Tipping The boiling Pot
In the town of Vismagia, the Adventurers’ Guild hall was bustling as always—packed shoulder-to-shoulder with men and women chasing coin, glory, and anything that might keep them from dying of boredom.
Some came for work. Some came to drink. Some came to sit with companions and wait for something interesting to happen.
And on days when gold was flowing through pockets like water, “interesting” had a way of finding the hall.
In one corner, three figures sat beneath travel cloaks, their noble attire hidden from the common gaze. Status made people wary. Wary people asked questions. And questions got in the way of their job.
“We’re getting nowhere with our search…” Callahan muttered. He leaned toward Francis. “Second Lieutenant—what do we do?”
Francis didn’t look up from her drink.
"I don't know," Francis responded. "For now, we wait and observe the town for a while, I guess..."
The cloaked trio were members of the Green Oath.
Commander Slav had taken First Lieutenant Ode with her to search points of relevance across Vismagia. Francis and the others had been stationed in the heart of the city to watch the flow of rumors and report anything out of the ordinary.
Callahan was too honest about his boredom.
Iordanus was worse.
“I can’t believe this,” he snarled, staring at the laughing, rowdy adventurers. “How are we supposed to get the job done if we’re just sitting in this pub of fools?”
Francis and Callahan exchanged silent glances, their calm contrasting with Iordanus's rising frustration, heightening the tension.
It didn’t.
“Is that elf girl going to humiliate me further by having me sit and do nothing in this dump?”
Iordanus crossed his arms, foot tapping hard enough to shake the table.
Francis moved.
The eating knife in her hand lifted and slid close—close enough that Iordanus felt the cold kiss of metal without it ever needing to cut.
Her voice came out clipped, hard-edged, carrying an accent that made the warning sound heavier than the words.
“This is your last warning,” she said quietly. “You will address the Commander as the Commander. She may be lenient on you because she's an elf, but I'm not that understanding. Got it?”
Iordanus showed his teeth, rage pressing against pride. He turned his head away, eyes squeezed shut—refusing to agree out loud, refusing to provoke her into proving she meant it.
The knife withdrew.
Silence was his surrender.
They returned to waiting—eating, drinking, listening to the guild hall breathe.
And it proved worth it.
In a far corner of the hall, attention began to gather around a single man.
He looked like a knight who had been chewed up and spat out. His battered armor hung loosely, his clothes stained and worn. His face had seen better days.
But it wasn’t his condition that drew eyes.
It was the way he carried himself—like a tragic figure who had already accepted his ending, and no longer cared who watched him fall apart.
Even Green Oath listened.
Not intentionally at first. The man’s voice simply carried the wrong kind of weight.
“I wonder what’s going on over there,” Callahan murmured.
Francis lifted her fingers slightly.
Wind magic stirred—subtle as breath. Not a storm, not a wave. A funnel. A thin thread of air that bent sound toward their table while leaving the rest of the hall untouched.
Enough to hear. Not enough to be noticed.
“Hehehe…” The knight laughed slowly, dazed. “You people don’t know anything about death.”
The adventurers around him snorted.
“What is this old man rambling about?”
Their laughter rose, but it wasn’t cruel. It was nervous—like mocking the darkness might keep it from noticing them.
The knight chuckled too, a faint sound meant to drown his despair.
Then he lifted his gaze—eyes wide, unblinking—and continued as if he were speaking to something far behind them.
“Death and life…” he murmured. “We take them for granted. We become greedy. Lustful for what is not ours. Envious of what was never meant for us…”
His voice sank lower, soaked in regret.
“…forgetting that every sin is paid in full.”
The hall quieted by degrees, laughter thinning.
“And on that day,” the knight continued, “we paid a hefty price for our sins…”
The crowd watched him without moving. Around them, guild life carried on as if his words were just another tavern tale. Ice cracked in a glass at the next table when an adventurer dropped a fresh cube into his water. Someone else leaned back and lit a cigarette with a lazy flick of flame magic on his fingertip, as if fire was nothing more than a parlor trick.
The knight watched it all. The casualness. The comfort.
The ease with which they held the things that had ended his knight comrades.
Then—without warning—his eyes bulged, as if something inside him had yanked the strings too tight. His mouth worked soundlessly for a beat, and when words finally came, they came wrong.
It wasn’t a story anymore.
“Death by flame. Frozen solid. Death by flame. Frozen solid. Death by flame. Frozen solid.”
Again and again—too fast to be thought, too steady to be accidental. Like a prayer hammered into bone. Like a curse that had learned his tongue.
"Death by flame. Frozen solid.” He stopped.
His fingers twitched against the tabletop, scratching at the grain as if trying to find purchase. His smile tried to form—failed—then returned as a split thing, too wide at the edges, trembling like torn cloth.
Then a chuckle scraped out of him—low and cracked. While his eyes stayed wide, unblinking, as though he’d forgotten how.
“Tch. One of these peasants has lost his mind,” Iordanus muttered, disgusted.
Francis didn’t even look at him.
The crowd tried to laugh again.
“But you’re still alive, old man!”
Some laughed because others laughed. Some laughed because fear needed an outlet. But most… listened. The words hit something inside them that humor couldn’t cover.
“This old man is crazy,” someone said.
The knight’s gaze slid—landing on that speaker with terrifying stillness.
The man who’d mocked him shivered.
It wasn’t personal. It was simply the wrong place to stand.
“We were granted mercy,” the knight whispered. “But mercy does not always guarantee freedom…”
He inhaled, shaky.
“I should know.” His eyes sharpened. “And so does the Count.”
At the word “Count,” Francis, Callahan—and even Iordanus stiffened.
Iordanus sat up straighter.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered, suddenly alert.
"Yes, we all heard," Callahan said.
The knight continued, voice sharpening as a blade dragged across stone.
“In a desperate attempt to sate his sins, the Count angered a beast… and we all paid the price for him.”
Silence rolled across the guild hall like fog.
“We will forever rue the day we chose to enter…” the knight said, eyes boring into the crowd as if he could see their future, “…the domain of the lion.”
A flicker of crimson mana with the silhouette of a horn. roared in the knight's eyes.
Nobody laughed now.
The adventurers who had come for coin and entertainment found themselves staring at a broken knight—wondering what had truly happened at the Count’s manor.
They all knew his mansion had been destroyed. They just hadn’t known at what cost.
“Old man…” one adventurer asked cautiously, voice lowered. “Are you okay?”
The knight answered with a laugh—menacing, despairing—like the question itself was a joke.
While the knight laughed and the crowd fumbled for sense, a slightly taller man pushed through the gathering with brute impatience—shoulders and elbows forcing people aside as if they were furniture.
“Out of my way, peasants!” Iordanus barked.
Heads turned. A few adventurers frowned. Most stepped back on instinct.
He didn’t pause to consider his approach or cover. He didn’t even pretend to be subtle.
The smart move would have been to let the broken knight ramble. Men like that spilled truth when they weren’t pressured. Or better—follow him out of the guild and question him somewhere quiet.
But Iordanus had never been built for patience.
Callahan’s eyes widened. Looking at the space where Iordanus had been, “What—?”
Francis’s jaw tightened. “Argh. That moron…”
Iordanus moved so fast that Callahan hadn’t even registered him standing until he was already in front of the knight—cloak shifting with each shove, noble posture visible beneath the disguise.
Francis lifted her hand to her right ear.
The air around her stirred—wind compressed into a thin channel, carrying her voice like a thread.
“Commander,” she said quietly. “We have a situation.”
A breath of silence.
Then Slav’s voice returned through the same invisible line.
“What is it?”
“There’s a man in the guild hall speaking about Count Juliq Herlon,” Francis reported, eyes locked on the scene. “He looks like a soldier from the manor. What are your orders?”
The turn of events caught Slav off guard. Francis felt the pause even through the wind.
“…Question him,” Slav ordered at last. “Find out everything he knows. Do it subtly. Do not reveal your identity.”
“Understood,” Francis replied—but her tone suggested the problem wasn’t the knight.
“And Commander,” she added, colder now, “Iordanus acted without orders. His actions may jeopardize the mission. What shall I do about him?”
Iordanus acted on his own again. Predictable. Slav thought.
Slav’s reply came after a sigh, strained.
“I’m dealing with something myself. Handle him however you see fit—remember: our identity must remain secret.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Francis cut the wind-thread and rose from her chair.
※※※
High above Vismagia’s rooftops, Commander Slav and First Lieutenant Ode hovered on controlled wind currents, cloaks tugged by the air. From up here, the city looked calm.
But the estate below—Count Herlon’s territory—told a different story.
Slav’s gaze sharpened on something odd. Something that felt wrong enough to bring the investigation forward… maybe even to a close.
A man was seen searching the mansion.
“What’s up?” Ode asked, following her eyes.
“They have a lead at the guild,” Slav said. “Francis will handle it. We focus on ours.”
Ode’s mouth twitched. “Francis, huh…?”
Slav didn’t answer. Her attention stayed fixed on the man.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t something she could ignore.
※※※
Back in the guild hall, Iordanus stood over the knight like a lord presiding over a trial.
He leaned forward from beneath his cloak, face still visible—impatience carved into every expression.
“You,” Iordanus demanded. “What did you just say about Count Juliq Herlon?”
The knight lifted his gaze. His expression was strangely calm—too calm for a man who’d been laughing like a corpse.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My identity is of no concern to you,” Iordanus snapped. “Tell me everything you know about the Count—especially what happened in the last few weeks.”
The knight exhaled through his nose like he’d heard this script before.
“Ah. Another brat who doesn’t know what he’s getting into,” he muttered. “Go home, kid.”
He turned back to his drink—his philosopher state dissolving into drunk in a blink—and took a long swallow as if Iordanus didn’t exist.
That dismissal struck Iordanus like a slap.
His pride couldn’t tolerate being ignored by a nobody.
“What did you say?” Iordanus's mouth curled.
“You heard me,” the knight said, still not looking up. “I don’t know who sent you, but leave. And don’t go sniffing around the Count’s business if you know what’s good for you.”
The knight’s indifference tested the limits of Iordanus’s restraints.
He grabbed the man by the collar of his battered knight’s clothes and yanked him up from the chair, dragging him close until their faces were a handspan apart.
Cups fell, and the chair tipped while the crowd stepped back at once.
No one interfered.
Not because they approved—because they recognized danger when it stood tall.
“Listen here, you mongrel,” Iordanus hissed. “I wasn’t asking. Peasants should learn to obey nobles if they wanna live.”
His voice rose, sharp enough to cut through the hall. “Now do as I say and tell me what happened at the Count’s mansion!”
The knight didn’t flinch.
If anything, he looked… tired.
Then he laughed in Iordanus’s face.
Not condescending. Not mocking. Just hollow—like fear had already burned out of him.
“Your threats are nothing,” the knight said. “You want to kill me? Go ahead. After what I’ve faced, nothing can scare me…”
His eyes sharpened suddenly, and the laugh died.
“…except for the child with a horn.”
That line landed like a stone thrown into still water.
A few adventurers who’d been half-laughing earlier stopped completely.
Iordanus’s grip tightened.
Everything the knight said was a blow. The refusal. The warning. The nameless terror. It pushed Iordanus closer to the edge.
“Why you—!”
He was about to slam the knight down when a hand clamped onto his shoulder from behind.
Iordanus jerked around.
Francis stood there, eyes cold. Callahan was beside her, scratching his head like he couldn’t believe this was real.
“Stop what you’re doing,” Francis ordered.
“But he has what we need,” Iordanus hissed. “We can’t just let him go!”
Francis didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
She turned her gaze to the crowd.
“Look around you.”
Iordanus followed her eyes—and saw it.
People watching. People whispering. Heads turning. Attention sharpening. Suspicion forming.
Francis leaned in, voice low enough to be private—heavy enough to be absolute.
“This isn’t a request. It’s an order from your superior.”
Her eyes didn’t blink.
“Let him go.”
For a moment, Iordanus’s pride fought the command.
Then he shrugged Francis’s hand off his shoulder with force, released the knight, and shoved him back into his chair hard enough to rattle the table.
He stepped toward Francis, taller by a little, using height like a weapon.
Their cloaks hid the worst of their expressions from the hall, but not from each other.
“You know,” Iordanus said, disgust curling in his voice, “I always thought you were slow. But this proves how stupid you are.”
Francis didn’t react.
“This man might have what we came for,” he continued, “and here you are whining about exposing our identity.”
Francis stared at him in silence.
Then Iordanus continued. "The elf's stupidity must have rubbed off on you."
Iordanus's provocation and insult had been received. Luckily, it was not the place to pay it back.
Francis continued to stare at him.
This time, she didn’t bother hiding how close she was to snapping. A menacing pressure rolled off her—wind mana compressed so tightly it looked like a faint green haze, sharp enough to make the air feel thin.
Iordanus stared back without flinching, pride refusing to yield the last inch like usual.
Before Francis could speak, Callahan stepped in—gentle voice, firm spine.
“Listen,” he said, trying to sound friendly even as he warned. “The Commander gave us orders. And you’re defying them.”
Iordanus didn’t blink.
“If you keep this up,” Callahan continued, “Duke Mothis will hear about it. Do you really want to lose your position in Green Oath?”
“…Nobody asked for your opinion,” Iordanus muttered.
He gave Francis one last look—contempt wrapped in a smirk—then clicked his tongue and headed for the door.
“Hey—!” Callahan reached out instinctively, but Iordanus was already gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Callahan was left standing beside Francis, who was still radiating quiet fury. He didn’t know what to say to a superior who looked one breath away from violence.
“I’m sorry, Second Lieutenant,” he offered.
Whether it was an apology for failing to stop Iordanus, or just the safest words he could find, even Callahan didn’t know.
The pressure around Francis swelled for a heartbeat—then she dragged it back under control like she was forcing a lid onto boiling water.
“It’s fine,” she said, voice flat. “We’re leaving. We’ve already attracted enough attention."
“Yes, ma’am,” Callahan answered at once.
All around them, eyes followed. Whispers moved. Adventurers pretended not to stare while staring anyway.
Francis didn’t react to any of it. That was the frightening part—she could burn hot enough to break bone, and still keep her face cold.
They turned to go.
Then the knight spoke.
“I actually died, you know…”
Callahan paused. So did Francis.
Callahan turned slowly. “Hm?”
The knight stared down at his mug as if it held the memory.
“What do you mean you died?” Callahan asked, puzzled. The man was sitting there breathing, intact.
“When your friend said he would ‘let me live,’” the knight murmured, “I wasn’t afraid… because I already died.”
Francis’s expression didn’t change, but her attention sharpened to a point.
“I apologize for my companion manhandling you,” she said, measured. “But… what are you talking about, sir?”
The knight lifted his gaze to Francis—and for a moment, the terror in his eyes made the bustling guild hall feel very far away.
“Mercy… and ruthlessness,” he said, raising one hand, then the other, as if weighing two invisible blades. “Those people held both in their palms. Depending on who you faced… You received what they chose to give.”
His hands began to tremble.
Then he swallowed and forced the words out.
“I was frozen to death, unable to feel anything,” he whispered, “and then thawed back to life by the heat of a dragon’s breath.”
To the crowd, it sounded like nonsense.
To Francis, it was a key turning in a lock.
The knight’s voice dropped, raw with warning.
“Young lady… do not cross Reina.”
Francis held still.
“For she walks with the child with a horn,” he said, eyes wide and unblinking, “and he does not hesitate to punish those who harm his family.”
Callahan glanced at Francis, alarmed by how she’d gone momentarily distant.
“Second Lieutenant?”
Francis didn’t answer right away. Her mind was already sorting the pieces: horn… flame… the manor’s destruction… “death by flame.”
The guild hall was no place to pull on the thread further.
The knight chuckled again—soft, cracked, more pain than humor—and his trembling hands lowered back to the table.
Francis bowed once, professional and controlled.
“Thank you,” she said. “We’ll be leaving now.”
This development was bigger than any they’d gained before—but it would have to wait until the knight was alone.
With one last glance—curious and calculating—Francis turned and walked out, leaving the broken knight drowning in his own memories amid a crowd that still didn’t understand what it had just heard.
