An aging elf with a handlebar moustache and a well-groomed beard pushed a creaky metal cart down a narrow hall. He frowned as he watched the sun shine through the moth-bitten curtains. The old mansion was long past its prime. The winds leaked freely through the windows, and the floorboards would surely have screamed had he been any less careful in crossing them.

One of the carpet's rough threads worked its way into the cart's wheels right as he looked away, but the butler removed it in the blink of an eye and returned it to its prior place. There was once a time when he found the work to be impossibly difficult, but with many long years of practice, it had become second nature. One swift motion later, and he was back on his feet, pushing his cart down the hall again as he paced slowly through the building.

There wasn't much to be done for the carpet's condition. Just like everything around it, it had slowly degraded with each passing year. It felt like just yesterday that the manor was brand new, freshly built by the once-lord of the Marinus march, but in reality, it had been nearly nine centuries since.

It was a wonder that the building held up at all; Graham was the only servant still charged with its continued maintenance and the budget was shoestring at best.

In a way, it was his master's fault, but he wasn't entirely to blame.

Few things had gone well for Lord Marinus since he gave up his post. Every investment the unfortunate centaur made left him poorer than the last. He did eventually wisen up, tighten his pursestrings, and abandon all of his riskier ventures. He even returned to work, but by then, it was already too late. He was practically working paycheck to paycheck, never saving more than a few daggers at a time.

Still, the butler had nothing but respect for his master. Though he had gone from marquis to a humble schoolteacher, he continued to live by the principles ingrained into his being. Graham had no doubts that even if left destitute, Marinus would remain every bit the man to whom the soldier had sworn his loyalty. The retired nobleman could have ordered the servants, at any point in time, to make money on the house's behalf and they would have gladly obeyed. But he insisted on providing with his work alone. And at the end of the day, that was why they continued to remain in his service. The strength of his character was impossible to match. Case in point, the butler's present duty.

Lord Marinus had taken pity on an orphan a few years prior and taken her under his wing. That alone was hardly out of the ordinary. Diana was his seventh adopted child, and she would surely be the seventh to find a promising career. Every one of the nobleman's protegees had become either a powerful soldier or a brilliant tactician.

Diana was fortunate enough to have the perfect disposition; she had an immense talent for both pen and sword alike. Marinus had described her potential as monstrous, fully capable of causing a great upheaval sure to result in a noble house of her own. Her potential was only furthered by her cheerful attitude and her mental fortitude. But when Graham opened the door, he found that both were missing.

She was in bed, her eyes closed, her face sickly pale, and her breaths laboured enough that the elf could feel his heart threatening to burst from his chest. He was not a religious man. No elf was. But he was almost tempted to fall to his knees and pray that she would soon recover.

Lord Marinus was in the room with her, a frown on his lips as he clasped her hands in his own. The doctor was seated on the opposite side of the bed. Graham couldn't see his expression, but he imagined that it must have been grave, given his master's solemn reaction.

"How's she looking, Doctor?" asked Graham.

The old cottontail shook his head. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there's no way for us to counteract the drug. The best we can do is try to alleviate some of her symptoms." The doctor grabbed a mortar and pestle off the cart that Graham had brought. "Watch carefully. You'll need to grind up one of these pills every day. It won't have any effect if it's not prepared fresh." He demonstrated by grinding the drug down to a fine powder. "Once it's like this, you'll need to mix in a little bit of water. It doesn't have to be cold, but it can't be boiling."

"Is there really no cure?" asked Lord Marinus. He bit his lips as he matched the doctor's gaze, only to be met with a shake of the head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "We haven't been able to determine what they're putting in viselagg, or how it even works. Back in the day, we might've been able to work out a cure by shipping a sample to Tornatus for analysis, but I'm afraid that's no longer possible."

"I see," said Marinus. "I appreciate you looking at her so quickly."

The rabbit shook his head and rose to his feet. "I wish I could do more." He handed the old centaur a small bag. "This should cover her treatment for the next month. Come see me once you start running low, and I'll make another batch. It should keep her alive, at least, but…"

Marinus nodded. "How much do I owe you?"

"You've saved my life more times than I can count, Sir. Consider it on the house."

"I couldn't." Marinus began rummaging around for his wallet, but the doctor shook his head.

"It's fine. The drug doesn't cost much to make. It's just a few dried herbs, compacted a bit so it looks a little fancier."

"I will pay what is owed."

"Then get my tab next time we go out for dinner, and we'll call it even."

The horse-man paused for a second before taking his hands back out of his purse. "Thank you, Achaiatus."

"Anything for an old friend." Smiling sadly, the healer made his way out the door and closed it behind him, leaving the room as silent as a graveyard.

Graham said nothing. Raising his voice felt no different from cementing the doctor's words in reality. Of course, the butler knew that his personal acknowledgement changed nothing. The fact of the matter was that Diana had fallen prey to viselagg, a narcotic that had recently taken the Marinus march by storm.

Its hallucinogenic effects were said to be brain melting, capable of breaking reality apart and removing all that was undesired. Known in other lands as liquid happiness, it was precisely the sort of substance abused by the tired and distraught. Its adherents could often be seen roaming the streets with goofy smiles upon their faces and blood leaking from every orifice. They stumbled about like zombies, completely oblivious to all that happened around them. Worse yet, it was frighteningly addictive; even taking it just once made it impossible to forget the beauty and wonder that was unknowing the woes that plagued one's spirit.

But worst of all was neither its immediate effects nor its propensity to draw repeat customers. Viselagg was more fearsome because the body was unable to truly expel it. Little bits of it would remain in the blood and the liver even after it was fully broken down. And when enough of it accumulated, the mind and body would part. Supposedly, affected individuals would experience the drug's nirvana for as long as they continued to live, though it was impossible to know if the claim was true. Everyone ended up like Diana, forever stuck in bed and incapable of further communication.

In such a state, stricken by the aptly named viselagg syndrome, no amount of bloodletting or liver-removal could restore a patient to their prior condition. Priests and healers were likewise equally ineffective. The leading theory was that the drug's waste products were somehow recognized as being a part of the body and integrated systemically with the affected individuals.

No one had any idea how Diana had gotten ahold of the drug, or when she had wound up taking it, let alone often enough to induce a comatose state. Graham's personal suspicion was that it had to do with her past. They had never spoken about it at length; all anyone knew was that Diana had struggled to get by before Lord Marinus took her under his wing.

"Graham." The former marquis in question addressed his butler with a growl.

"Yes, General?"

"I'm no general anymore, Graham. We've been over this."

The butler smiled, but said nothing. Shifting into a soldier's stance, with both hands behind his back, he waited for the aged centaur to speak.

"I have a job for you." When Marinus raised his voice again, it was with his fists clenched and his knuckles as white as snow.

"Of course, General."

"Squeeze a cure out of the bastards responsible."

"Understood," said the butler. "And… if there is no cure?"

"Then make sure they never set foot in Cadria again."

"By your will." A fist against his chest, Graham excused himself from the room and headed straight for the armoury.

Its door was one of the few that wasn't cracking apart. Made of metal instead of the usual hardwood, it was every bit as polished as the day they'd purchased it. Graham quickly produced a key from the ring on his belt and undid the massive lock.

The room's insides were dark enough that it was impossible to make anything out, but Graham proceeded as calmly as ever. He took six measured steps, snapped his fingers, and turned on the candle that sat in the middle of the room. With its guiding light, he walked around the displays and lit each in turn, as he always did when he had to maintain them.

With everything lit, he approached the dresser by the door and replaced his everyday woolen garments with a fresh silken set. It wasn't just his shirt, his suit, and his pants that he changed. He switched his bowtie for a jet-black cravat, replaced his worn shoes, and donned a pair of pure white gloves.

Only then did he approach the wall that housed all the weapons. He spent a few moments browsing around and scrutinizing his choices before settling on an obsidian longbow. It was an intimidating beast of a projectile launcher, standing even taller than its wielder. The ivory-like wood from which it was carved had taken well to the runes. Even almost a thousand years after its crafting, it still pulsed with magic, with a multitude of enchantments to bolster the accuracy and power of its magical bolts.

He paired the old weapon with a trio of quivers, one on his waist and two on his back. The arrows within lacked the usual blades, sporting instead a drill-like mechanism, the accompanying explosive magic for which awaited only his mana for its activation.

Five minutes later, and the butler was marching out the front door, ready to act upon his master's orders.

There was no need for him to scout. He'd done it all long in advance.

An unrelated investigation had attributed the drug's distribution to the Ellux crime family, though eliminating it outright wasn't quite so simple. Its source was, unsurprisingly, the western alliance. The alliance specialized in underhanded schemes; the use of mind-altering substances was well within expectations.

If it were up to Graham, the Elluxes would have long been slain. Alas, his master had insisted for them to be left alone. It was the reigning governor's will, not because he was directly connected, but because he knew that such people would always exist. In the grand scheme of things, the Elluxes had historically been fairly harmless. While they were certainly still criminals, they were by and large a group of small-time thieves known more for their obsession with yellow jumpsuits than their illicit activities. If anything, their presence had once proven beneficial—most crime families followed a code of honour and refrained from invading each others' established territory.

Their harmlessness, however, only lasted for so long. Their numbers suddenly ballooned when they began importing the alliance's narcotics. They went from a ten to a hundred to a thousand person operation in a heartbeat and became one of the great underground powers that dominated the Marinus march.

The reigning marquis naturally took notice and began to act in opposition, but by then, it was far too late. Their members had long infiltrated his ranks. That wasn't to say that the cartel controlled the province. The marquis was still in control, and he could very well crush them if he threw his army at the problem. At the end of the day, the cartel was made up of a bunch of greedy merchants and the immoral few willing to play lapdog for their coin. They stood no chance against an organised line of soldiers—another supposed fact that changed with time.

The financial collapse that followed Olethra's death had allowed them to expand their operations even further. Suddenly, there were yellow jumpsuits all over the nation, spread far and wide as a fire in a bone-dry forest. Still, they kept their headquarters in Marinus—in the gambling den just two streets away from Graham's home and workplace.

He marched down the street as he would have on any other day, his steps as precise as any career soldier's. Despite being decked out in gear, he drew no more gazes than usual. The only people who called out to him were the ones he usually interacted with.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

With the number of armed citizens all over the city, it was hardly unexpected. Every other person had a weapon on their hips, at least for style if not self protection. Despite his uniquely neat attire, the butler blended into the crowd just as easily as anyone else.

A few turns later, and he walked through the casino's front door. None of the staff members so much as gave him a second look, even as he stepped through the building with an eagle-eyed gaze. It wasn't until he approached the fourth floor's stairwell that he was finally regarded with suspicion. The two guards in question, a pair of big, burly centaurs, placed their spears in his path before he could climb the steps.

"Above here is for VIPs only. You'll need a badge if you want to pass."

Graham frowned. "I am terribly sorry, gentlemen, but I am afraid I don't happen to have one."

"Then you'll have to apply for one at the front desk," said the guard. "Costs a couple pounds of gold though."

Graham frowned. "I would like to see Madam Ellux."

"Look, I hate to break it to you, but the rumours aren't actually true. You really do need a pass if you want to head up." The guard sighed. "How about you do us both a favour and go through the proper channels?"

The elven butler frowned. "Might the two of you be with the Elluxes?"

He didn't even need to ask. Their bright yellow jumpsuits spoke for themselves.

"Aye, it's how we know," said the guard.

"Good."

Graham leapt out of the spears' range and grabbed the bow off his back. The guards were quick to react. Groaning, they kicked off the ground and prepared to engage, only to freeze midcharge as they laid eyes on the butler.

He never raised his bow all the way.

Grabbing it in his hands, he broke it across his knee and raised the resulting splintered sticks as if they were a pair of twinblades.

There was no time for the guards to recover from their shock. The first was caught in the chin the moment the butler snapped his weapon. The wooden pole rattled his brain as it destroyed his teeth. The other stepped back and attacked from his spear's maximum range, but Graham simply released one of his weapon's handles and bashed it into the centaur's head from afar. Neither guard was quite dead, but their lack of consciousness prevented them from immediately recovering.

The commotion naturally attracted more attention. Guards flooded down the stairs in a hurry, but they couldn't even slow his advance. He simply marched on, gracefully stepping through their lines as he whipped his weapon around. Sometimes, he held one end and used the other as a weapon. Sometimes, he grabbed onto both in order to cut with the bowstring.

In any case, he was unstoppable, a veritable force of nature that left none conscious in his path. He continued up the stairs, through the private rooms in which the high rollers gambled, and into the office at the far end of the hall.

Seated in its chair was a bald reverse-centaur whose heavily tattooed body was obscured by the gang's standard outfit. She wasn't the family's don, but the true don's niece, she was high up enough in the chain to be considered a primary executive.

"What do you want?" she asked.

Graham took a moment to refit his gloves, holster his weapon, and brush off any bits of gore still clinging to his suit before he finally approached. The bow was especially stubborn; it refused to return to its holder until he forcibly jammed one piece of wood into the other.

"Good afternoon, Madame. I happen to be in the market for a cure for viselagg syndrome."

"You and me both," she said with a chortle.

Graham pursed his lips into a frown. The message was clear, but he didn't want to believe it.

"There must be something."

"Who knows?" The old horse put a pipe between her lips and took a drag. The noxious purple smoke that poured from its tip flooded the room as would a spell and crept its way up the walls. A figure soon appeared within it, not one made of smoke, but a flesh and blood warrior with four legs and a full suit of armour. "Beat him, and maybe I'll talk."

When the smoke cleared, it revealed a face that Graham knew all too well. It belonged to the man known as the stormblade. He was one of the most famous warriors in Marinus, known for touring the province's colosseums and besting all of their champions.

A quick inspection of his history affirmed that he was not just a pitfighter. He had served in the elite forces some seven hundred years prior. In all likelihood, the stormblade, Nicator Gurges, was one of the monsters trained by the god-king himself. If that fact weren't intimidating enough, his appearance certainly was. The armour he wore was dark and jagged, its helm forgoing the traditional bucket to appear like the head of a jackal. The ominous platemail covered every part of his centaurian body but the bottom of his face, leaving only his lips revealed to his observers. The exposure only made him all the more threatening, allowing him to show off the jagged fangs that came from his half-thoraen blood.

Still, Graham was perfectly composed. He simply adjusted his gloves again while Nicator kicked off the ground and drew the sword from which his title was taken.

There was an audible thunk as the pair clashed in the middle of the room. All of the smoke was blown away in an instant to reveal their crossed weapons; Graham had perfectly deflected the champion's blade with his broken bow.

He shifted straight into a counter. Digging his feet into the ground, the butler twisted his hips and drove his second wooden stick skyward. In the blink of an eye, it would surely impact the halfbreed's jaw.

Nicator twisted his face out of the way with a scoff and leaned his body forward. The weight naturally slid his blade onto the tiny elf and allowed him to transition into a swing assisted by gravity's pull. It was a devastating blow, heavy enough to completely destroy the floor.

Though caught off guard at first, the gambling den's patrons soon formed a ring and began to cheer as they caught on to the nature of the commotion. It didn't take long for the casino's staff to begin collecting bets. They carefully tallied the bills and gave all the usual flattery, even as they found themselves on the verge of being blown away.

With each meeting of sword and bow was a violent shockwave, powerful enough that it nearly sent the observers falling to their feet. The rapidity only further challenged their balance; the pair exchanged over a dozen blows each second, with the swordsman on the offensive and the archer calmly deflecting his blows. Graham used only one hand. The other was kept behind his back, more for form than function.

It was an obvious provocation. Nicator would have ignored it had they still been behind closed doors, but even though it was his own fault, he didn't have a choice before the public eye. He had to take the bait to preserve his reputation.

He disengaged from the melee with a kick and raised his weapon. Its handle in front of his chest and the flat of its blade parallel with his face, he held it exactly as he did in his knight days.

A necessary part of the ritual.

"Vausticka."

The weapon blossomed as he chanted its name. Mana surged from within its hilt, swallowing its blade and turning it into a jet of water that soon swirled into a whirlpool. A pair of massive wings sprouted from his back. Made of the winds themselves, they generated a massive gust when he flapped them, a blast of air powerful enough to destroy all that was left of the casino. The walls came down. The floors collapsed. The ceilings were blown away. Its patrons were sent flying through the sky like fluttering autumn leaves.

Even though he had done nothing but prime his power.

He twisted his lips into a grin as he lowered his hips. And then, snarling, he charged.

It wasn't just with his sword that he struck.

He engaged his most powerful capstone skill, the ars magna that defined his title as Marinus' greatest champion. It was a peculiar ability that limited both caster and target alike. It restricted Nicator to performing only the most basic attacks, simple swings that had little to note beyond the elegance of their form. One might have construed the ability to be worthless, perhaps even detrimental from that effect alone, but it bound its targets even further. They were forced to adhere to a script defined at the time of casting, compelled to do precisely as described for as long as they were affected. The spell's duration varied heavily from target to target. But against an equal opponent—someone like the butler—it would buy him a fifth of a second.

More importantly, as with any play, there was some room for artistic interpretation. So long as they didn't go against his instructions, they were able to affect their bodies. They could shift their hearts and keep them from being run through. They could drop their blades and impale him, as he was subjected to all the same rules. And they could cast spells under their breaths, so long as he forgot to assure their silence.

Though he had found many pitfalls when he first unlocked the ability, he had since worked out the many kinks in his armour. By fleshing out the scene in much more detail, and by including the precise motions in which his opponent engaged, he could puppet his targets into their graves.

The scene that he wove for the butler was the culmination of his seven hundred years of experience. He would charge the butler with the full might of his weapon unleashed, his body pitched at the perfect angle that his master had always described. The foolish elf would bend his knees at thirty degrees and leap backwards through the air with just enough force to get three meters off the ground, only for the waves to surge and swallow him.

As usual, Vausticka, the sword of the stolen storm, would compensate for the weakness imposed by his ars magna.

And as usual, his opponent would fall.

A grin on his face, the halfbreed dug his feet into the casino's filthy, smoke-ruined carpet and charged towards certain victory.

The victory that never was.

The champion's skull was rattled midswing.

A wooden stick collided with his forehead with such overwhelming force that half his brain was turned to mush. And it was only as it did that he finally registered the blow—the realisation that the butler had broken from his control far earlier than expected. But by then, it was far too late.

His consciousness slipped into the void while the butler grimaced and covered his face, applying pressure to his cheeks as he took a knee.

It wasn't because he was wounded; the only blood splattered on his gloves had come from the many he felled. No. It was because he was searching for something that would allow him to inspect his beard. His moustache was already done for. The windstorm had not only knocked it from his face but ripped many of its hairs out of its adhesive backplate. He hadn't reacted nearly quickly enough to prevent its destruction. But at the very least, he was able to protect his beard.

Sure, it looked a little funny because the glue had gotten loose, but it stayed on his face all the same when he returned it to its proper position.

He started looking around for a mirror as he touched and inspected it—it didn't feel quite right—but there were none to find with the building no more. Fortunately, his opponent had provided the perfect solution.

Grabbing the blade still clutched in the unconscious gladiator's hands, the butler examined his reflection and confirmed that he was every bit as elegant as ever. Only then did he leap over the nearby buildings, skip through the alleys, and land in front of his original target.

The horse-faced woman clicked her tongue and immediately sprinted off in the opposite direction, but it was impossible for her to outrun him. He grabbed her by the shoulder and forcibly spun her around.

"I believe you mentioned you'd talk if I defeated him?"

"You know as well as I do that I don't have shit to tell you," she said, with a click of the tongue. "There is no cure."

The butler frowned as he raised the stolen sword to the mob boss' neck.

"This is your last chance."

"I told you already! I've never heard of a cure!" She started to flail, to try to resist, but she couldn't break free.

"Then I suppose you will simply have to think of one."

The blade dug into her neck, pushing just deep enough into her throat not to cut her vocal cords.

"Are you insane!?" she screamed. "What are you doing!? I'm worth more to you alive!"

"You're worth nothing to me if you can't tell me how I'm supposed to cure viselagg syndrome."

"I told you it's impossible!" Blood poured from her throat. Fear spewed from her body like stock from her loins. She didn't even need to look into his eyes to know that he was about to follow through.

She desperately wracked her brain as she continued to squirm, but it was impossible. The pain overstimulated her mind and briefly robbed her of the ability to think.

"Wait, wait! I know! I do know!" She screamed the epiphany as soon as it became coherent. "The sun priest!"

The butler paused for a moment to frown, but continued pushing his blade forward following a brief delay.

"We already know that no priest can cure it."

"The sun priest is different!"

Graham bit his lips before finally releasing the grip that he had on her shoulders. "Different, how?"

The cartel's executive coughed as she backed away, her hands on her still-bleeding throat. "You know him! I know you do! Ragnar Unfrid, the king of Kryddar," she said, with a hack.

"Ragnar…"

"Yes! Ragnar! He can fix anything! Even viselagg syndrome!"

The butler frowned.

"H-he's coming to Cadria," stuttered the reverse centaur. "He'll be sitting in on the summer festival, working with the god-king directly."

"He would never give me the time of day," said the elf. "I might've been a famed soldier once, but now, I have no noteworthy name to give."

The horse shook her head. "Not if your skills had left you. But you defeated Nicator. You can easily make yourself one of the seven. And then, he'll have no choice but to listen."

Graham stroked his beard. It wasn't the most unreasonable proposition. In reality, only three of the seven slots were left unfilled—Claire Augustus had clearly claimed the fourth—and he doubted that he was one of the nation's three strongest.

But he didn't need to be.

He only needed to be one of the three strongest to show. It was still a bit of a gamble, but recalling all of the energy that Diana had brought to the house was all it took for him to make his decision.

"It's not like I have any other choice."

Madame Ellux relaxed at his words. She collapsed to the ground, her chest heaving until it suddenly wasn't.

When she looked down, confused, she found her servant's sword buried between her ribs. She opened her mouth, her lips cracking as she voiced her final question.

The butler never answered.

He saw no reason to speak.

She would have known had she stopped to think for even a second.

Her underlings could be reformed, turned from thugs into soldiers proud to serve their country. But as the root of their corruption, the poison that ran through Diana's veins, she had no place in Cadria.

"Three months," he muttered. "Hold on for just three months, Diana. I will have you healed."

Balling up his fists, the butler looked to the sky with a deep breath.

Valencia was a long ways away, and there was much he had to do prior to his departure.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.