The City of Ionia

While the fire blazed on, the sound of sizzling flames and the smell of smoke filled the air. He heard the terrified shouts of the bandits as they desperately sought to flee the blaze, but it was too late. The wooden structures were already on fire, and the flames engulfed them. The heat was oppressive. His skin felt like it was scalding under the scolding sun, and the smoke made his eyes weep. But he adapted to it. Burning bandit bases was second nature. The smoke, logs falling, slippin’ through the flames; it was a typical Saturday. The type of Saturday he loved and the type he wouldn’t trade. The enemies coughed, their eyes burning with discomfort. It’s a pity not being used to the ashes. The bandits experienced a sensation of powerlessness as they gazed out on their burning base.

“For the last time, Chase, quit lettin’ these spineless bastards escape. You got one job. Do it properly.”

“I know you’re not talking, Mr. Low-Tolerance-To-Booze.”

He gritted his teeth, fantasizing about biting Chase’s ear off. Words were about to fall out of his mouth, but he was startled shut by the noise of colliding blades.

“Get yer head back in it, Cray,” Arnold rumbled while holding off a bandit.

He used pure technique to alter his sword’s angle to give a clean cut on the upper chest. The bandit, who was dressed in all gray with a scarf covering his face, grabbed onto his wound, stumbling to the ground.

“Aaaand there’s another one,” Arnald said, finishing him off.

“Good shit, dude.”

“Chase. Ya don’t have a single mark on ya.”

“Haven’t been doin’ much,” he said.

“Cause you’ve been letting them run by you,” Cray replied, wanting to shove Chase’s face into the ground.

“He smart, if anything. Can’t get injured if yer useless.”

“An insult or a complaint? Which is it?”

“Interpret it as ya feel,” said Arnald while walking away.

“Where you going,” Cray asked.

He stopped and looked back for a split second. “Finna finds Jackie and asks for an apple. Want one?”

He shook his head even though Arnold wasn’t looking. “I’m good. I'm gonna infiltrate the stash hall.”

“The stash hall? Is there a brain in your head?”

Cray insisted Chase relax, saying how it’ll be worth it in the end. Arnold, who was visibly concerned, advised Cray not to push his luck.

“Quit sulking. I survived burning buildings before. I can do it again. Do you know how much loot this place might have? Over twenty bandits with a decent-sized base. If history repeats, we’d have enough for gambling in Clueknicks or even Walisbirg. C’mon, c’mon, what y’all say.”

“I don’t get the right to stop ya. Yer capable of making yer own decision.”

“You’re on your own.”

Cray threw a friendly punch at Chase. “I ain’t gonna die. Not until I finally win in blackjack.”

“Keep dreaming,” Chase said, punching back.

While the flames challenged the clouds covering the moon, and the dense smoke revealed the coughing enemies, the three friends exchanged brotherly smiles.

***

It was the most significant structure the base had. One where bandits got together to dine. Long tables stretched like a runway with chairs close together. All of that was destroyed. With orange and crimson tongues licking hungrily at the walls and windows, the once–stately hall was now engulfed in flames. Waves of heat surged forth, sweltering the atmosphere and making it impossible to approach too closely. The noise of glass breaking and wood bursting was deafening as the flames ate everything in its path.

Goodness. How in the world—”

How was he going to find loot? That question spun around his brain like a hamster on a wheel. But that question was nothing new. He asked himself that particular question every raid. And every raid, he came back with outis coins to spend.

Every time.

Judging by the pattern, the most extensive stash of loot was stored in the food hall. So it wasn’t like he was guessing. He knew the drill.

He gingerly moved through the blazing hall, his boots crunching on the debris and the dense smoke stinging his eyes. Even though he was used to the sting, it was still annoying.

Sweat streamed down his cheeks as he moved deeper in the sweltering heat. He continued not caring.

“Achh…” The smoke got to him. Struggling to breathe, he hurried his steps, risking injury. “Where is this son of a—shit!”

He fell on the ashy floor, holding his ankle. The pain throbbed, making the situation more complicated than it already was. He winced as his ankle protested any movement. Wooden logs scattered around the place like a flower field. But except walking through a plush carpet and smelling the sweet fragrance of blossoms. It was a deathtrap with air so thick it was a choking hazard.

He wasn’t watching his step. He chose to speedrun through rather than take his time. But in a situation like this, who would tiptoe their way through when a burning log could come tumbling down, crushing their skull? Wouldn’t it be smarter to skip as gracefully as they could?

“Phffft. Dammit! Not again! Stupid ass ankle.”

His ankles have been weak since birth. Different shoes, exercises, stretches, nothing worked. It’s like a foreverlasting curse, unable to be broken. He could do everything normally, but sometimes, his ankle taps out as if it was underwater for too long.

While struggling to get up, he heard a voice. It caught him by surprise, so he enhanced his hearing and shut out everything else.

Who would be here? A bandit? Impossible. The voice wasn’t begging to escape this hell. It was a calm, relaxed tone. Like someone casually taking a stroll down a dirt path.

“Do you wish to live?”

It was the voice. A faint voice muffled by the cracking of fire. A feminine voice so soothing it could make a man with night terrors sleep peacefully.

“Wh-Who’s there?” Cray asked, rightly shivering.

“Do you want help?” Replied the voice.

“Ye-Yes! Please! My God, Jackie, please don’t be playing a prank right now!” He had a gut feeling it was her. After all, she was the only conscious woman in the group. Jackie wasn’t a typical prankster. She would attempt very questionable jokes. Once, she put shards of glass in someone’s drink, “saving” the victim right before a sip was taken.

“Jackie, please help me out. I fucked up my ankle again.”

An apple rolled towards Cray. He looked at it bug-eyed.

“Are you serious?! Jackie, please! Don’t give me this shit, and help me!”

“Do you want me to save you?”

“I don’t care! Just get me outta here!”

And that’s when he saw it. Cray attempted to scream but was unable to do so because his throat felt dry and tight. His handicapped body became utterly immobilized. He was confined to lying there and gazing up at the figure standing over him. Standing over him was a woman with her hair all over the place. It wasn’t Jackie, that’s for sure. Jackie’s hair was much shorter. Shadows covered their features, but he could still feel her heartless, icy gaze bore into him. His breaths were coming in harsh, short spurts, and she could feel his heart thumping in his chest.

“Relax,” said the woman, “No need to stutter. I won’t harm you.”

Cray couldn’t spit a word. Drenched in an ocean of sweat, all his vulnerable body could do was stare at the figure.

She squatted to Cray’s level, brushing her hair aside, which led Cray to take the hardest shallow ever. He wanted to run away. It was meaningless, though. His body knew it was incapable of doing so. He wanted to believe it was his imagination.

She whispered something. Her voice was so light, as if it could be blown away. Yet her presence dominated the place.

“Y-Y-Y-Your…eye. It’s r-red.”

“Your comrades said the same. My left one, correct?”

He nodded. That was all the movement his body could do.

“I guess it’s true.” She moved her hair back even further, exposing her entire face.

Cray slapped his mouth in disbelief. His eyes darted as if a million things were happening at once. That face was so familiar.

The face of his supposed comrade.

“R-Rook?”

“Surprise.”

He stroked his cheek, the bones in his hand rattling. “Face…it’s…”

She did the same but softer. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s not mine.”

“Ba-Bandits?” He nervously smiled.

“Bandits? I didn’t fight any bandits.”

“Oh…whose…is it?”

She smiled arrogantly as if she could take on the entire world. No obstacle would be enough to stop her.

“Your comrades sure know how to put up a fight.”

Cray’s stomach dropped. The place got instantly hotter. It was like swimming in boiling coal tar. He felt sick. So sick he thought his throat would explode due to the overloading vomit rushing up.

Her face was covered in blood. Along with her red eye and his comrade’s blood, Cray thought he was looking at a demon.

“...What?”

“You don’t need me to tell you. Put the pieces together.”

He coughed. He coughed hard enough to make himself believe his eyes flew out of his sockets. The main indication that they were till there was his teary vision.

“I’m—I’m sorry! Please spare me! I beg of you!” He cried, clasping his hands together in a prayer.

“I’ll show mercy.” She grabbed Cray by his hair, looking dead in his darting eyes. “But if you touch Jeremy or any of my friends ever again, I won’t be so forgiving.”

“N-No! Never! I won’t bat an eye at them. You have my word.”

“I’m glad,” she smiled. “Since we came to a compromise, I’ll be leaving. See you soon, maybe.”

“Wait! My ankle—I can’t walk.”

She turned around, revealing a hellish grin. A grin not even a demon wore. One so frightening, so threatening, the devil himself would back away.

“Is that my problem?”

“You bitch! You said you’ll show me mercy!”

“I will, but will the fire?”

Her voice was calm, like walking along a waterfall or sitting alone while drinking booze, thinking empty-mindedly. It was a voice of innocence.

But her appearance. Blood, torn clothing, messy hair. She looked as if she came from battle. That wasn’t even the worst part.

Her eye.

Her crimson devil eye. Something otherworldly. It's something from a fantasy story. Was she a demon disguised as a human?

He collapsed on his back. Meaninglessly, he held out his hand, staring at the depths of the loose pieces of wood above. There was nothing he could do. Nothing his body would allow him to do. He knew that. He knew struggling was useless. It was only a matter of time.

He replayed the final words he heard from the devil. Those words shrunk the constant crackling. Cray thought about responding, but he held back. Her words weren’t wrong. They weren’t at all. They weren’t threatening like her appearance, nor were they angelic like her voice.

But she spoke the truth.

In the final seconds of life, he said, “Bastard’s right.”

And the piles of flaming wood collapsed on top of him.