Demon Academia:SSS Fallen Berserker

The punch had rattled Daemon's brain more than he'd initially realized.

His vision swam as he staggered backward, his poor eyesight making the dimly lit bar blur into a kaleidoscope of shadows and amber light.

His legs gave out beneath him, and he hit the floor hard, his tailbone connecting with the grimy wooden planks with a bone-jarring thud.

A massive shadow loomed over him, and Daemon squinted upward to see his attacker, a brute of a man whose shirt strained against his barrel chest, the buttons threatening to pop free with each breath.

The man rubbed his knuckles against his opposite palm, the sound of flesh on flesh somehow more menacing than any weapon.

Around them, the bar's patrons had turned to watch the spectacle, their faces showing the kind of casual interest reserved for street entertainment.

Behind the bar, a thin young man with dark hair had stopped cleaning the glass he'd been polishing, his cloth frozen mid-wipe as he observed the scene.

The bartender's expression was carefully neutral, but Daemon caught the slight tension in his shoulders that suggested he was ready to intervene if necessary.

The brute reached down and grabbed Daemon by the scruff of his neck, hauling him to his feet with the casual ease of someone lifting a child.

His grip was iron-strong, and Daemon felt his feet barely touch the ground as he was brought face-to-face with the man's scarred visage.

"What's your relationship with Kiend?" the brute demanded, his voice like gravel in a cement mixer.

Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke, and Daemon caught the scent of rotting teeth and cheap alcohol on his breath.

Daemon's mind raced.

He could feel every eye in the bar on him, measuring his response, waiting to see if he would fight or fold.

The smart thing would be to lie, to claim ignorance or distance himself from the bounty hunter who had already proven untrustworthy. But something in the brute's eyes told him that lies would only make things worse.

"I was trying to find a job," Daemon said, his voice strained from the grip on his throat. "Kiend just abandoned me in front of the bar."

The brute's eyes narrowed, studying Daemon's face for signs of deception.

After a long moment, he released his grip, letting Daemon drop back to the ground. "That little thief must be up to mischief again," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

To Daemon's surprise, the man's massive hand came down on his shoulder, not violently, but with the weight of someone trying to impart wisdom.

"Be careful of the company you walk with, kid," he said, his voice losing some of its earlier aggression. "Some people will get you killed in the ninth circle just by association."

Without another word, the brute turned and walked toward the bar's exit, his heavy boots echoing against the wooden floor.

He didn't look back, didn't acknowledge the disappointed murmurs from the other patrons who had clearly been hoping for a more entertaining fight.

The door swung shut behind him with a rusty creak, leaving Daemon alone with his bruised face and wounded pride.

The conversations gradually resumed their previous volume, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the scrape of chairs against the floor.

Daemon made his way to an empty table near the back of the bar, as far from the other patrons as possible.

He slumped into a chair that had seen better decades, the wood creaking ominously under his weight.

His fingers probed the side of his face where the punch had landed, feeling for damage.

The skin was already beginning to swell, and he could taste blood where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek.

He clicked his tongue in irritation, anger simmering beneath his exhaustion.

The bastard hadn't even bothered to apologize for his mistake.

"Rough welcome to the neighborhood."

Daemon looked up to find the bartender standing beside his table, holding a makeshift ice pack fashioned from a bar towel.

The young man's face was sympathetic, though his eyes held the wariness of someone who had seen too much violence to be truly shocked by it.

"I'm Paulo," the bartender said, placing the ice pack on the table within Daemon's reach. "Sorry about Gareth's greeting. He's got a long history with Kiend, and he tends to assume guilt by association."

Daemon accepted the ice pack gratefully, pressing it against his swollen cheek.

The cold was a blessed relief against the throbbing pain. "Kiend seems to have a lot of enemies," he observed.

"That's what happens when you make a living stealing from the dead and betraying your partners," Paulo replied with a dark chuckle. "You should count yourself lucky that Gareth was the only one who recognized Kiend's handiwork. Some of the bounty hunter's other enemies would have put a knife in your ribs first and asked questions later."

The implication sent a chill down Daemon's spine that had nothing to do with the ice pack. "Good to know," he muttered.

Paulo studied him for a moment, taking in the torn clothing, the exhaustion in his posture, and the way he held himself like someone who hadn't eaten in days. "What can I get you to drink?"

"Actually," Daemon said, "I was wondering if there was a way to get a job around here."

Paulo's expression grew thoughtful. "The easiest way to get steady work is to join a guild from the beginning. Merchant guild, servant guild, hunters guild—they all have their advantages. But registration takes time, and you look like you need something more immediate."

The bartender reached into his apron and pulled out a small piece of paper, folded and slightly yellowed with age.

He placed it on the table next to the ice pack, his fingers drumming against the wood as he considered his words.

"There's a job at that location," he said finally. "Gareth was offered it earlier today, but he refused. Said it paid well but was too dangerous, even for him." Paulo's eyes met Daemon's, and there was something like concern in their depths. "If you're not up for it, I'd recommend throwing that paper on the floor right now and pretending this conversation never happened."

Daemon picked up the paper, feeling its weight, or perhaps the weight of the decision it represented.

He didn't unfold it, not yet. "What kind of dangerous?"

"The kind that gets people killed," Paulo replied simply. "But also the kind that can set you up for life, if you're lucky and skilled enough to survive it."

The bartender disappeared behind the bar for a moment, returning with a steaming cup filled with a dark red liquid.

The smell that rose from it was both familiar and foreign, metallic, with undertones of herbs and something that might have been honey.

"On the house," Paulo said, setting the cup down. "You look like you could use the warmth."

Daemon accepted the drink gratefully, wrapping his fingers around the warm ceramic.

He took a long gulp, and immediately felt heat spread through his chest and limbs.

The liquid was thick, almost syrupy, and it tasted of copper and spices.

Whatever it was, it chased away the bone-deep cold that had been plaguing him since he'd left the temple.

As the warmth settled into his bones, Daemon became aware of a conversation taking place at the table behind him.

Two men were talking in the loud, animated way of people who had been drinking for hours.

"....cousin just awakened his system and plans on joining the X games," one of them was saying, his words slightly slurred. "Can you believe that shit?"

His companion sounded surprised, and perhaps a bit concerned. "Isn't your cousin rushing things a bit? People in the X games have systems far superior to his. He's like a newbie compared to them."

"Tell me about it," the first man replied with a bitter laugh. "His head's filled with wild thoughts and arrogance. He actually thinks he can become a monarch. A fucking monarch!"

The second man's laughter was so loud that several other patrons turned to look at them.

His companion quickly hushed him, glancing around nervously. "Keep your voice down, you idiot. You want the whole bar to hear about my family's delusions?"

Daemon's curiosity was piqued.

The mention of systems and monarchs stirred something in his memory, fragments of conversations he'd overheard, hints about the true nature of power in this realm.

He turned in his chair to face the two men, both of whom appeared to be in their thirties, with the weathered faces of people who had seen their share of hardship.

"Excuse me," Daemon said, his voice carrying just enough authority to get their attention. "What are the X games?"