Hereditary Void

Walking through the streets of the East was never pleasant, but doing so at noon was downright miserable, especially in summer. The roads were packed with trash, sewage ran freely in the open, and the stench of drunk, jobless people who hadn't bathed in weeks was almost unbearable. And that's not even mentioning all the other disgusting horrors that permanently haunted that district. Every now and then, she even tripped over bits of trash scattered along the streets.

Still, Zadie didn't slow down. Standing still was basically an open invitation to get robbed in the East, especially here on Florence Street, where poverty and crime were at their worst. Sure, no one was likely to mess with someone walking around with a sword strapped to their hip, but still, she wasn't about to take her chances.

Thankfully, she was almost at her destination.

The bar sat at the end of Florence Street. It was a run-down wooden building, cracked and half-collapsed here and there. Out front, a swinging sign with a faded image of a mermaid marked the place: Fundo Bar. Known for its cheap drinks, unpleasant conversations, and unsatisfied customers, it was the perfect spot to meet someone for a private chat.

Zadie paused at the entrance, staring at the swaying sign, an old, familiar feeling welling up in her chest. Eventually, she let out a breath and stepped inside.

The interior was just as awful as the outside — walls full of holes, scorched from old brawls, dimly lit by flickering oil lamps. A dozen tables were scattered across the floor, but only six were occupied. That was shockingly few, considering how Zadie remembered the place being packed even during lunch hours.

Every customer had the same look: drunk, bitter, or downright miserable.

Feeling a wave of nostalgia, Zadie walked to the bar counter and sat down. It didn't take long for the bartender to approach her. It was the same man who had served her years ago — an big, old guy with gray hair, stern gray eyes, a rough face, a thick beard, and a scar slicing across the corner of his mouth.

She smiled.

"How's it going, Varl?"

The man squinted.

"Shit, I must need glasses. Zadie?!"

Zadie chuckled softly, a warm note of sentiment in her voice.

He placed a hand on his forehead, his expression incredulous.

"Gods, look at you. How old are you now, girl?"

She crossed her arms.

"It's not polite to ask a lady's age, y'know."

Varl narrowed his eyes.

"Since when do I give a damn about manners?"

She laughed again.

"Thirty-eight."

The old man immediately dropped his head, looking defeated, as if Zadie had just told him his own mother had died.

"Shit. Am I really that old?"

A long sigh escaped him.

"Whatever. You want the usual?"

Zadie nodded.

"Please."

Varl turned to the shelves behind him and grabbed a brown bottle. If his memory was still sharp, that meant it was whiskey.

He slid a dusty glass from under the counter and poured her a full shot. Zadie downed it in one go and exhaled sharply when she was done. It was exactly what she remembered.

Still savoring the taste, she tapped the glass on the counter, asking silently for another round. She'd need a bit of alcohol to hold firm to the convictions behind what she was about to do.

Varl poured her a second and leaned his elbow on the bar.

"Didn't think I'd ever see you in here again."

Zadie shrugged.

"Neither did I. But life brought me back."

He raised a brow.

"You back in the game?"

This time she sipped slowly, letting the harsh flavor linger. Then she stared into the amber liquid, her gaze thoughtful.

"No... Maybe... Don't know yet. Just here on business."

Varl nodded.

"Got it. Well… either way, it's good to see you again, girl."

She looked up at him and smiled.

"Thanks."

Just then, a drunken customer at one of the tables raised a hand and shouted for another round. Varl grabbed a beer pitcher and stepped away to serve him, his face slightly exasperated by the man's loud tone.

Left alone, Zadie took another sip of her whiskey, savoring each strong and bitter note of the drink that seemed to be made from the lowest-quality grain. Still, as she pulled the glass from her lips, she smiled.

But her peace — the soft, fleeting feelings she was enjoying in that moment — wouldn't last long. In fact, they'd already lasted too long, considering the neighborhood she was in.

Hearing light footsteps approaching, footsteps that were nothing like Varl's heavy ones, a sigh escaped her thin lips.

"Hey there, sweetheart."

She didn't respond. Didn't move. She just took another sip of her drink and kept staring at the brown liquid.

"How much do you cost?"

Zadie gently set the glass down and crossed her arms over the counter, staring blankly at Varl's shelf of dusty bottles, remebering. Her voice came out calm, even.

"I'm not for sale."

The man laughed a short, mocking chuckle.

"Please. You've all got a price."

"I don't."

"Well..."

He touched her shoulder, squeezing it, trying to provoke her.

"I'm sure we can work something out."

***

Serving customers at noon was always a pain. For Varl, that was when the worst ones showed up — the laziest, the angriest, the ones most likely to cause trouble. But still, he served every single one. A proper bar owner knew you had to meet expectations, even when the customers were assholes.

Thankfully, his assistant was due to arrive soon to help with the night shift, Fundo Bar's busiest hours.

Still, for now, it was all on him.

At least today had a pleasant surprise. Seeing Zadie again had hit him like a brick, but in a good way. It felt like just yesterday that sixteen-year-old girl had walked into his bar for the first time, covered in blood and dirt, cut up, asking for his help at two in the morning. Varl helped her patch herself up, handed her a bottle of whiskey to sterilize the wounds. Not that she needed much help. Somehow, that girl from the East already knew more about first aid than he ever had.

Which meant the help she needed… was something else.

It wasn't long before two big guys barged into the bar, weapons drawn, fury on their faces. One had a fresh, ugly gash over his right eye. The taller one stepped toward the bar, followed closely by the injured one, while the girl hid behind the counter, pulling a blood-stained knife from her back, her gaze anxious.

"We're looking for a girl. Black hair, purple eyes. About chest-high."

Varl didn't look down at the girl by his feet. He didn't want to give her away. But from the corner of his eye, he could see her tense gaze on his face, clearly asking what he would do.

He shook his head, drying a glass calmly.

"Haven't seen anyone like that. Sorry."

He didn't know what she'd done, but knowing she was a girl from the East, it probably wasn't anything good. Kids had to do what they had to do in that hellhole. And he understood that.

Still, her guts surprised him.

When the two left and he finally got a good look at her, Varl couldn't believe what he saw.

"What's your name, girl?"

She hesitated, wary, but then answered:

"Zadie."

Varl had served all kinds of people in this world, from petty thugs to the most renowned warriors. So when someone new walked into his bar, he could usually tell exactly what kind of person they were just by their look and their presence.

But when he saw the purple irises of that girl, Varl didn't see the eyes of a kind and innocent child. He didn't see a warrior's eyes or those of a common thief either.

He saw the eyes of a killer.

And that bloody violet gleam... burned itself into his memory.

So when he looked back and saw Zadie being cornered by a stranger who clearly had the look of a pervert, he rushed toward the bar, leaving the pitcher behind.

Too late.

Zadie moved like a dancer blessed by lightning, quick and deadly. She grabbed the bastard in one swift, fluid motion, slamming and pinning his head to the bar counter.

The man didn't resist much. He was a skinny, malnourished guy, with a patchy beard. Not even close to a threat to her. After all, she was a germinated. She was Zadie. And he was nobody. Just an easy prey.

Varl's eyes tightened with concern. If he didn't step in, he knew the idiot would end up dead. Zadie had never been patient with drunks or creeps.

He raised his hands as he approached, trying to calm her.

"Easy now, girl. Come on…"

She leaned in close to the man's ear, her gaze still icy and composed.

"Are you deaf? I said I'm not for sale."

If the man was afraid, he didn't show it. Instead, he smiled, disgusting.

"Yeah... I like the feisty ones."

Zadie's eyes didn't change. Still calm. Still deadly. The same as the ones Varl had seen before. Eyes that didn't reveal a hint of emotion. Eyes that gave no warning about the storm about to come.

But Varl was wrong. Zadie didn't beat the man senseless. Didn't slit his throat. She just shoved him toward the exit and kicked him hard in the ass, sending him face-first to the ground.

Varl raised his eyebrows, surprised.

"Get out of my sight before I do something I'll regret."

Rubbing his bruised forehead, the man stood up and stared at her for a moment, angry. Varl stepped between them, arms crossed, his aged face stern.

"You heard the lady. Get lost."

The guy spat on the floor, then stormed out. As the door slammed behind him, Varl glanced back at Zadie, raising a brow.

"You've changed."

She let out a short, dry laugh.

"Yeah."

She really had changed. And for the better, at least in Varl's eyes. Back in the day, messing with her peace of mind was pretty much a death sentence — or, at the very least, grounds for a solid beating. Zadie had always been mature, even back then, but somehow she'd managed to grow even more since. That made him glad… and curious. What had happened in her life to change her so much?

"You're wrong, old man."

A voice cut in as a man stepped through the bar's doorway.

He wore cheap, lightweight clothes, his long brown hair tied back, and his amber eyes gleamed like honey in the dim light. A short sword hung at his waist, along with a dagger. He wore a playful smile that twisted his face with a kind of cheer that defined his square jaw.

Hands in his pockets, relaxed, he strolled in and said:

"She still loves a good mess, far as I can tell."

Every eye in the bar turned to him, even the melancholic drunks.

His youthful charm seemed to draw attention wherever he went. Of course, neither Varl nor Zadie looked even slightly surprised. In fact, their expressions were almost playfully annoyed by his arrival.

Varl turned to her, pointing at the newcomer.

"This piece of shit is who you're doing business with?"

Zadie sighed.

"Tell me about it."

The man tried to keep his grin from twitching, though his eyebrows gave him away.

"I'm right here, you know."