18 Chapter 17: The Vigilante of the Temple Quarter

Under the cloak of the night, a solitary figure sat atop his bed in the barracks of the Temple quarter guards headquarters. The man's colleagues chattered away, sharing tidbits about their day and hearsay they had gathered while on patrol during the afternoon. This man had a stout frame with a slight potbelly, and his black hair was cropped short. His piercing brown eyes remained fixed on an indefinite point, while he wore a shabby linen shirt and leggings after shedding his armor. The man appeared to be lost in his thoughts, his furrowed brow indicating an inner turmoil.

As he sat there in the dimly lit barracks, the man's mind drifted back to the day's events. He replayed his interactions with the locals, examining each one for hidden meanings or subtext. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that he was right about something. Despite the chatter of his colleagues, the man felt alone with his thoughts. He had always been an introspective person, but tonight, his inner world seemed to be particularly tumultuous.

One of the men in the room posed a question that reverberated off the walls. "How do ye' suppose they're gonna handle the beast?" His Temerian peasant accent was thick and unmistakable. "I ain't fightin' it, not for the wage we get from the king. Monsters like that are above my pay grade."

His colleagues murmured in agreement until another chimed in, "Who cares about the beast? It's one less problem for us to solve. It took care of those fisstech dealers for us."

"Ah, but we still gotta deal with it," countered a third man. "It's a monster, good or not. We can't let it run around freely. It was fisstech dealers yesterday, but who's to say it won't be innocents tomorrow?"

A fourth colleague scoffed, "And how do ye' propose we deal with it? Confront it head on? Did ye' not see the bodies? Ten of them slaughtered in mere minutes. We'd be lucky to last seconds against it."

The man who posed the initial question shrugged. "I dunno, maybe the king will move part of the army."

"Or hire a witcher, like he did for the princess," suggested another.

The idea of the king personally hiring a witcher was met with skepticism. "I don't know about the king doing that himself," one said. "But maybe the captain could hire one. Although, he'd probably call us incompetent if it comes to that."

"I don't care what he calls us, I'm not facing that thing," retorted the last colleague. "What do ye' think, Meis?"

The guards in the room swiftly turned their attention towards the man who had been silent all this while, a man who seemed lost in his own thoughts. This man was none other than Vincent Meis, a popular figure within the barracks and among the people. He was known for his good nature, kindness, fairness, and merciful approach. It was expected that in a few years, Vincent would be promoted to captain once the current captain either passed away, got sacked, or retired.

The guards were curious about something and wanted to hear Vincent's thoughts. "What?" Vincent asked, his voice filled with curiosity.

"What do you think about that beast murderer that's been running around in the quarter? You wanna face it?" one of the guards inquired in a Temerian peasant accent.

Vincent looked down at the ground and pondered for a moment. "I don't know. For now, it's not a threat to us," he replied, his voice filled with uncertainty.

The guards were taken aback by Vincent's response. They knew that Vincent was a pacifist and that his job did not require him to engage in physical confrontations. "You do know that it's killing people, right?" another guard inquired in disbelief.

"Fisstech dealers, rapists, gang members," Vincent murmured. "Do you consider them as 'people'?"

"Well, now that you put it that way..." one of the guards muttered.

"But still, the captain's going to tell us to deal with it one way or another," another guard pointed out.

"Then we'll wait for the command, won't we?" Vincent shrugged as he stood up from his bed. He walked over to his drawer and took out a cloak.

"Where are you going?" one of his colleagues asked, eyeing him with curiosity.

"The brothel," Vincent replied flatly.

"Ah, you want to see Madame Carmen?" one of the guards teased, trying to get a reaction out of him.

Vincent remained stoic. "Yes, I do," he replied. "Do you want to come with me?"

The guards looked at each other, unsure of what to do. Some of them decided to follow Vincent, while others stayed behind as they didn't have enough money to hire the girls' services.

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As his mates entered the Eager Thighs Brothel situated in the grubby slums of the Temple Quarter, Vincent chose to slip away from the throng instead of following them. His face shrouded by his hood, he carried a pouch with extra clothing and wore minimal attire. He trudged through the dark and deserted streets, inhaling slowly as if he was sniffing for something.

He kept walking, his feet dragging along the pavement, until he reached a certain alleyway within the neighborhood known as 'Little Mahakam'. Inside the narrow pathway, he spotted two men. Their interaction seemed unbalanced as one man, with pointy ears like a half-elf, lay on the ground, begging the other man in front of him.

"Please, not my wife, not my daughter…" the man pleaded. "I'll do whatever it takes."

"Then you better work yer arse off, half-breed," the human spat back. "We've got a lot of demands, and you're going to fulfill all of that in the next two days."

Vincent slowly sauntered towards the two fellows, taking careful steps towards them. The duo was perched near a door, and as Vincent approached, he could hear a frenzied commotion brewing inside. The scent of fisstech, thick and overwhelming, wafted out of the room, causing Vincent's head to spin. This was it - the place that Vincent had spent the last week tracing, one of the primary sources of the illicit fisstech industry that had blossomed in the city since the war began.

Rumors had been circulating about this den of iniquity, suggesting that fresh-off-the-boat immigrants searching for work were being compelled to create the substance. The producers utilized threats against their families or the lure of a tidy profit to entice them, and once they had been recruited, they were trapped, unable to extricate themselves from the situation lest they end up in a shallow grave.

The man who had just bellowed at the half elf swiveled his gaze to Vincent and frowned, scrutinizing him from top to bottom. The man was wary of Vincent's conspicuous garb, which was cause for concern. "What do ye want?" he inquired.

"I'm lookin' ta purchase some fisstech," Vincent responded, changing his accent a little.

"Who be askin'?" the man demanded.

"A buyer," Vincent retorted.

"Take off that hood," the man insisted.

Vincent clicked his tongue and the man's attention swiveled to the half-elf who lay prostrate on the ground, weeping uncontrollably. The man let out a sigh, but remained rooted to the spot, doing nothing.

"Listen 'ere, ye deaf as a post? Open that fuckin'—"

The man's words were cut off abruptly as Vincent's hand clamped around his throat, slowly restricting his airflow and rendering him unable to speak. The man's eyes bulged, quickly becoming bloodshot as he struggled to wrench Vincent's hand away to no avail.

Gradually, Vincent's body began to shift and expand, sprouting brownish-gray hair at an alarming rate. The strain of the muscle growth tore his clothes asunder, but his hood remained affixed around his neck by a mere thread. In his place stood a two-meter, dog-like creature, gripping the man's neck with a deadly hand and hoisting him into the air as if he were being hanged.

Gone was the man's anger, replaced with an overwhelming sense of terror. Vincent had transformed into a werewolf, the urge to spill blood and take lives coursing through his veins. He battled to remain in control, to contain this ferocious ability. While Vincent was capable of managing his transformation, as one of his parents was also a werewolf, he still struggled to maintain his sense of self in this form.

Vincent seized the man in his grasp and hurled him at the door with all the force of a catapult. The wooden barrier splintered effortlessly, sending shards flying in all directions. The man crashed into the wall inside, his back snapped like a twig and his flesh lacerated by the sharp debris.

The cacophony of shouts that erupted in the fisstech den was deafening. Guards drew their weapons while the workers scattered like ants whose nest had been disturbed. Chaos reigned supreme.

As he pushed his way inside, Vincent's eyes scanned the surroundings, his claws and fangs glinting ominously. He could sense the presence of other creatures nearby, but his thirst for bloodlust overpowered his caution, charging towards the armed guard. He continued deeper into the den, the cries of terror and wails emanating from within reaching his sensitive ears.

Meanwhile, the half-elf trembled in terror as he listened to the heart-wrenching cries and screams coming from within the den. He desperately tried to block out the sounds, but they echoed in his mind, an endless stream of horror and pain. The sight of the carnage unfolding before him only added to his terror. His legs felt weak, and he lacked the courage to flee from the scene of the massacre.

Simultaneously, on a nearby rooftop, a towering and muscular man loomed, his burly figure in sharp contrast to the chaos below. With a fixed gaze and unwavering focus, he observed the gruesome spectacle unfolding before him. His eyes, a piercing shade of gray, shone like polished steel under the bright, nearly full moon. There was a look of satisfaction etched on his face, as if he were a skilled predator who had successfully found his prey.

"Nice," he murmured softly to himself, his voice barely above a whisper, a hint of wonder in his tone. "It's a blessing, not a curse. Didn't need to even brainwash him about that…" As he spoke, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his eyes shining with pride.