ARC 7-Cursed Fates-75 (Patreon)

His name is Winter, unimaginatively named for the season he was born in, and his story is rather unremarkable. Like many other hunters, he is a boy from a simple family that wanted more than a legacy of hard work and minimal opportunities. Growing up, he didn’t mind the sight of blood when it was his turn to slaughter the chickens and he was never scared to forage outside the village despite his mother warning him that monsters would make a meal of him, so he figured he would make a decent hunter.

When he came of age, he ventured into the city and joined One For All, as they have the least stringent requirements for new members. That was important because he didn’t think of himself as particularly talented and had no training to speak of. However, as he diligently attended the free training the guild offered and completed simple requests, another group took notice of him. They told him that he did have talents, a cool head and a steady blade, and they could make use of them killing monsters of a different kind.

They called themselves The Third Hand. As in, if a knight carried a sword and shield in each hand, they were the third hand that carried the dishonorable dagger that no one liked but was needed.

At first, Winter rejected the idea of killing people. He had been raised to think of murder as evil and didn’t much like the idea of being an evil man. But the Hand showed him things. True evil. People that were more monster than human and couldn’t be stopped by anything else than a knife to the heart. They told him to imagine these people going to his village, doing their terrible deeds to his friends and family.

Suddenly, the thought of killing became much easier to swallow.

It wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought it would be. Flesh was flesh. No matter what he cut, it bled the same red blood. The work was often times less dangerous and more pleasant than trekking into the wild to hunt manabeasts. Most villains were cowards, with little power themselves, and they were much easier to take by surprise. It also paid better than standard work. Winter wasn’t rich but he had a nice house and could enjoy himself in the Myriad Zone when he pleased while still sending enough home to make sure his family was taken care of.

After a few years, he started to take pride in his work and his organization. The guilds have a long, storied history, the Hand most of all. They were the first guild, originally starting as a peace-keeping force when the city was just a collection of war camps used as a staging ground for the army as it pushed deeper into the continent. When the city was built and a lord appointed to govern it, he “encouraged” the Hand to disband and established the guard in their place, a force under his control. But it was a futile gesture. The hunters, used to governing themselves, shut out the guards or were openly hostile. Meanwhile, the Hand continued their work, just more discreetly.

Eventually, the lord wizened up. He couldn’t endorse the Hand and admit he had no control over his city, but he realized trying to fight them was an unwinnable war. An unspoken agreement was struck. The guard would be the public face of the city’s security and would handle the menial squabbles between the citizens while the Hand would follow their tradition of hunting monsters. Villains too smart to be judged by the law and casters that wielded their magic against innocents.

Not once had the Hand ever sent him after anyone that didn’t need to be taken out by a knife in the dark. If not for their own sins, then for the catastrophe they would bring to others. Sometimes, innocents had to die to protect innocents. Those are the assignments he hates most.

I don’t fall into that category. The noblewoman named Lourianne Tome is a villain in the eyes of the Hand. I’ve killed people, traumatized the city, and am posed to bring tragedy to Quest on a scale they’ve never seen before. Unsurprisingly, my intentions to cause as little damage as possible as I settle the debt between Victory and Quest were never communicated to my would-be assassins. What they were told was that I had killed their fellow hunters, caused thousands of crowns worth of damage to the city, and could bring a war to their walls if I wasn’t stopped.

It’s amazing how much more Geneva gets from him. As she asks her questions, I catch tiny glimpses of his true thoughts. When she asks who he is, I get his name, Winter. Geneva sees the entirety of who he is, from the boy who grew up in a village a week’s ride from Quest to the killer he became. She asks about his assignment and I get vague bloodlust while she sees the whole conversation, including who gave him said assignment.

It doesn’t have a thing to do with mana expenditure either, as Geneva uses the same basic spell to make a point. All that she gleams is a result of mastery, of being so familiar with thoughts that where I hear something close to the drone of insects, she hears everything in his heart and mind.

Winter isn’t a fount of information, but he does give us the location of the Hand’s secret guildhall. It’s enough to track them down and bury them, which we may need to do. The Hand is as stubborn as the other guilds. Once they accept a request, they don’t quit until it’s fulfilled. Supposedly. It’s hard to maintain that conviction after a significant number of your forces die in vain but it’s possible that I could have assassins on my tail for the rest of my days if I leave them alone.

When we finish with him, we turn him over to Marcella. A small gesture after stomping all over her authority earlier. There’s no reason to burn anymore bridges, as I’m not swimming in a sea of allies currently. I’m sure she can make better use of him, or his corpse, than we can.

An awkward tension stifles the room once Marcella’s men collect the poor man. Geneva promised him he wouldn’t feel any pain if he cooperated, but I don’t know anyone who can remain calm while someone snatches their secrets. He struggled, reflexively, and as promised, he paid for it. It is a shell of the man that weakly falls into the grasps of the hotel guards, his eyes bloodshot and haunted.

Once he is gone, an echo of that pain remains. The sky is dark, telling us that we should be sleeping, but none of us can lie down with the man’s muffled screams still ringing in our ears. Since we can’t sleep, we decide to start the day. Alana monopolizes the room for her daily exercise, pushing aside the bed for more space as she doesn’t want to risk making a target of herself by stepping out of the building.

Geneva goes to secure breakfast, or in other words, commandeer the kitchens for a few minutes. I humored Marcella last night, but I won’t be suffering tasteless bread and watery fruit when I don’t need to.

Earl meets me outside our room, bright-eyed and dressed in his uniform despite the hour. My first instinct is tell him to go back to bed but, seeing how perky he is, I know it’s a useless idea. He has more energy than all of us combined. After he assures me that Anna is still resting, I give him a task. Namely gathering the boring but critical information needed if I want to consider staying in the city despite being ousted from the Hall. Property laws, taxes, and all the other things that come with living in a settlement that isn’t governed by your father.

After he happily marches off with his orders, I take Talia by the hand and lead her through the hotel until we find an empty room. I’m about to break the lock but my flower catches my wrist.

“You have more tools at your disposal,” she says simply.

Yes, but why use them when brute force is so quick and effective? But, under her exotic gaze, I can’t bring myself to act like a barbarian. She isn’t wrong. There are several ways I can open this door. One of them is almost as easy as kicking it down.

I extend a finger to the lock. As it meets the polished brass, my hand turns to purple ooze. I bend and shift the oozey digit, letting it take the shape of the lock. Then I twist. The lock opens with a satisfying click and I open the door with my opposite hand.

Talia is unfazed by our unseemly conduct, breezily stepping past me to enter the room, a copy of our own except the rug between the foot of the bed and the door is a shade of green instead of red. Talia sits on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other as she leans back, emphasizing her modest chest. “Why did we need privacy, Lou?”

Hah. If only. “Not for that. Or, at least, not right now. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Her inviting demeanor changes to something softer as she climbs onto the bed and pats the place beside her. “What is bothering you?” she asks, leaning against me as I take a seat.

“How would you punish a succubus?”