Visionless

"You like the stars?"

I glance to my right and see Ren, his amber eyes reflecting the campfire's glow. I sigh, pulling my knees closer to my chest. "Not really, just..." I trail off, unsure how to finish the thought. The words feel heavy, tangled in my mind. After a moment, I manage to mutter, "I just miss home, is all."

The fire crackles between us, filling the silence. Ren tilts his head back to gaze at the endless expanse of the night sky. "Does it help?"

I shake my head slowly, the ache in my chest squeezing tighter. "No. It doesn't."

Ren's gaze shifts to me, his voice thoughtful but firm. "Then why do it? If you can't go home anytime soon, why waste the energy moping?"

I look at him, stunned for a moment. His words aren't cruel—they're matter-of-fact, like he's dissecting a problem. I close my eyes, letting the crisp night air cool my thoughts, and take a deep breath. "Maybe you're right," I admit quietly.

Ren smirks, the flickering firelight dancing off his striped face. "I'm always right," he says, his tone smug but not unkind.

-------------

I stare at the mountain of papers on my desk, a mess of applications for new adventurers following the recent evaluation. Nearly everyone who participated in the raid had been demoted—some by one rank, others by two. The fallout was a bureaucratic nightmare, and I can feel the headache growing as I rub the bridge of my nose. 

The sound of my office door creaking open snaps me out of my thoughts. Without even looking up, I know who it is. 

"Dyrk," I say, my voice already heavy with frustration, "what did I say about knocking?" 

Leaning casually against the doorframe, Dyrk doesn't even try to look apologetic. He's still the same, despite being stripped of his title and rank. Once a mid-Gold adventurer, now he's been knocked all the way down to low Copper—a fresh start he doesn't seem remotely interested in. Instead of rebuilding his rank, I'd pulled some strings to get him reassigned as the guild's janitor. 

Dyrk shrugs, an infuriating grin plastered across his face. "Oh, I wasn't listening," he says breezily, stepping inside like he owns the place. 

I glare at him as he props himself against my desk. "What do you want?" 

"Stylas, come on," he says with that same irritating smirk. "No need to be so grumpy. We're finally back together—just like the good old days." 

I narrow my eyes at him, my voice dropping to a dangerous low. "I should've thrown you in jail." 

Dyrk chuckles, unbothered. "You'd miss me too much. Admit it." 

He's not entirely wrong, but I'm not about to give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud. I just sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose again. "If you're here to annoy me, congratulations. Mission accomplished. Now get out." 

But, of course, Dyrk stays put, grinning like the idiot he is.

For a few blessed moments, the room was quiet. Then, to my utter disbelief, Dyrk picked up a mop.

I hadn't asked him to clean—not even hinted at it—but there he was, humming some nonsensical tune under his breath as he began swiping at the floor with dramatic flair.

My hand tightened involuntarily around my pen as I tried to focus on the endless paperwork in front of me. The hum turned into a whistle, and the whistle into a full-blown, off-key rendition of some tavern shanty I vaguely recognized. My eyes twitched.

"Dyrk," I warned, my voice low and taut.

He didn't even flinch. In fact, he seemed to take it as encouragement, spinning the mop in a theatrical arc like some warrior showing off a prized sword.

"Dyrk," I growled, louder this time.

"Just making it spotless, boss!" he said cheerfully, not even glancing my way.

That was when it happened. The mop twirled one last time, water spraying in all directions—and one rogue drop landed square on my face.

My hand slammed down on the desk, papers scattering. "DYRK!"

He froze mid-spin, the mop still in the air. Slowly, he turned to look at me, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Uh… too much flourish?"

"You have five seconds to get out of my office before I personally escort you out the window."

Dyrk chuckled nervously, lowering the mop. "Alright, alright! No need to lose your temper. I'll just, uh, leave this here." He leaned the mop against the wall but didn't move to leave. 

Instead, his posture shifted. He rested against the wall, arms crossed, his tone suddenly serious. "What was it?" he asked. His gaze locked onto Styals, sharp and focused. "The key I gave you. What did it open?" 

Styals blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the shift. The simmering anger dissipated, replaced by a growing unease. He sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "You tell me why you chose the kid," he said evenly, "and then I'll answer." 

Dyrk's expression hardened for a moment before he sighed and shrugged. "His eyes," he said simply. "I saw something in them. Potential. He could be something great. Someone needed to help him realize that." 

Styals raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And the convenience factor?" 

Dyrk smirked faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Fine. It was a little convenient for me at the time. He was in the right place, and… well, you know how I operate." 

The faint trace of amusement in Styals' expression vanished. He leaned forward, his voice low and sharp. "You endangered a child, Dyrk. For your amusement. You manipulated him, had him commit murder—*multiple times*. Do you even grasp what could've happened if I hadn't stepped in to help you cover it up? You'd be facing a death sentence right now." 

Dyrk didn't flinch, though his smile faded entirely. His tone remained steady, almost bored. "Your turn, then. What did the captain leave for you?" 

Styals smirked, leaning back in his chair. "A letter," he said, watching Dyrk carefully. "There's something else, too, but I haven't looked at it yet. The letter, though—it's addressed to you." 

Dyrk's eyes widened briefly, surprise flickering across his face. He stepped forward, placing both hands firmly on the desk. "Give it to me." 

Styals sighed, reaching into a drawer beneath his desk. He retrieved a small, locked box, placing it on the desk. He unlocked it with a key, pulling out a folded letter. With a faint smirk, he slid it across the desk to Dyrk. 

Dyrk took it, his hands steady but his expression guarded. The envelope was marked with his name, written in the captain's familiar, messy scrawl. He unfolded the letter and read: 

---

*Yo, Dyrk,* 

*This is for you. By now, you're probably mad at me for not leaving you anything directly. And you should be.* 

*I didn't give you anything because I knew you'd do something stupid and reckless to get it. That's just who you are. So I left it with Styals instead. When he opens the box, you'll understand why I did it this way.* 

*Stay alive, idiot. You still owe me one.* 

*—Captain* 

---

Dyrk's jaw tightened as he reread the letter. He let out a long breath, a mixture of irritation and grudging amusement playing across his face. "That bastard," he muttered. "Even from beyond, he's still screwing with me." 

Styals leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. "Well? What do you think he meant?" 

Dyrk glanced at the box still on the desk, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Open it," he said quietly, his voice carrying an edge of curiosity and apprehension.

Styals stared down at the box, hesitant for a moment before reaching inside. He pulled out two daggers, their distinct designs immediately recognizable. One gleamed with a dark green hue, its blade shimmering faintly as if venom coursed through it. The other glowed faintly, a deep crimson that seemed to pulse like molten lava. 

Both men froze, their expressions mirroring equal parts shock and awe. 

"Those are…" Dyrk breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "The captain's daggers. The Drake Venom and the Magma Core." 

Styals turned them over in his hands, their weight both literal and symbolic pressing heavily on him. He placed them gently on the desk and leaned back in his chair, letting out a laugh that was equal parts frustration and disbelief. 

"So," he said, smirking, "the bastard left us a treasure, huh? Two priceless daggers—so valuable we can't even *sell* them. Typical." 

Dyrk crossed his arms, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "Sounds about right. He always did love making things more complicated than they had to be." 

Styals leaned back further, shaking his head with a mix of irritation and grudging fondness. "I swear, when I die and catch up to him on the other side, I'm gonna beat him senseless for this." 

Dyrk chuckled, his fingers brushing over the hilt of the green dagger. "Get in line. I've got a few words for him myself." 

For a moment, the room was quiet, both men staring at the weapons on the desk. The daggers weren't just tools—they were a legacy. A reminder of the man who had left them behind and the expectations he'd set for them, whether they liked it or not.

_______________________

Ren's ears twitched, catching the faint rustle of the forest. His sharp eyes darted toward Adam, who was sitting by the campfire, poking at the flames. Ren stood and stretched, his tail flicking behind him. 

"Hey, kid. Nature's calling. Don't wander off, alright? I'll be back in a few." 

Adam gave a distracted nod, muttering something unintelligible. 

Ren stepped into the shadows, his silhouette vanishing as he melted into the night. Once he was far enough away to escape Adam's hearing range, his slow stride turned into a sprint. First on two legs, then on all fours, he streaked through the forest like a phantom, moving with an eerie silence that defied his size. The scent he'd caught earlier—human sweat mixed with unwashed steel and blood—grew stronger, guiding him toward his prey. 

**Bandits.** 

Ren's eyes gleamed in the faint moonlight as he spotted the faint glow of a torch up ahead. Slowing, he crept low to the ground, his breathing steady and controlled. He slithered into the underbrush near the camp's edge, watching as a man staggered out of a tent, yawning and fumbling with his belt. 

The bandit moved to a tree and began relieving himself, humming a drunken tune. He never heard the faint rush of air as Ren closed the distance. In one swift motion, Ren's scimitar sliced clean through the man's skull, splitting it from crown to chin. Before the body could crumple, Ren caught it, dragging it into the bushes and hiding the corpse among the undergrowth. 

The bloodied scimitar disappeared under his cloak, and Ren's sharp claws slid into his fingers like knives. He slunk around the camp's perimeter, silent as death, dispatching any sentry or wandering bandit who strayed too far. One man, seated by the edge of the camp and whittling a piece of wood, didn't even look up before Ren's clawed hand shot forward, gripping his face and twisting violently. The sickening crunch echoed faintly as the man's neck snapped, his body slumping to the ground. 

Ren dragged the body into the shadows, his green eyes scanning the camp. The torches cast a flickering light over the ragged tents and scattered supplies. 

The perimeter cleared, Ren moved into the camp itself. He crouched low, prowling like a predator among prey. He picked a tent at random and tore through the fabric with his claws, bursting inside. 

Three bandits barely had time to register the intrusion. 

The first man swung a dagger, but Ren ducked under it with inhuman speed, grabbing the bandit's arm and twisting it backward until the joint snapped like a dry twig. He drove his claws into the man's throat, ripping it out in one savage motion. Blood sprayed the canvas walls. 

The second bandit lunged with a sword, but Ren sidestepped, slamming his fist into the man's face with enough force to cave in his skull. The lifeless body crumpled, blood pooling beneath it. 

The third screamed, scrambling for the tent's entrance, but Ren pounced, dragging the man back. His jaws closed around the bandit's neck, biting down until the vertebrae shattered. Ren ripped the head free, spitting it out with a growl as the body twitched and stilled. 

More commotion erupted outside as the surviving bandits realized something was wrong. 

Ren emerged from the tent like a beast unchained, his claws glinting red in the firelight. A bandit swung an axe at him, but Ren caught the handle mid-swing, his claws digging into the wood. He yanked the weapon free, flipped it in his hand, and buried it in the man's chest. 

Two more rushed him from opposite sides. Ren leapt straight into the air, twisting as he did. He landed behind one, driving his scimitar through the bandit's spine, then turned and clawed the second one's face, leaving deep, bloody furrows. The man shrieked, dropping his sword and clutching his ruined face as Ren grabbed him by the shoulders and tore him apart with a savage pull. 

The remaining bandits tried to flee, but Ren was faster. He darted through the camp like a shadow, cutting them down one by one. One man tripped, his torch tumbling to the ground. Ren was on him instantly, driving his knee into the man's chest and sinking his teeth into his throat. 

By the time the last scream faded, the camp was silent. Bodies littered the ground, twisted and broken, blood soaking into the dirt. Ren stood amidst the carnage, his breath steady despite the massacre. He wiped his claws clean on one of the bandits' cloaks and looked around, ensuring no one had escaped. 

Satisfied, he turned and sprinted back into the forest, his movements as silent as before. By the time he returned to the campfire, Adam was still sitting there, tossing twigs into the flames. 

Ren strolled back into the light, stretching casually. "Nature's call answered," he said with a grin, settling back down by the fire as though nothing had happened.