Chapter 3 - A Bore on Things

                                        

                                              












The bar was dimly lit, tucked away in a forgotten corner of Wall Rose.
The air was thick with the stench of sweat, cheap booze, and smoke that curled lazily toward the ceiling, barely disturbed by the occasional shuffle of patrons.
Rough voices filled the space, low murmurs from the scattered patrons sitting at various tables, their clothes worn and faces lined with years of hardship. A few men sat hunched over in the corner, their backs to the wall, eyes shifting as they watched the room with too much interest.
Behind the bar stood a man with a hardened expression. His movements were slow as he wiped down the counter, eyes barely lifting to meet those of the customers. His presence was subdued, but there was something about him—as if he was waiting for something or someone...
Beside him, stacked in a disorganized heap, were sheets of paper stained with ink. 
Official-looking documents lay half-hidden under a rag, some half-filled, others with signatures in places where they shouldn't be. The bartender's gaze flickered toward them every now and then, as if considering their importance, but never for too long.
Nearby, a group of thugs sat in silence, their drinks untouched. 
The bartender's hand paused over a particularly worn document, his eyes narrowing briefly before he set it aside with care.





|| 𝙏𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙎𝙚𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙧 ||





I'm tired.
The dull ache behind my eyes reminded me that I hadn't gotten enough sleep. 
I let out a soft sigh, but at least I had managed to get some food earlier. It wasn't anything grand—just some bread and stew from a local vendor. 
Paid with the money I pickpocketed from a random local... but that shouldn't be of concern to you.
It would keep me going for now.
I stood by a bulletin board in the town of Königstein, scanning the various bounty posters plastered across it. My eyes landed on one in particular, a well-worn sheet that looked like it had been there for years. 
The name caught my attention: 
"Kenny the Ripper."
Interesting.
The poster listed Kenny as middle-aged, tall, and slim but unnaturally strong. It went on to explain that this man had killed over 60 Military Police officers. 
Sixty, I mused. 
That number alone would be enough to terrify most people. It was no wonder the poster had a large warning stamped across it, urging caution when approaching the criminal.
The reward was also noteworthy—10,000 coins for his capture, dead or alive. That was an exorbitant amount of money.
That's a lot of money for one person.
I stared at the sketch of the person on the poster. It was worn down, but I could get his general facial features. 
"Still looking at that old poster, eh?" 
A voice interrupted my thoughts.
I turned to see an older man, perhaps in his late 50s, standing nearby. He had a rough look to him—scarred hands and sun-weathered skin. 
He chuckled softly, noticing my staring at the bounty.
"You know, lad, that case went cold a long time ago. If you're planning to chase after Kenny the Ripper, I'd reconsider," he added, shaking his head.