The Archfiend, a malevolent force with inhuman power and an unholy army at its command, descended upon the world with a singular purpose: to conquer and obliterate all in its path. In response to this looming threat, five sacred weapons, imbued with divine energy, chose their destined wielders to stand against the darkness.

  In the ensuing battle, unimaginable in its ferocity and demanding great sacrifices, these five brave souls, supported by their loyal allies, fought valiantly against the overwhelming tide of evil. They ultimately triumphed, managing to subdue and seal away the Archfiend and its monstrous army, ensuring peace for the world. The five wielders, now hailed as heroes, stood as beacons of hope and courage.

  Yet, one of the heroes, weary from witnessing the relentless deaths and suffering of countless comrades, chose to quietly withdraw from his role, slipping away unnoticed by the others, his heart heavy with the burden of loss.

  Unbeknownst to most, however, the seal was imperfect. In the shadows, the Archfiend, with a malevolent patience, began to unravel the mystical bonds that restrained its dark ambitions, biding its time with cunning and stealth.

  In their inevitable next confrontation, the Archfiend was imbued with a chilling certainty that this time, triumph would not elude its grasp. The ominous promise of its return loomed over the world, a shadow waiting to be cast once more…

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow across the sky, Art Weaver found himself standing at the entrance of a sprawling city, Frada. The gates loomed before him. A cool breeze carried the scent of spices and smoke, mingling with the faint hum of distant voices. Art tightened the strap of his satchel out of habit.

  The guards at the gate eyed him warily, their hands resting on spears polished to a mirror shine. One stepped forward, his armor clinking softly. “State your business.”

  Art met the man’s gaze, red eyes steady. "Looking for work."

  The guard’s eyes narrowed, scanning Art from head to toe. "Work, huh? What kind of work?"

  “Chores around the house or healing,” Art replied, his voice calm but firm.

  “Do you have any identification?” The guard’s tone was sharp, his fingers drumming impatiently against the shaft of his spear. Art’s hand instinctively brushed the pocket of his coat, where a small, worn parchment rested. He pulled it out, the edges frayed from use, and handed it over.

  The guard snatched it, scanning the faded ink with a skeptical squint. “Art Weaver,” he read aloud, glancing up.

  "Alright, you can head to the guild; there's plenty of work available there," he continued, his tone begrudgingly acknowledging Art's credentials.

  Art nodded, slipping the parchment back into his coat. The guard moved aside, and the heavy gate creaked open just enough for him to pass through.

  The city unfolded before him like a tapestry of noise and motion. Streets teemed with hawkers, their voices rising above the clatter of carts and the shuffle of feet. Lanterns flickered to life, casting shadows that danced along the cobblestones. Art moved with purpose, his senses sharp, eyes scanning for signs of the guild.

  A boy darted past him, weaving through the crowd with a loaf of bread clutched tightly to his chest. A man in a stained apron shouted after him, face red with fury. Art hesitated, unsure whether to step in. But the moment passed as quickly as it came—the boy vanished into an alley, and the man turned back to his stall, muttering curses.

  Art pressed on, his boots clicking against the stones. The air grew thicker here, heavy with the scent of roasting meat and spilled ale. He passed a tavern where laughter spilled out in bursts, mingling with the discordant pluck of a lute. A beautiful woman leaned in the doorway, her eyes sharp as she appraised passersby. Her gaze lingered on Art for a moment too long before she turned away.

  Art smirked, assuming he didn't meet her standards. That’s to be expected.

  Finally, he spotted it: a wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze, its surface carved with the emblem of a crossed quill and sword—the guild’s mark. The building itself was unassuming, its stone walls weathered but sturdy. Two guards stood outside, their voices low and tense as they exchanged words.

  As Art neared, he spotted a young girl amid the crowd clutching a doll. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she appeared bewildered.

  Art hesitated, his eyes darting between the girl and the guild where he hoped to find the job he so urgently needed. The girl's distress pierced through the city's clamor like a sharp blade. At last, he changed direction, approaching her, his satchel swinging gently at his side as he crouched down to meet her gaze. "Hey," he spoke gently, his voice steady yet reassuring. "Are you lost?"

  The girl sniffled, clutching the doll tighter. Her wide eyes darted around, searching for something—or someone—familiar. She nodded hesitantly. “I can’t find my mama.”

  Art straightened, scanning the bustling street. "Where did you last see her?"

  The girl pointed toward a fountain in the distance, its stone basin shimmering under the lantern light.

  Art nodded, his mind quickly working through the possibilities. "Okay, let's go to the fountain and wait. Wandering around might make finding her more difficult." He reached out his hand, and after a brief hesitation, the girl placed her small fingers in his. Her hold was firm, as if releasing him might mean losing him as well.

  They moved through the crowd together, Art weaving a path with practiced ease. The girl’s steps were small and hurried, her eyes darting nervously at the sea of unfamiliar faces. The fountain grew closer, its gentle splashing cutting through the din of the city.

  "We wait here," Art said gently, guiding her to sit on the edge of the fountain. He crouched in front of her, his red eyes softening. "My name is Art. May I know your name?"

  The girl sniffled again, her small hands fidgeting with the hem of her doll’s dress. “Amelia,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chatter of the crowd.

  “Amelia,” Art repeated, giving her a reassuring smile. “That’s a beautiful name. Now, we stay right here.”

  Amelia nodded, hugging her doll to her chest. Her eyes scanned the crowd, wide and hopeful. Art straightened, keeping his gaze sharp as he watched the flow of people. The city’s rhythm didn’t falter; carts rolled by, merchants haggled, and children laughed as they darted between legs. But no one seemed to notice the small girl sitting by the fountain.

  “Amelia, are you hungry?” Art reached into his satchel and pulled out a small, wrapped parcel. Inside were several chocolate cookies. “Made these myself.”

  "You know how to cook?" Amelia asked, her tear-streaked face brightening with a hint of interest.

  "I do," Art replied with a slight smile, leaning back on his heels. "I can cook, bake, clean—a little bit of everything."

  "But, mama said to never accept anything from a stranger," Amelia hesitated, recalling her mother's words of caution.

  Art paused, the parcel still in his hand. He gave a small nod, understanding. "Your mama’s right. I agree with her. Smart woman. But here’s the thing—you’re not alone right now, and I’m not going anywhere until we find her or she finds us. So, let’s call this… trust cookies. You take it, and we’ll wait together. Deal?"

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Amelia hesitated, her small fingers tightening around the doll. Then, slowly, she reached out and took the cookie. “Deal,” she said, her voice a little stronger now. She nibbled at the edge, her tear-stained cheeks puffing out as she chewed.

  "Do you like it?" Art asked, observing her closely, a slight smile forming on his lips.

  Amelia nodded, her eyes widening slightly as she took another bite. “It’s really good,” she mumbled through a mouthful, crumbs dusting her doll’s dress.

  Art chuckled softly, brushing the crumbs off the doll with a gentle hand. “Glad you like it.”

  The crowd around them stayed indifferent, absorbed in their own activities. Art's eyes kept roving, searching for any sign of Amelia's mother. Suddenly, he recognized a key oversight.

  "... Amelia, something I should have inquired about earlier, what does your mama look like?" Art observed Amelia's face as she finished the last bite of her cookie. Her tiny brows knitted together in thought. "She's... she's very beautiful."

  Art stifled a laugh, his lips quirking. “Well, that’s a start. But how about something more specific?”

  “Men will kneel before her!” Amelia proclaimed, her voice carrying a dramatic flair that seemed too grand for her small stature.

  “… Okay?” Art replied, a mix of amusement and curiosity lighting his eyes. “Any other details?” He was genuinely intrigued by what Amelia meant. However, he suspected that the explanation might be a bit too complex for the young girl to grasp, so he decided to let it go for now.

  Amelia tilted her head, her tiny fingers gripping the doll more firmly. "She has long hair, the color of a red flower. And she wears a white dress.”

  Art nodded, committing the description to memory. “Long red hair and a white dress. Got it.” He straightened, scanning the crowd again. His eyes caught every flash of red, every swirl of white fabric. The city’s chaos seemed to sharpen around him, the noise fading into a dull hum as he focused.

  “By the way, Amelia, I noticed the doll’s hand is coming apart.” Art reached out, his fingers brushing the doll’s worn fabric. The stitching along its arm had come undone, threads frayed and tangled. “Mind if I fix this for you?” he asked, his tone gentle but confident.

  Amelia hesitated, her grip tightening for a moment before she nodded. “You know how to sew too?”

  “I do,” Art replied, pulling a small sewing kit from his satchel. He threaded the needle with practiced ease, his fingers moving deftly as he began to mend the tear. The girl watched intently, her earlier fear replaced by curiosity. “Where’d you learn all this stuff?” she asked, her voice small but steady.

  “Here and there,” Art said, tying off the thread with a quick knot. He handed the doll back to her, its arm now neatly repaired. “It’s always good to know how to take care of things—and people.”

  Amelia beamed, cradling the doll with renewed affection. “Thank you, Art.”

  Art nodded, his gaze still sweeping the crowd. “Anytime, Amelia.”

  An hour went by. Amelia shifted nervously beside him, her small feet kicking lightly against the fountain’s edge. Art kept his stance relaxed, his voice steady whenever he reassured her. “She’ll come,” he said, more to himself than to her. “She’ll find you.”

  "And if she doesn't?" Amelia's voice wavered. "What will happen to me then?"

  Art looked at her, his gaze softening. "Then we'll sort it out together. I won't abandon you. I promise."

  He truly meant it. He understood that having an ally, one who was alive, was reassuring. The words seemed to steady her, her small shoulders relaxing just a fraction. She clutched the doll tighter, her eyes scanning the crowd again.

  Then, a movement—a flash of crimson in the distance. A woman with long, fiery hair hurried through the crowd, her white dress standing out as she pushed past people. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and desperate.

  “Mama!” Amelia’s voice rang out, sharp and clear. She scrambled to her feet, doll clutched tightly in her arms.

  The woman’s head snapped toward the sound, and her face lit up with relief. “Amelia!” She rushed forward, dropping to her knees as Amelia ran into her arms. The girl buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, sobbing softly.

  Art took a step back, giving them space but keeping watch. The woman looked up, her cheeks streaked with tears. Her red hair clung to her face. “Thank you,” she breathed, her voice trembling. “Thank you for keeping her safe.”

  Art nodded, his expression calm but kind. “She’s a brave girl. Just got a little turned around.”

  The woman hugged Amelia tighter, her fingers brushing through the girl’s hair. “I only looked away for a moment…” Her voice broke, and she shook her head. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if—if—”

  “She’s safe now,” Art interrupted gently, his tone firm but reassuring. “That’s what matters.”

  The woman nodded, her throat bobbing nervously as she rose to her feet, cradling Amelia in her arms with a tenderness that bespoke love and relief.

  Art's gaze drifted over her attire, a striking white dress—a lacy mini that clung to her form with boldness, revealing an expanse of smooth, fair skin and accentuating her ample cleavage and long, shapely legs. She exuded an undeniable beauty, a magnetic allure that seemed to captivate the men nearby, their eyes inevitably drawn to her with a mix of admiration and desire. Art understood their captivation all too well, battling the urge to keep his own eyes from lingering. It was no wonder little Amelia had mentioned that men kneeled before her mother; her presence was commanding, enchanting, and utterly impossible to ignore.

  Amelia’s mother smoothed her daughter’s hair, her eyes still glistening with unshed tears. She glanced at Art, a grateful smile tugging at her lips. “I’m Katalina,” she said, her voice soft but steady now. “And I can’t thank you enough.”

  Art nodded, his gaze flicking briefly to hers before respectfully lowering it. “It’s no trouble. I’m just glad she’s safe.”

  Katalina shifted Amelia on her hip, the girl now clinging sleepily to her mother’s shoulder. “You’re… different,” Katalina said suddenly, her voice curious. “Not like the others here.”

  Art raised an eyebrow, his expression neutral. “How so?”

  She studied him for a moment, her piercing green eyes lingering on his red ones. “You didn’t ask for anything in return. Most people would have.”

  "Uh… Actually, I was going to ask for something, sorry," Art admitted, his voice dwindled as Katalina tilted her head, her face reflecting a blend of curiosity and amusement. The surrounding crowd seemed to blur into insignificance, with the city's bustle becoming a faint murmur.

  “Ask,” she said simply, her tone light but with an edge of challenge.

  Art hesitated, his gaze flicking to Amelia, who was now dozing against her mother’s shoulder. He rubbed the back of his neck, a rare moment of awkwardness breaking through his usual composure. “I come here looking for work and was wondering if you might know of any.”

  He implied that the guild was now closed as he attempted to assist her daughter, though he didn't blame her for this.

  Katalina’s lips curved into a faint smile, her eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing him. “Work, you say? What can you do?”

  “A bit of everything,” Art replied without hesitation. “Cooking, baking, cleaning, repairs, teaching, calculation. I’ve got some skill with healing too.”

  Katalina’s smile deepened, her gaze sharpening. “Healing, you say? That’s not something you hear every day.” She adjusted Amelia in her arms, the girl still sleeping soundly. “You’re either talented or very bold to claim such a thing.”

  “Both,” Art said, his tone calm but confident. “I don’t make claims I can’t back up.”

  She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Alright. Follow me. I might have something for you.”

  Art fell into step beside her as she began to weave through the crowd with practiced ease. The onlookers parted slightly as they passed, their eyes lingering on Katalina-and now, Art who seemed like he didn't quite belong near her.

  Art kept pace, his senses sharp. The crowd’s murmurs were a low hum beneath the clatter of the city. He glanced at Katalina, her red hair catching the sunlight like fire. "Where are we headed?" he asked, his voice low but clear.

  "To a place where men yearn for the affectionate embrace of beautiful women," she replied.

  Art’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t break stride. “Sounds… specific.”

  Katalina smiled, her green eyes glinting with mischief. “It is. I run a place called the Naughty Nights… Can you guess what kind of establishment it is?”

  Art’s steps faltered for a fraction of a second, his calm demeanor momentarily cracking. “A… brothel?” he ventured, his voice steady but laced with surprise.

  Katalina laughed softly, the sound light and unbothered. “Close. It’s a high-end establishment—a bit more refined than your average brothel. But yes, that’s the essence of it.”

  Art nodded slowly, his mind racing. He hadn’t expected this turn, but he wasn’t one to shy away from the unexpected. “And you think I’d fit in there?”

  "We still have to conduct an interview," she replied. "However, you've already scored points for helping my daughter."

  Art’s jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. “Interviews are fine. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  They turned down a narrow alley, the shadows deepening as the buildings pressed closer. The air smelled faintly of spices and damp stone. Katalina moved with purpose, her heels clicking against the cobblestones. Art kept his eyes forward, though his senses remained alert, scanning for any hint of danger.

  The alley led to a quaint courtyard, where an ornate iron gate stood watch over a distinguished building. The fa?ade was elegant yet understated, with ivy climbing the walls and gentle light emanating from the windows. Above the door, a modest sign displayed "Naughty Nights" in elegant script.

  Katalina retrieved a key from her cleavage and unlocked the gate with a practiced twist of her wrist. The hinges creaked softly as she pushed it open, gesturing for Art to follow. Inside, the courtyard was lush and quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling streets beyond. A fountain trickled in the center, its water glinting under the fading sunlight.

  "Could you hold this key for a while?" Art grasped the key, noticing its lingering warmth and the subtle scent of Katalina's perfume still clinging to the metal.

  Art instinctively glanced around and tucked the key into his pocket, wary of drawing attention from the wrong crowd.