62. Peace Out

The sun peeked over the warped rooftops of Vintner's Hollow, casting long golden rays through the smog and rusted chimneys. The city, for once, didn't feel so heavy. The air was crisp, the distant bells of some shrine echoed with a gentler tone than usual, and Albert, wrapped in a grey cloak, stepped out of his apartment feeling oddly refreshed.

He took a deep breath, his lungs filling with something that almost resembled clean air. The streets were quieter this early. Market carts were just being wheeled out. Stale laughter hadn't yet begun to echo through the alleyways like a bad joke that wouldn't die.

Albert's boots clicked softly on the cobbled road as he turned a corner, tugging his collar a bit tighter. He didn't have a destination in mind—just walking to walk. To remind himself that his body was still a body, not a shell.

Then, in a blur of clumsy legs and ragged breath, a small boy barreled into him.

"Oof!" The kid stumbled back and landed on the ground, blinking up with wide eyes, his nose smudged with soot.

Albert blinked, startled, then bent down.

"You alright?"

The boy looked up, clearly waiting for a scolding or slap. Instead, Albert reached into his pocket, pulled out a worn wrapper, and held out a piece of striped candy. Red and minty.

The boy hesitated, then snatched it, eyes gleaming.

"T-Thanks, mister!"

Albert smiled softly. "Careful next time. You running from something?"

The kid shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. "Nah. Just runnin'. That's what I do."

He turned, already ready to dash off again. Then paused. "You smell weird," he said. "Not like the others."

Albert chuckled under his breath. "I'll take that as a compliment."

With that, the boy sprinted off down the street, candy clenched tight in his palm.

Albert stood there a moment longer, watching him disappear between crooked buildings.

Maybe this city wasn't entirely lost.

Maybe even cursed lands had children who ran, and strangers who gave candy instead of cruelty.

....

The scent of iron, sweat, and chalk filled the air. Hollowpetal Arena was nothing like its elegant name. Beneath its flowery title lay a crude, circular pit surrounded by jagged stone bleachers, half-broken sigils, and the roars of a crowd hungry for blood more than sport.

Albert stood behind a rusted gate, shoulders bare, hair tied back, flexing his fingers inside worn gloves. The sand beneath his boots was damp—not from rain, but blood. This wasn't some gentleman's tournament. It was a battlefield with prettier lighting.

He exhaled slowly, steadying his breath. His torso bore the faint marks of old scars, his knuckles taped tight. Around him, the other participants in Group 9 warmed up—one man muttering a prayer to a Saint of Bones, another pounding his fists into the wall. The fourth? A woman with a jagged tooth grin who had been staring at Albert since they arrived.

"Name?" barked an announcer with a mask shaped like a laughing face.

"Albert," he replied plainly.

"Fighter 3. Group Nine. Remember, top two advance. You know the rules—no killing unless permitted by crowd vote. Break what you want. Impress the director."

Albert gave a nod.

Behind the veil of crowd cheers and flashing lights, he could hear the drums beginning. The tournament had officially started, and the first few groups had already thrown fists and bones into the air.

He rolled his neck slowly. Four in a group. Two advance. Which meant this wasn't just strength—it was politics, timing, instinct. And pain. Lots of it.

"Next match, Group Nine!" the announcer called.

The gate creaked open.

Albert took one last breath, stepped forward, and was bathed in red sunlight pouring down through the broken roof.

The Hollowpetal Tournament had begun.

The roar of the crowd exploded like a wave breaking against the cracked stone of the Hollowpetal Arena. The scent of blood, dust, and sun-warmed metal hung in the air. On all sides, nobles, criminals, traders, and masked officials filled the stands, drunk on violence and spectacle. They leaned forward, eager for carnage. Coins clinked as bets were placed, names muttered like curses or prayers.

Albert stepped into the wide, circular ring along with the other three fighters. The floor beneath their feet was uneven, riddled with dry cracks and old stains. There was no signal, no countdown. Just a gong—low and dull like a bell rung in a graveyard.

CLANG.

And chaos began.

The woman with the jagged smile lunged at Albert with a spinning heel kick aimed at his ribs. He ducked, letting it pass inches above his head. Her foot slammed into the neck of the bald man charging from behind him. The crack was sharp, the man staggered back, blood in his mouth.

Albert's body moved without thought.

Breathe. Watch their balance. Elbows, knees, short range. Never overextend.

Memories surged—gravel floors, drill sergeants screaming, bone-crushing sessions in the cold halls of the Military University. He remembered the silence after each bout, the aching limbs, the applause of no one.

He pivoted, caught the jagged-smile woman's arm, twisted, and drove his knee into her ribs. She coughed air and backed off. A sharp whistle rang from the crowd.

Behind him, the fourth fighter—lean, tattooed, quick—slid across the dust and aimed a punch at his throat. Albert shifted, parried with his forearm, and jabbed his elbow into the attacker's eye.

The man howled.

All four were locked in brutal motion, trading blows like starving dogs over scraps. This wasn't about form—it was about survival and pain management. But Albert… no, Henry, was calm.

Don't show power. Show precision.

The woman spun at him again—this time with a dagger drawn from her boot. Illegal. The crowd cheered louder.

Albert sidestepped. Grabbed her wrist mid-swing. Broke it with a pop.

She shrieked and fell back, clutching her twisted hand.

The tattooed man tried to use the distraction to pounce—but Albert ducked low, swept his legs, then stomped his knee flat against the ground. A sickening crunch.

The bald man remained. Bloodied, eyes wide, breathing hard. But when he saw Albert's stance, something shifted in his face.

He dropped his fists.

Raised a trembling hand in surrender.

The gong rang again.

Two remained standing—Albert, barely winded, and the bald man, panting and shocked.

The crowd screamed, some in joy, others in frustration. The director's masked assistant stood in the shadows, scribbling on a scroll.

Albert didn't raise his fists in victory. He simply turned and walked off the ring.

....

Albert stepped out of the inn's crooked wooden door, his brown-blackish hat pulled low over his eyes, casting a shadow across the upper half of his face. The early afternoon sun was blistering, painting the cracked cobblestones in harsh gold and deep shadow. His black cloak fluttered behind him in the breeze, brushing against the sides of market stalls already half-abandoned. A few stray dogs barked in the distance. Something in the air felt wrong.

He paused at the edge of the alley, eyes scanning the sky.

The clouds weren't moving. Not slowly—they weren't moving at all.

They'll reach here soon.

The thought slithered across his mind like a whisper from a dream he hadn't meant to remember.

The tentacles.

Not physical, not always. But they were real. They moved like instinct given form, like the city's guilt made flesh. And this cursed city—this laughing hellhole—had plenty of that.

Albert pulled his cloak tighter and moved into the street. He passed a hunched man carving meat from a rat, whistling cheerfully to himself. A group of teenagers laughed as they painted a crude face on a corpse slumped near the gutter. A girl offered him a withered flower from behind a cracked mask. Her eyes were empty.

He accepted the flower with a faint nod and tucked it into the seam of his coat.

"Have mercy," she said with a giggle.

That phrase again.

Albert's boots clicked as he crossed into the central square. From a rooftop, a masked performer dangled upside down by one leg, reciting a love poem while bleeding from the mouth. The crowd clapped. Some cried—laughing as they did.

This city didn't hide its madness. It wore it like a crown.

Albert sighed and turned left down a quieter lane. His head was heavy. His shoulders hurt. The tournament had only just begun, and the city's atmosphere had already begun to gnaw at his mind like a parasite nesting behind the eye.

Enough.

He passed a cracked mirror leaning against a wall. His reflection showed his messy, damp hair clinging to his forehead. Eyes tired, but sharp. Jaw clenched. A scar on his cheek still fresh from yesterday's brawl. He stared at himself for a moment.

"You're not here to save this place," he muttered.

He walked further.

At the corner, a street artist was sketching something on the ground in ash and chalk. A spiral of hands, eyes, mouths—all connected by thin, writhing lines. The image stirred something in him. Something like a forgotten nursery rhyme humming in reverse.

He didn't stop to ask.

The wind picked up. The clouds above shivered. For a brief second, the buildings around him swayed—not physically, but in sensation, like they were breathing. Watching.

He exhaled slowly.

"They're near."

The words were meant for no one. Just a thought out loud. A reality check.

The tentacles would soon reach here.

They always followed the scent of old regrets and broken promises. And in this city, every alley reeked of it.

Albert turned another corner and reached the rusted gate of a squat, leaning house he had rented under a false name. The windows were fogged. The air inside stale.

He walked in, dropped his hat on the floor, kicked off his boots.

The room was silent.

Albert lay down on the creaky bed, cloak still wrapped around him.

The moment his head touched the pillow, he muttered one last thought:

"Let the madness wait. Just for an hour."

And he closed his eyes.