Chapter 8 — Even If the Sun Doesn’t Shine, Ego Still Sparkles

"Some are born for glory. Others trip, fall face-first, and get dragged along by glittering lunatics."

While they walked, they cut through streets that were half-empty, half-crowded, half-dead, half-alive.

In the alley, there he was again. The dwarf. Same spot. Same snore. Same barrel glued to his sweaty forehead.

Only... something was off.

Kael's stomach clenched.

Tharon went silent. But not the comfortable kind. The kind that weighs on your neck. That crawls up your spine.

That feeling. Of an eye you can't see. Of a breath that doesn't exist, but you feel anyway.

Quick scan. Street. Rooftop. Shadow. Nothing.

Just the dwarf's wet snore. And a bleeeh... snorrrrk... that sounded like it was spit straight out of the underworld.

Kael tightened his grip on Tharon.

"Did you feel that?" Half whisper. Half warning.

"I did," came the dry reply. "And I didn't like it. Which, coming from me, is practically a compliment."

Tharon's tone was sour. Suspicious.

Eyes darting. Nothing. No shadow. No figure. Not even wind.

Nothing.

"Probably just in our heads," Kael said, forcing his pace. "Or not."

"If it's in yours, it's leaking. And seriously... have I mentioned your skull creaks?"

Tharon, as prickly as ever.

They didn't stick around to find out.

Up the slope. Past the dead lamp on the corner. Through another alley that smelled like doubt.

And finally, they stopped in front of the Serpent's Eye tavern.

Door open. Yellow light spilling out. The air reeked of alcohol, grease, and stale smoke.

And her.

The old one. The owner. The gorgon.

Thalga.

Cigar hanging from the corner of her mouth. Smoke curling out of her nostrils, wrapping around the snakes in her hair — hissing low, restless.

She slammed her tail on the floor. Arms crossed. Her gaze could calcify a soul if she felt like it.

"'Bout damn time—cough," she rasped. "Was starting to think you two turned into onion compost."

She spat the words like smoke. Like venom.

She spun, slapped the table, grabbed the plate, and dropped it like a bad hand in a card game.

"Grilled baby kraken skewers... with weeping onions. It's hot. Don't get attached. I don't do miracles twice in one day."

The smell... debatable.

Kael pulled out a chair. Stared at the plate.

"This looks... alive? Dead? Classifiable?"

Tharon hissed — a metallic wheeze.

"I just want to shut down. Power off. Go full rock mode. Anything that doesn't involve tentacles, trauma, or drama."

Thalga adjusted her snakes. Took a deep drag from her cigar. Blew the smoke right in their faces.

"Yeah. Better stay sheathed. Wouldn't want you biting me, huh? Cough."

She laughed — dry and scratchy, right in the middle of the sentence.

Tharon didn't let it slide.

"Lucky for you I don't have teeth. Because if I did... I'd chew that snake tongue of yours."

She laughed. Ugly laugh. Rough laugh. Coughed halfway through, like she was about to spit out a chunk of lung — but held it in.

"Ah... you two amuse me." She slapped the counter with a calloused hand. "Room upstairs is open. But don't get used to it. A bed that's too good softens adventurers."

Kael wiped his mouth. Dropped a half-bitten coin on the counter.

"Thanks... I guess."

He climbed the stairs. Steps creaking, complaining about existence.

Reached the room. Low ceiling. Smell of mold, old sweat, and failed adventure.

He threw himself onto the bed. Stared at the ceiling.

"Enough."

The day shut off.

The sun hadn't even decided if it was rising or not, and they were already there. Half awake. Half defeated. Staring at the stained ceiling like it held some kind of answer.

"Another glorious day of guaranteed failure," Tharon muttered, dry and effortless.

Kael rubbed his eyes. Dragged himself out of bed.

"Yeah... at least the bed didn't try to strangle me last night. That's progress."

"Small victories," Tharon replied, metallic sigh and all. "Now let's go, before the old hag decides to charge retroactive rent."

They went down. Steps creaking. Air thick with cold grease, dry alcohol, and cheap cigar smoke.

Thalga was there, as always. Cigar in the corner of her mouth. Tail thumping the floor. Snakes in her hair hissing — already grumpy before breakfast.

Kael tried, in a brief lapse of optimism:

"Thanks for the—"

"Out." She didn't let him finish. "Go. Scram. Vanish. Before I turn you into a statue and use you as counter decor."

She spat smoke with the words. Coughed in the middle — that cof cof cof of a stone lung.

"Motherly love, as always," Tharon murmured, mostly to himself.

They left. Door slammed. Street damp with dew and the smell of a crooked city waking up.

They stood there. Staring into nothing. Question hanging in the air.

"So now what...?"

"No clue." Tharon spun in his sheath. "Where to?"

Kael scratched his head. Took a deep breath.

"Let's hit the market. See what's going on at the stalls. Maybe... I dunno... something that doesn't involve onions or psychopathic frogs."

"Dreaming's free," Tharon replied, with that acidic tone that was almost comforting by now.

They walked. Street after street. Passed by the guild — glanced, pretended not to glance.

The building was there. Quiet. Too quiet.

"Not a chance," Tharon said, just from looking at the door.

"Relax. Market. Just the market today."

And they kept going.

The noise grew. Shouts. Offers. Threats disguised as friendliness.

First alley, and it hit them right away:

"YESTERDAY'S BREAD STILL SOFT! WHO WANTS IT?! WHO WANTS?!"

Two steps later, another voice — shrill, hopeless, running on habit alone:

"MAPS! MAPS! MAPS THAT TAKE YOU WHERE YOU ALREADY ARE!"

They turned the corner. Another vendor, crouched over a crate, shaking a cloudy bottle:

"BOTTLED WIND! PURE WIND! SEALED IN THE LAST EASTERN STORM! WHO'S BUYING?!"

At the far end of the market stalls, a skinny guy was sharpening a knife on a stone. He had the look of someone who woke up thinking about murder... and chose to be a vendor instead.

"KNIFE THAT THREATENS WHILE IT CUTS! COME TEST IT!"

The city pulsed. Sweated. Groaned.

And they were in the middle of it. Like background characters lost on a stage they never asked to be on.

The smell of old meat, sweat, and bottled wind hit their faces.

Kael stopped. His hand moved almost on its own toward the knife vendor's stall.

The guy looked up. Thin smile. Crooked nose. Soul even more crooked.

He sharpened the blade like he was grinding down overdue debt.

"Wanna try it? Go ahead... She likes anxious hands. Or not. Who knows."

His voice came out half-laughing, half... way too serious.

Kael picked it up.

The knife... breathed.

The metal was cold, but it felt like it was pulsing.

On the first swing — a sideways cut in the air — it responded.

"Drop me. Drop me. Drop that slug hand before I slice you too."

Kael froze. Eyes wide.

He swung again. The blade sang.

"Hold me right, worm! Want me to chop your fingers off one by one?"

Her voice was sharp, shredded, like it scratched the inside of his ears.

"What the...?!"

Kael almost dropped it — but held on.

The vendor just crossed his arms, smiling.

"She finds you interesting."

Another spin. Another swing.

And the knife—

"Mess up that spin again and I'll split you in half, you useless meat sack. Spin straight. That's it. Better. Want me to teach you how not to be a walking failure?"

Kael was sweating.

"She's... insulting me."

"Of course she is." The vendor shrugged. "She's a knife, not a therapist."

From the sheath, Tharon chimed in — venomous:

"Well, well... A blade with more personality than you. Might be time for some self-reflection, Kael."

Kael sighed. Half laughing. Half nervous.

"This city's rotten."

The vendor snatched the blade from his hand with a twitchy snap.

The knife gave one last metallic growl:

"Weak. Slow. But... potential. Buy me. Take me away. Feed me."

Kael let go instantly.

"I'm out."

"Everyone says that... at first."

The guy lowered his eyes. Went back to scraping the blade — like he wanted to scrape himself off the map.

They walked away.

The market faded behind them, dragging along the sound of shady promises, shouting, dust, and one very ill-tempered knife.

Kael grunted. Kicked a rock.

"Okay. Fine. Let's go to the guild."

"Finally. A miracle. Write this down: the day Kael made a useful decision," Tharon fired off, acidic.

"And just to be clear — if it's the Screaming Frog mission, I'd rather throw myself into an open grave."

"Depending on the frog... He might jump in with you to help bury the body," Tharon replied, dry as ever.

They turned the corner. The guild loomed on the horizon. A box of broken promises.

Waiting.

The guild door groaned heavy, spitting them inside like it was coughing up thorns. The smell was the usual — sweat, cheap beer, and crushed expectations.

They barely took two steps when a voice shot out from the middle of the hall:

"Hey, you gonna set something on fire today or just passing through?"

Followed by laughter, clapping, and the unmistakable sound of someone snorting beer through their nose.

Kael didn't turn. Not a muscle moved. He just walked on, dry, like the whole world was a smudge in the corner of his eye.

From the sheath, Tharon let out that metallic buzz that already smelled like threat.

"If you unsheath me... just five seconds. Five. I'll handle it."

They reached the counter.

She was there. She was always there.

Elbow propped up. One hand holding her forehead. The other flipping through a book that looked heavier than any hope in that place.

Glasses slipping down her nose.

"Mission," Kael said, flat. No frills.

She didn't look up. Didn't move a single muscle — except the fingers flipping pages.

"Mission... Or a desperate plea for meaning in your existence?"

Her voice was like a blade soaked in boredom.

Kael inhaled. Slow.

"Mission." He repeated it, and the word scratched against the wood of the counter.

She turned a page.

"Something simple... Or are you just trying to prolong the inevitable failure of your life?"

Tharon creaked in the sheath.

"Take anything, Kael. Even scrubbing a troll's toilet sounds noble right now."

She adjusted her glasses. Still didn't look up.

"Collect coins that don't exist... Or face something that shouldn't?"

Another page turned.

Kael placed both hands on the counter. Eyes burning.

"Mission. Before I lose the will to stay alive."

"But haven't you already?" She blinked slowly. A barely-there smile on her lips.

Tharon sighed.

"I swear this woman was trained by demons in existential voids."

She closed the book with a dry snap. Like sealing a coffin.

Adjusted her glasses. Crossed her arms. And only then looked at them.

"So... What if I told you... The Screaming Frog mission... is still available?"

Silence. Even the tables didn't dare creak.

The offer hung in the air like the smell of freshly brewed trouble.

Kael was already pulling in air, ready to spit out a loud "no" in her face...

When a hand slid into view.

Rested on the counter. Measured weight. That arrogance you only get from practicing in the mirror since age seven.

"Well, well... A rookie, I see."

The voice slipped out smooth. Half sweet. Half venom in a crystal glass.

"And alone, no less... On this mission? Brave. Or stupid. Hard to tell when you dress... like that... for a warrior."

The gaze ran up and down Kael. Measuring. Evaluating. Judging.

Elegance in disdain. Class in humiliation.

Kael blinked slowly. Processing the parade of petulance.

"And you are... who, exactly?" Dry. No sugar.

The guy adjusted his bangs — the kind of hair that looked like it had never faced a windy day in its life. He smiled. Teeth white enough to reflect the burnt-out ceiling lamp.

He spun on his heels. Arms wide open. Like his very existence was a performance.

"I am... LEON! The Swordsman of Light!"

He drew his gleaming sword from the sheath just to make it sparkle under the barely-there lighting.

Puff.

"Elren, Archer of the Stars!"

The second one landed with a jump, spinning mid-air and striking a pose — bow raised, one leg bent, chest puffed.

"Sylphie, Elemental Mage of Wind!"

The girl twirled theatrically. Hair flying. Robe billowing. One hand on her chin, the other raised like she was about to summon a hurricane just to set the mood.

And then...

All three, perfectly choreographed. Arms crossed. Chins up. Chests inflated.

"WE ARE... RAAAAAAY OF SUNSHINE!"

They shouted in unison, with a fake echo that sounded suspiciously rehearsed.

Kael blinked.

Tharon... didn't. Tharon laughed. Laughed hard. That kind of metallic laughter that buzzed through the blade like a horn from hell.

"Ray of Sunshine...?" He could barely speak between the wheezing.

"Dear GOD... this is real? I thought it was a tavern sketch. I swear I'll pay five coins just to see that entrance again. With more lighting, if possible."

Leon adjusted his cape. Not a scratch on his ego. Smile flawless.

"We're used to looks of admiration... Or envy disguised as sarcasm."

Elren twirled an arrow between his fingers — pure showmanship.

"Indeed. Some express fascination in... less healthy ways."

Sylphie spun her hand. A fake breeze lifted her hair, just so she could look like a walking commercial.

"Nothing the wind can't carry away, right?"

Kael opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"...Is this actually happening?" He asked the void.

Before his sanity could find an escape route, Leon patted his shoulder twice.

"Well... we've decided. We'll help you with the mission. Can't let a rookie face the Screaming Frog alone. That would be, ah... unethical."

Tharon buzzed.

"Unethical for who? The frog or your self-esteem, champ?"

Leon ignored it.

Turned to the receptionist. Snapped his fingers.

"We accept the mission. Register it. For us... and our new friend."

"Friend... Is that a word, or a social illusion designed to mitigate existential emptiness?"

The receptionist didn't even look up. Just slid the stamped scroll across the counter.

Before Kael could articulate any kind of "wait, hold on, no one agreed to this," Leon — smiling like a sunrise — pulled him by the shoulder.

"Come, my friend! Adventurers don't wait. The sun guides us!"

Elren was already clearing the way. Sylphie twirling, tossing breezes through her hair as they descended the stairs.

Ray of Sunshine was a hurricane. A hurricane of glitter, staged wind, and egos plated in adamantium.

Kael looked at Tharon.

"Kill me. Kill me now."

Tharon creaked.

"No. I want to see where this goes."

They were dragged out the door. Pulled. Pushed. Shoved...

Straight into the next mess.

And Kael had no idea what was coming.

End of Chapter 8.