Morning came slow.
The snow outside had quieted, falling softer than usual—like the world was holding its breath. Inside the tavern, the fire cracked quietly in the hearth. Warm whiskey sat in Vladd's hand, half-gone and warm in his gut. He leaned on the bar, speaking occasionally with the bartender. Nothing new.
Same old Vladd. Same damn whiskey.
Only a few others were around—three, maybe four. Locals too stubborn to die, too numb to care. The kind that blended into shadows and didn't ask questions.
Then the door creaked open.
The bell above it gave a lazy, weak jingle.
A man stepped inside.
Tall. Broad. Quiet. Dressed in a black coat with a haori draped over his shoulders. Two katanas hung from his waist, gleaming faintly under the tavern lights. His right arm bore a thick, ink-black dragon tattoo, its eyes coiled around his muscle. Five scars decorated his body—one running through his right eye, two slashed across his arms, and another couple barely visible beneath his clothing. His other arm was sleeved in a full Japanese-style tattoo, like something out of a history book. His hair was long, tied up in a topknot—丁髷, the old samurai style.
He moved slow. With intention.
And Vladd knew instantly.
This bastard's trouble.
The man didn't look around. Didn't greet anyone. He walked straight to the bar…
And sat down right next to Vladd.
Vladd scowled.
Of all the empty seats in this frozen hellhole, he picks the one next to me? I reek of whiskey and three days' worth of regret. You'd think that'd scare most people away.
He stood up wordlessly, glass still in hand, and moved four stools down.
The man didn't react. Didn't even blink.
Then, silently, he got up too—and sat beside him again.
Vladd's brow twitched. Nope.
He moved three more seats.
The man followed.
Seriously? What is this? A fucking game?
One more move. The farthest seat in the bar.
And again—step. step.—the stranger sat right next to him.
Vladd stared forward blankly.
"…Persistent bastard," he muttered, finally accepting defeat and sipping from his glass.
The samurai finally spoke, voice low and sharp. "You have sake?"
The bartender, clearly tense, glanced at him. "O-oh. Sake? Uh… yeah. One glass?"
"One."
The bartender poured and slid it over with a nervous smile.
Ten minutes passed.
Vladd drank. So did the stranger.
He didn't speak again. He just downed one glass of sake after another.
By the time he finished his twelfth, Vladd glanced sideways, thoughts crawling.
What the hell's with this guy? Comes in here, drinks twelve sakes like water, follows me around like a lost dog—and he hasn't said a damn thing until—
"Fallen Prince."
The words were ice.
Vladd turned slightly, brows furrowed. "Huh?"
"You ever heard a story?" the samurai said, looking at his drink, then at Vladd. "About a fallen hero."
Vladd tensed slightly, mind already racing.
...A story? What kind of line is that? Who just—
"A story?" he repeated, tone skeptical. "What kind of story?"
The samurai stared forward. "A boy born to be a hero. Crowned in gold. Eyes that saw the future. But treated like a villain. Betrayed. Hated. Cast aside. The story of the Fallen Prince of Dravinthia."
Vladd's face didn't move.
But inside—
Shit. He knows.
He knows who I am.
And what a stupid title. "Fallen Prince"? Ugh… who the hell came up with that cringe-ass name?
He glanced at the stranger out of the corner of his eye.
So he's here to collect the bounty, huh? Must've tracked me somehow. But how? I slaughtered every single person in that kingdom. Not a soul should've walked away…
"…Who are you?" Vladd asked.
The samurai didn't look at him. "Me? Just a lone hunter. A blade for hire. I kill criminals for coin."
Then, with a quiet smirk: "No need for names. We're not here to be friends, are we… Fallen Prince?"
And then—without warning—he jumped.
Mid-air, katanas drawn, striking a sharp, poised form.
Vladd's expression didn't change.
Here we go. And of course, he has to pose while jumping—what is this, a stage play?
He reached for Godspeed, his cursed lightning blade, just as the samurai slashed down with speed that cracked the bar counter.
Vladd vanished—Lightning Step—and reappeared behind him, lashing out with a thunder-infused kick. The force of it blasted the samurai through the wall and out into the snow.
Vladd sighed, downed the rest of his whiskey, and muttered, "Shit… sorry for the mess. I'll pay you back once this crap's over."
The bartender blinked at the destroyed bar. "Uh… sure. Dammit. This place was holding together just fine…"