Deacon’s boots touched down silently at the mouth of an alley he dubbed the Rat Graveyard upon seeing twenty or so rats dead within the alley after just entering it. While this would have raised the brows of many and made people consider whether they were poisoned, Deacon skipped past that train of thought as he noticed how untouched the bodies of the rats were – if they were poisoned they would have looked sickly, and if they were killed via being stabbed, crushed or punctured there would have been splotches of blood around, But these rats were killed in neither of those ways.

  Deacon’s mind drifted to an acquaintance from the academy, someone from the 324th Generation, three below his own: Johann Faust, an eccentric fanatic of the Ever Sanctity doctrine.

  Johann had a habit of experimenting with his alchemical pills and potions on rats, mice, guinea pigs, and other small creatures. He wasn’t a cadet the Alchemy Professors held much hope for –his strengths lay in his Affinity for holy mana and his near-fanatical devotion to Ever Sanctity, the god his church and millions of others worshiped. Still, he loved tinkering with alchemy in his free time.

  When one of his pills or potions killed a creature in some violent reaction, Johann would collect the remains and “heal” the corpse with holy mana, restoring it just enough to resemble its original form and bury it afterward, after which, he would mourn for days on end.

  “Two wells poisoned, five to go,” he muttered under his breath as he stepped over the corpse of yet another rat and turned his gaze onto the end of the alley and the dead lamp post at its end.

  “Oi! You there!” a voice shouted from his right just as he stepped out of the alley.

  Deacon froze as the sharp voice cut through the muted silence of the street. Reacting swiftly, Deacon slumped his posture and drowsily dragged his head to look at who had shouted; however, he didn’t fully turn his head, he turned it just enough to catch them in the corner of his vision.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of five guards clad head to toe in plated leather, kettle helms strapped tight on their heads. Their armor was painted in the grimy gold and white of the Holy Human Kingdom.

  Of which, all five guards with spears in hand were staring straight at him.

  , Deacon thought as he followed through with the second stage of the plan, Drunken Wall.

  Deacon staggered sideways, staring at the guards for a full 15 seconds before turning around and staggering back into the alley – uncaring of how the guards followed after him.

  As he made it fifteen meters down the alley, Deacon heard yet another shout at the alley entrance. “Stop there! If you do not comply-!”

  Was all Deacon heard before he pressed his hands onto the closest brick wall to him, and once he caught sight of all five guards watching him from the alley entrance in his peripheral vision, he smashed his head against it with a sharp crack.

  Stars flared behind his eyes along with a hot bloom of pain spreading across his skull from the force of him smacking his head into a brick wall. Following through with the plan, Drunken Wall, he let his body sag, his weight sliding down until he slumped on the ground like a sack of grain dropped from a cart, and beside him were discarded glass bottles that had been thrown long ago.

  Behind him, the guards stopped and just stared at what Deacon did in pure shock.

  “Hah! Would you look at that, sorry bastard,” one of them barked out. “Looks like he drank until his brain turned to mush.”

  Another chuckled. “Can’t blame him. Half the city’s drinking themselves under with the undead at our door.”

  “Leave him,” their leader said flatly, snapping her fingers. The dead lamppost ahead sputtered to life with golden flame just as a taller guard slid a fresh candle into the wax-filled bronze dish inside its box. “We’ve got a route to follow. Can’t afford to pick up strays.”

  But a softer voice chimed in. “Bishop Adre says we’re to look after everyone. Even the weakest lamb must be tended… and we’ve orders to see all brought safely indoors, to keep watch for any undead that might slip through.”

  Letting out a groaned sigh, their leader pinched the bridge of her nose before waving her free hand dismissively, not wanting to deal with her soft-spoken second in command’s religion spiel this late into the night. “You two, Firwal, and Ricen, check out the drunk and take him to Bishop Andre’s tent. We’ll keep moving.”

  As the eldest members of the group continued on with their patrol, the two members of the patrol group hunched their shoulders and muttered curses under their breath as they saw their seniors walk away and left them to take care of the drunk.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Deacon let himself go limp, sinking fully into the role. His heartbeat slowed, each thud pounding like thunder in his skull as he slackened his jaw, lips parting just enough for drool to slip down onto his chest.

  The first young guard crouched low, spear butt scraping the stone. “Oi, wake up,” he muttered, annoyed that he was forced to do this.

  Deacon remained unresponsive.

  The second nudged his boot against Deacon’s shin, testing for a response. “Damn wastrel…”

  Still nothing.

  The first guard sighed through his nose, then leaned down and slapped Deacon across the cheek.

  Still, Deacon gave no response other than letting out a groan, scrunching his face, and letting out an incoherent string of words.

  “Azul above, I can’t believe we’re stuck babysitting trash like this,” the younger of the two muttered, shaking his head. “We should be up on the wall or out there fighting the undead, not doing this.”

  He bent lower, sliding his arm under Deacon’s to try and hoist him up.

  “Brother Mitras says no man can be cast aside,” the second guard replied softly, almost reverent. “We are Azul’s chosen, are we not? If we cannot help one of our own, how can we claim to face him on Judgment Day?”

  The first stilled, shame flickering across his face. “…You’re right, Brother Firwal.” His grip tightened around Deacon. “I lost sight… The war’s dug too deep into me. I’ll… I’ll visit the cleansing grounds when we’re relieved to ask for forgiveness.”

  Firwal nodded solemnly as he helped to lift Deacon up by wrapping Deacon’s other arm around his neck. “Azul will forgive you. You were just overtaken by the toll of war and letting your grief out – you meant no harm by it.”

  Ricen gave a small, humbled nod back. “I—”

  As Ricen started to answer Firwal, Deacon’s arm, previously slack, surged with strength and clamped around Firwal’s neck like an iron shackle. His muscles surged, veins bulging beneath his leather armor as he locked both soldiers in place. And before the soldier could react to his sudden actions, Deacon snapped his head back and drove his arms together, smashing their heads and kettle helmets together with the full force of his 110 Strength.

  The crack of steel rang sharp, echoing down the alley and into the quiet streets like a bell as the two guards folded, helmets clanging as their bodies slumped to the stones like puppets with cut strings.

  For a beat, Deacon just stood over them, chest hammering, ears ringing from the impact. Every brain cell he had left was screaming the same truth – that he was a dumbass. Because, of course, smashing metal helmets together in the middle of a quiet alley was loud.

  Right after, he could hear the sound of boots rushing down the main street. At first it sounded like a patter, hesitant, then faster, filling the cobbles with a hurried scuff that grew louder by the second.

  With no plan and even less time, some stupid scrap of memory shoved itself forward — a ridiculous scene from a movie he and his friends watched during their stay at the Golden Horseshoe, the one they’d watched after planning out the Lesser Heart-Fire ritual.

  Deacon pinched his throat like he was clearing it, shoved his voice up an octave, and barked out, “Oi! You stupid boy — what did you think would happen pickin’ up a hot grill? Hand it here!” The words came out wrong, theatrical, but they cut through the street noise.

  The rushing footsteps slowed and eventually came to a stop not far from the mouth of the alley.

  Not wanting to take any chances, Deacon quickly moved the two bodies and their fallen kettle helmets deeper into the shadows, pressing them tight to the wall as he hid alongside them behind a rundown vendor’s stand that was put beside a small waste bin.

  With a glance over his shoulder every so often and hearing the scuffling of boots going back to where they came from, Deacon let out an exhale of relief before he enacted Plan E.

  Pulling free a coil of vine from his Spatial Sling Bag, Deacon began binding them around the two guards who were bare down to their drawers.

  Working quickly, Deacon wound their wrists tight before looping the vine around their ankles and binding them like hogs on a stick before then tying them together to keep them from helping each other when they woke up.

  Taking a step back, Deacon stared at them for a moment before clicking his tongue as he remembered that he hadn’t stopped their way from shouting for help.

  Pulling out some rags that he’d forgotten to throw out days ago, he stuffed them into their mouths and kept them in place via another rag going around their heads and keeping them in place.

  With a quick rip, he pulled the vendor’s faded sheet free and tossed it over them, shrouding the lump they made, so if any passersby passed through the alley, their eyes would glance over the large, weirdly shaped, discarded rag-covered object.

  Now in their armor, with a kettle helmet strapped to his head, and a spear in hand, Deacon adjusted the chest piece and winced at the faint sting licking at his skin beneath it. His jaw tightened, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.

  Thankfully, not much holy energy clung to the set he’d taken, so at most it felt as though he was being pricked by pins and needles. His hands had stung far worse when he’d handled the other set, the one belonging to the one who’d given the other soldier religious clarity.

  Why the current set he was wearing felt a less… sanctified in comparison went over his head. Maybe the guy forgot to take it to a priest, or maybe too much blood and mud crusted into the joints for the blessing to take properly.

  He tugged the straps once more, making sure the armor sat right, and hefted the stolen spear against his shoulder. One last glance back at the shrouded heap in the shadows, then he slipped to the alley mouth.

  Poking his head out, his eyes tracked the square where the third and final Lower Bailey well sat just across the way. Three guards patrolled near it, presumably being part of the same squad of the other guards he’d knocked out a few minutes ago.

  Looking up, he also took notice of a few people sitting on their balconies and chatting in the darkness with bottles of beer in hand.

  Deacon’s lips pressed tight as he was forced to shove his annoyance down with a sigh.

  He still had four wells in the Upper Bailey, and he needed two of them poisoned for the plan to take effect.

  “Looks like I take the long way,” he muttered under his breath, shifting the stolen helm lower on his brow. Passing the slumbering shadows of his bound captives, Deacon stepped into the street, posture straight now, spear balanced easily in his hand, looking like another guard in grimy gold and white, moving with purpose toward the Upper Bailey gates.

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