“How convenient that we’ve met like this!” he sleazed, barely able to suppress the singsong western accent. “The uh… The city quarter’s militia master has given the order to confiscate any military surplus weapons, and we’ve gotten a tip that you might be storing some war-knives and sparklocks.”

Makhus had to hold back a chuckle, as he knew that Willowdale’s militia was only divided by city quarters for the purposes of defending the town from outside threats, and that the people who managed the militia were not even called “militia masters”. The term “militia master” did match the literal translation of a Pateirian term for a town guard commander, however. Plus, no way in hell did the militia have the authority to permanently disarm any citizen for any reason, unless they were being tried for a serious crime.

Closing his eyes for a moment and letting out a sigh, the alchemist dropped any pretenses of amiability and stared the thug down with just a mote of the resentment that roiled behind his eyes.

“Just get lost,” he seethed, stepping forward. “I’ve got better shit to do than get lied to by some cat-eater’s pet thug.”

Anger flashed across the man’s face briefly before it was overtaken by a false, polite smile, as he said, “I’m sorry Sir, but I must insist. As per the War Crime Persecution Treaty, I am obligated to pursue any and all avenues of investigation.”

Despite the surface-level pleasantries, the man’s squinted eyes and honeyed words both dripped venom and hatred.

The Swordsman spat back with the very same venom, “Do you think you’re hard enough, little man? You think I ain’t seen ten dozen tinpot tyrants just like you in my service? You think I ain’t drown fuckers like you in trench mud for fun? You don’t scare me. Leave my store right this second or I’ll make you understand why your joke of an emperor hates us so much.”

“Will you really die for some tarnished steel?” the man laughed, too taken aback to be furious at the barrage of threats and insults he had just weathered.

Makhus allowed his hand to slide down to the hilt of his war-knife, looked the man up and down, then spat at his feet. He took a breath, focusing just enough to produce some Fog in his lungs. “Someone will, if you don’t leave right now,” he said, exhaling a silvery wisp big enough to make it clear that he wasn’t fucking around.

Much to his satisfaction, the thug quickly and quietly backed away, muttering something about how he must’ve made a mistake as he ambled down the street. After observing him for a little while to make sure he wouldn’t just stop and come back, Makhus slipped into the store and locked the door behind himself. He made his way down to the basement to drop off the lockbox, before returning to the upper floor to finish the meal that the governor’s investigator had so rudely interrupted.

“How’d things go? And what was the deal with that noise out front?” Sig murmured questions under his mustache, crunching down walnuts between words and reading some pulpy, fake martial arts book. Its overlong, gaudy title boldly touted:

Learn the Uragánrana, and other lethal maneuvers from far-off lands!

Makhus cut himself a piece of the disappointingly small roast chicken they had cooked, sat down at the table, and explained the situation as he ate.

Emerging from the Fog Gate at the other side had both Zel and Zef rearing at the complete incongruity of this chamber with all those previous. It seemed as though entering more deeply into the dungeon, as though coming closer to the dungeon core, only rendered the dungeon more advanced. More elaborate. And most likely, more lethal.

The architecture was more elaborate, more well thought-out, with arched ceilings and elaborately-decorated lightgems. They were set at a lower height in the wall, opposite pairs connected by glowing lines that ran down the wall and across the floor. Everything was clean, perfect, untarnished, as though not a single locust had stepped foot in this particular chamber.

It was just a rectangular room with a door at the other end and a towering statue right in the center, rendered entirely in black stone. The figure depicted a heavily abstracted, vaguely humanoid emaciated figure with a skull-like face draped by a curtain of hair and crowned with jagged antlers. Behind the long hair, one could see the gaping holes that were its eyes as well as a gaping maw. It was hunched over, its arms limbs long and distended, the right arm one pulled back as if to lash out whilst the left just hung limp.

“What in the… Do you recognize that at all?” Zefaris wondered out loud, furrowing her brow as the realization dawned on her.

Before Zel could answer, the statue’s eyes lit up and it came alive, moving about with lifelike smoothness to the subtle sound of smooth stone rubbing against itself. It sat down with its legs crossed, holding up its long-clawed hands splayed out in a beckoning gesture. It was then that Zelsys noticed a major discrepancy. Its claws were not claws at all, but curved, hollow needles. For a few seconds she stood still, then took a step towards the statue to see if it would react.

“This is the man-eating beast I dealt just after we first arrived in Willowdale,” she said, still cautiously observing. “The dungeon offered to refine an Azoth for me, and I only had this one.”

“But… What is it? It looks like something I’ve seen in a book, but my memory is hazy…” Zefaris wondered aloud, audibly befuddled as she tilted her head and walked around the thing to get a look at it from different angles.

The statue did respond to that question, even though it was with a noticeable delay. It “exhaled” a long thread of Fog from a hidden spout in the back of its mouth, which as expected formed into writing in front of its face.

The Maneater of Retribution