute?"
The bidders came in droves.
A warlock with questionable ethics.
A noble with more gold than brains.
A collector of exotic, dangerous pets who smelled like wet parchment and hubris.
The auctioneer pounded the gavel.
"We begin bidding at five thousand gold. Do I hear six?"
The warlock raised a finger.
"Six thousand. And a vial of demon's breath."
The noble slammed a coin-pouch.
"Ten thousand! And the deed to my third-best estate!"
The collector snorted.
"Fifteen. And a lifetime supply of enchanted flea repellent collars."
The Null-Sack wobbled.
At first, no one noticed. Just a faint squirm. A twitch.
Then a subtle tilt.
Then—it happened.
The bag rolled, wriggled, and dropped off the pedestal and below the stage with the grace of a falling potato sack. A nearby bidder's ridiculously oversized ceremonial dagger—proudly strapped to his hip like some kind of edgy chandelier—jutted just far enough out.
Riiiip.
A single, tragic sound. A tear. A glimpse of fluff. The very fabric of hope unraveling.
There was a moment of silence.
The warlock slowly turned his head.
The collector whispered, "No…"
The noble started to scream but didn't get the chance.
Because from inside the bag came a voice:
"You idiots really tried to auction me off next to noodle soup?"
A faint glow.
A shimmer of fur.
The lights dimmed.
BOOM.
The bag detonated like a festive piñata filled with fireworks and vengeance.
Torn fabric rained down like apocalyptic confetti.
The auction house shook on its rotten foundations.
And there he stood—amidst smoke, flame, and a suspicious noodle cart tipped on its side:
Poffin.
Half-eaten yam in paw.
Fur puffed like a peacock with a grudge.
A grin that should have been outlawed several cities ago.
The warlock passed out mid-incantation.
The noble fainted, twitched, then fainted again.
The collector tried to scream, but instead coughed up a hairball that wasn't even his.
Poffin stepped forward, dusting ash from his ears.
"Soup. Zero stars."
The room stood still for a breath. Just one.
Then Poffin inhaled.
Deep.
Dangerously.
A low growl purred from his throat like the warm-up of an active volcano wearing a tutu. His eyes locked on the nearest thug scrambling toward the exit.
"You stuffed me in a glorified soup ladle with legs..."
He raised a paw.
A single tuft of fur lifted from his body—then another, and another. The air shimmered with static and fury. The glow in his eyes intensified as if powered by sheer spite.
"I'm going to decorate the walls with 'Return to Sender' written in hairballs."
And then—
Fwip. Fwip. Fwip. FWOOM.
Explosive darts of fluff launched across the room. They ricocheted off walls, beams, and a chandelier that immediately caught fire in protest.
One dart hit a thug square in the belt buckle. Boom. Pants gone.
Another took out the ledger where the bidders' names were written. Good luck explaining that to the authorities.
From beneath a flipped table, a trembling voice whispered:
"Dear gods, it's sentient napalm…"
Poffin, paws outstretched like a demented furry conductor, sent one final puff into the air. It hovered—glowing, pulsing, adorable—and exploded midair with a BOOMPH that sounded like a sneeze wrapped in vengeance.
The smoke cleared.
Every bidder was unconscious, coughing, or just too afraid to move. The auctioneer? Gone. Only his shoes remained.
Poffin stood in the center, fur already regrowing like his body had a queue system for wrath.
He cracked his neck.
"And that's for selling me short, you bootleg soup vendors."
Poffin took one smug step toward the stairs—only to stop mid-stride. His ears twitched. His nose wriggled.
The smoke was clearing.
But it wasn't quiet.
No terrified gasps. No running feet. Just… slow, synchronized claps.
"Huh," Poffin muttered. "That's never a good sign."
From the shadows, where the heat hadn't reached, emerged figures. Not just thugs. Not amateurs. These were professionals—draped in enchanted cloaks, runed armor, exotic silks. The kind of people who bought nightmares with pocket change and casually used drakes for lawn care.
A masked figure stepped forward, voice low and smooth:
"Impressive. Most critters with your... kinetic fur composition tend to vaporize themselves by accident. You're a rare commodity, little warhead."
Poffin blinked, then glanced down at his own paws.
"Did they just call me a commodity?"
He cracked his knuckles—small, fuzzy pops that somehow echoed with impending doom.
"Alright. Let's see if your health insurance covers detonated fur to the face."
One sorceress summoned spectral chains.
Another beast handler—grinning—unleashed a screeching raptor.
A warlock lit their hands with cursed fire, muttering words in an eldritch dialect that sounded suspiciously like "oh, you're so screwed."
Poffin crouched low, fur already beginning to ripple with glow and static.