The outpost of Ironhold sat at the foot of the Capital's mountain range. It was a miserable collection of stone huts and reinforced bunkers, populated by refugees, deserters, and bounty hunters looking for a quick payout.
Cain didn't care about the misery. He cared about the smell coming from the roasting spit in the center of the muddy plaza.
"Boar," Cain sniffed the air, his nose twitching. "Roasted with garlic. Finally."
Isolde pulled her hood low. "Keep your head down. Ironhold is neutral ground, but the bounty on your head is high enough to make a brother kill his brother."
Cain walked straight toward the largest building—a tavern called The Rusty Gauntlet.
"If they want to try," Cain said, pushing the doors open, "they're welcome to join the menu."
The tavern was loud, warm, and crowded. As Cain stepped inside, the noise died instantly. It wasn't just his clothes—the cursed Warlord's Pelt—or his terrifying physique. It was his face. Every mercenary in the room had seen the "Wanted" posters.
[Wanted: The Godless Calamity]
[Reward: 10 Million Gold Solars & Sainthood]
Silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap.
Cain ignored the hundred eyes on him. He walked to the bar, grabbed a stool, and sat down. The wood groaned under his density.
"Two plates of the boar," Cain told the terrified barkeep. "And a bottle of your strongest red. If you bring me water, I'll drink your blood instead."
The barkeep nodded frantically, scurrying away.
Isolde sat next to him, her hand hovering near her staff. "Cain, everyone is looking at your neck."
"Let them look," Cain said, resting his chin on his hand. "It's a nice neck."
A chair scraped across the floor behind them.
A man stood up. He was massive, wearing armor made from the hide of a Rock Drake, carrying a war hammer that looked like it weighed three hundred pounds. This was Grog, the local champion.
"You've got some nerve coming here, God-Killer," Grog grunted, his voice deep and gravelly.
Cain didn't turn around. "I'm waiting for my pork, big guy. Go sit down."
Grog slammed his war hammer onto the floor, cracking the stone. "Ten million gold. That's enough to buy a castle. I think I'll take your head."
Around the room, a dozen other mercenaries drew weapons—swords, crossbows, and wands. They surrounded the bar.
Isolde jumped up, her staff glowing. "Stand back! This man is—"
"Hungry," Cain interrupted.
The barkeep arrived, shaking, placing a steaming platter of roasted boar and a bottle of wine on the counter.
Cain smiled. He picked up a fork.
"Get him!" Grog roared, raising his hammer.
Cain sighed. He picked up the wine bottle with his left hand.
"Inventory."
He didn't pull out a weapon. He didn't summon the bats.
Instead, Cain activated the Ring of Burden.
He took a sip of wine, and then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he slammed the wine bottle down onto the counter.
But he didn't just set it down. He applied the weight of a falling castle.
BOOM.
The impact didn't break the bottle. It broke the building.
The shockwave from the bottle hitting the counter blew the tavern's windows out. The floorboards shattered. The mercenaries standing in a ten-foot radius were knocked off their feet by the sheer vibration.
Grog, caught mid-swing, lost his balance and fell face-first onto a table, breaking it.
Dust fell from the ceiling. The tavern was silent again, save for the creaking of timber.
Cain hadn't stood up. He hadn't spilled a drop of wine. The bottle sat perfectly still on the counter, embedded two inches deep into the solid oak.
He turned slowly on his stool to face the room. His eyes were glowing a vibrant, hellish red. He took a bite of the boar meat, chewed slowly, and swallowed.
"This is dry," Cain complained to the room.
He looked at Grog, who was groaning on the floor.
"You," Cain pointed his fork at the massive warrior. "The sauce. Pass it."
Grog looked at his war hammer, then at the man who had just created an earthquake with a wine bottle. The fear in the room was palpable. It was the fear of a rabbit realizing it had walked into a wolf's den.
Grog scrambled up, grabbed a jar of spicy sauce from a nearby table, and handed it to Cain with trembling hands.
"Th-thank you," Grog stammered.
"You're welcome," Cain said, pouring the sauce over his meat. "Now, unless anyone else wants to test the structural integrity of this building... eat your food."
The mercenaries sat down. Instantly.
Swords were sheathed. Crossbows were lowered. Men who had killed dragons stared at their plates, terrified to make eye contact with the dark-haired man at the bar.
Isolde slumped back onto her stool, letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
"You are impossible," she whispered.
"I'm effective," Cain replied, pouring Isolde a glass of wine. "Violence is tedious, Princess. Fear? Fear is efficient."
He raised his glass in a mock toast.
"To Ironhold. Great hospitality. Terrible architecture."
As they ate, the door to the tavern opened quietly. A hooded figure slipped out into the night, carrying a carrier pigeon. The message was brief:
The Beast is here. Prepare the Capital.