"You're a traitor!"
A man barked, his tone torn between sorrow and fury. He grasped his head in frustration, clad in lavish silver armor with crimson underlay bearing a noble crest, clearly a man of prestige. A single tear escaped his eye.
It fell into the ocean below, vast, powerful, and vicious. The scene stretched endlessly, surrounded by a pale grey sky. Above the two men hovered thousands of shattered castles and ancient artifacts, suspended weightlessly in time.
"I betrayed no one," the other man murmured with calm defiance. His voice was soft, like a morning breeze. Tattered robes and worn insignias clung to him, whispering tales of long-forgotten journeys.
"I only stayed true to myself. I owed no one loyalty to your Order, you simply expected it."
He raised his sword, not in rage, but in quiet resolve.
"Don't deny it!" the armored man roared, tears now falling freely.
"You left us for power. You're nothing more than a fool!"
He raised his blade in turn.
Time itself seemed to halt. Their heartbeats aligned. Their gazes locked. The raging ocean below fell still. The grey sky softened into white. The broken remnants above began to descend slowly, elegantly.
And then, they clashed.
———————————————————————————
"Sleeping on the job again?"
A sharp feminine voice cut through the shadows.
A much younger version of the silver-clad man stirred, slumped over a stack of old barrels in a dim alley where the sun barely reached.
"Ugh… what do you expect? There's nothing to do around here," he groaned.
"You're the one who insisted on becoming a Vermilion Knight," the girl replied dryly, seating herself on a nearby barrel.
"Besides, the empire's peaceful now. The last real war ended over a thousand years ago."
"Yeah, I know… but there haven't even been any bandits lately. If this keeps up, I'll never get recognized by the Ruby Legion," he muttered in despair.
The girl laughed.
"That dream was far-fetched to begin with."
He ignored her with a smile.
"Charles of the Ruby Legion… Just imagine my name in the history books a century from now."
Their banter was cut short by the sound of footsteps. A young boy ran into the alley, panting.
"Oh, Benjamin," Charles whispered with a small grin.
The boy shouted,
"Charles! Lysandra! There's a group of thugs harassing people in the Lion's Tavern!"
Lysandra stood, her eyes gleaming.
"Looks like we're finally getting some action."
"Hmm," Charles grunted, pushing himself off the barrels and strolling toward the tavern with lazy confidence.
With a swift kick, Charles burst through the tavern doors.
"Any thugs looking for trouble better leave now, or we'll deal with you ourselves!"
A knife whistled through the air, headed straight for his face—but Charles caught it mid-flight, utterly unfazed.
"Guess you've chosen the hard way," he smirked as the thugs surrounded him and Lysandra.
"But I'm not complaining."
"Damn knights," a thug groaned, rubbing his bruised face.
"Quite rude," Lysandra said flatly, brushing imaginary dust from her shoulder.
"I couldn't care less!" another thug barked, charging at her with a raised fist.
With surgical ease, Lysandra stepped in and tapped the man on the crown of his head with her palm. His legs wobbled, and he collapsed backward onto a nearby table. She didn't miss a beat—grabbing a length of rope from a nearby post and slicing it clean with the knife on her hip.
Before she could tie him, a second thug lunged from behind. She dipped low beneath his swing, flipped the rope over his arms, and tightened it around his wrists in one smooth motion.
"That was close," she said with a chuckle, clearly amused by how slow they were.
The first thug stirred, clutching a dull dagger and staggering toward her.
CRACK. A bottle shattered over his skull. He dropped instantly.
Charles stood behind him, bottle neck still in hand.
"I didn't have any rope," he grinned.
The remaining thugs took a step back. Tension settled in the room—until a commanding voice echoed from the rear.
"You all can't handle two rookies? Pathetic," a deep voice muttered. A large man stepped forward, swigging from a bottle of rum and shoving aside his crew without a glance.
"My turn."
He was broad-shouldered, towering, and carried his sword like an extension of his body. His steps were heavy, deliberate.
"You stink of booze," Lysandra taunted, twirling her dagger.
The man didn't reply. He surged forward.
"Fast," Charles noted—deliberately allowing the man's kick to connect. He flew into a wall with a dramatic grunt, though the impact left only a scuff on his armor.
"You might actually be fun," Lysandra shouted gleefully. She sprinted at him, still with her sword sheathed.
The man caught her mid-stride and hurled her into the opposite wall. She groaned, more out of habit than pain.
"Is this the best the Vermilion Knights have to offer?" the man sneered.
From the floor, Charles spoke, voice calm and untouched.
"You've definitely earned some credit. I'll give you that," he said, dusting off his sleeves.
"I didn't want to pull out my paint… but if it gets things over with faster."
He drew his sword.
Immediately, vibrant red energy began to surge from the blade's edge. It spilled out like liquid fire, flickering with shades of crimson and scarlet, rippling with chaotic motion like brushstrokes in the wind. The energy didn't behave like fire or lightning—it splattered, staining the air around it with globs and streaks of glowing, molten paint that dripped midair before vanishing.
The sword pulsed with erratic heat, the paint-like aura sloshing and sputtering in unpredictable bursts.
"I'm honored," the man grinned, gripping his blade.
"You pig," Charles said softly, spinning his sword once. Trails of glowing red arced behind it, lingering for a moment like streaks on a canvas.
Then he moved.
Each swing of the blade hurled bursts of paint-energy forward—messy, wild, but controlled. Charles didn't aim to kill. Instead, he danced around the man, slamming the flat of his blade into weak spots in the armor, letting the explosive paint singe and soak into cloth and leather.
The man grunted as a blow hit his side, followed by another across his chest. Paint splattered the tavern—walls, tables, the floor. Crimson light spilled in blotches like a battlefield made of ink.
He coughed, then staggered, panting now. His armor steamed where the energy had splashed.
Charles exhaled and stepped back, spinning his sword once more. The glowing paint peeled away from the blade in curling wisps, evaporating into red sparks that drifted to the floor.
"Guess today wasn't so boring after all," he said, sheathing the weapon.
All around them, the tavern was a mess of scorched red streaks, glowing puddles, and half-melted tables.
The thugs fled in a panic.
"Don't worry," Charles called lazily.
"I'll catch the rest of you later."
He turned to the groaning man.
"As for you…" He paused, narrowing his eyes.
"Carlson Seurveron."
Lysandra returned, a length of rope in hand, tying the man's hands with little effort.
"Where were you?" Charles asked, tilting his head.
"Didn't want to fight," she shrugged.
"Besides, you had that covered."
"Can't expect anything more," Charles laughed.
"I'll carry him back to the guild," Lysandra said, effortlessly hoisting the unconscious Carlson onto her shoulder.
"You go chase the rest."
"Yeah, yeah." Charles waved as he strolled off, red footprints fading behind him with every step.