Grandheart, the capital of the Order Dominion and my current home. Despite the terror festering in the streets, it was only heightened by Ickni's wicked schemes. It was quite a beautiful sight, an intricate network of homes, merchants, and various shops. I had no room to complain about the city's wonders and sights.
Leaving behind the bustling cityscape, I made my way along the cobbled streets, following the roughly drawn map that would guide me to my destination: The Broken Lance's current headquarters.
A mercenary company marked for extermination for being suspected of being Famine Devils, I hadn't the faintest clue what a Famine Devil was or what a Devil even looked like.
As always, I was left in the dark about what exactly a Devil even was, which meant I faced this mission alone and without any knowledge. Still, if I wanted to survive Ickni's schemes, I would have to adapt to situations like this.
After all, I now had a rival in the Moon. Lucius von Snow was my newfound sparring partner and comrade in arms. When he awoke, he wouldn't leave me alone, begging every minute of the day to have a rematch. It had been around a week since we'd had our clash. Since then, he had taken me under his wing and was training me into one of the finest killers in the five Dominions.
He didn't use that word, but it was all the same to me. Soldier or murderer, they followed the same path, making them the exact same: killers. Despite my feelings, I welcomed his training.
I just couldn't refuse a chance to grow my power. His cheeky smile pushed my heart onto his side. I just couldn't refuse such a curious face. Whether our newfound relationship would prosper or fall into oblivion was yet to be determined.
Oh, but how I hoped it would end in the former.
The Broken Lance's headquarters soon came into view. It was an old warehouse renovated and recently re-equipped to hold all their weapons and equipment. The headquarters was guarded to the teeth, with multiple armed guards holding a variety of weapons. Their faces were almost completely covered by black clothes.
Their attention turned to me, the blades in their hands subtly pointing in my direction. They looked at each other warily, confirming their suspicion. Around six guards stood at the main entrance and at a gate where horses could be seen through the bars.
Their suspicion was justified. It reassured me that the mask on my face was still there. I traced my fingers on its surface, feeling the hardwood of the black and white mask I had 'borrowed' from the victim of the Rebels of Revel.
I was just some sketchy wingless wearing a mask approaching them. I didn't blame their suspicion.
"Wingless, speak your intentions or begone! We do not wish for your kind to sully our reputation!" shouted one of the older guards, his wrinkles showing all over his eyes.
"I've come to hire your services. I need a certain someone disposed of. If you catch what I'm putting down."
The two rear guards on the main entrance tilted their weapons towards my neck, making no effort to hide their aversion.
The older man's body relaxed slightly at my words, signalling to the men to drop their aggression, while they didn't look pleased. They begrudgingly lowered their weapons.
"We'll happily hear out your request; we don't discriminate against anyone here. As long as you have money, then we're happy to help. I'm Victor Blackwood. It's nice to make your acquaintance."
Victor held out his hand for a handshake. As I got closer to the man, I smelled the scent of blood and death practically pouring off his body. After realizing this, his smile no longer had any meaning—just an empty gesture. Still, I grasped his hand, playing into my little act.
"Ard Ritter. It's nice to meet you as well, Victor Blackwood."
I had no particular reason for this name; it was just the first name that popped into my head. I obviously couldn't tell my real name, or I'd be found out instantly. It's not often that a wingless joins the Servants of Order, let alone battles Lucius von Snow and Artoria Luminous.
My name has long since become common in the mouths of the people of Grandheart. Even travellers know of me.
"If you'd come this way, we'll get you situated, and our leader will meet with you. It may take an hour. He is a very busy man."
"No worries."
Ever since I touched the man's hand, a stinging pain had been rippling throughout my arm. I could feel my blood slowing. My motor functions dulled.
Recognizing the symptoms, I suspected poison—likely a product of their own power. In response, I flooded my hand with divinity and purifying light, detoxifying my blood before the poison could spread further.
After neutralizing the poison, Victor led me deeper into their stronghold. We passed the outer corridors and soon reached a small reception room at the back of the warehouse. The signs were all there: this was undeniably the headquarters of a mercenary corps.
Their emblem, the Broken Lance, littered throughout the hallways, and weapons and supplies were dotted across the whole building. Apparently, they didn't know what storage was, so they just left it sitting in random places.
"So, Ard Ritter. How come you wear a mask?" asked Victor.
"I'm not the best looking of people, and I have a scar running along my face. Since I'm wingless, I don't enjoy the increased aversion."
"Ah, that sounds tough indeed."
Inside the small reception room, I saw a tea set, a coffee table, and a couple of couches and armchairs awaiting visitors. It was, perhaps, what one would expect from a mercenary company—humble but practical.
It wasn't the most fancy reception room, but that was just to be expected from a mercenary company. After sitting down on one of the couches, I looked towards Victor, who stood in the doorway. He seemed lost in thought, confused.
"Victor? Are you okay?"
"Ah, yes. I'm sorry, I was lost in thought for a moment. Please excuse my improper behaviour."
"Oh, it's of no concern, I've seen worse."
"I'm sorry. How could I forget? Please wait here, our leader will be here soon."
"Very well, I'll wait here."
"Thank you."
With that, Victor left the room, swiftly walking away, a tinge of concern running across his brow.