C125: The Tear Drop

In the outskirts of the village, far to the north where the land began to thin into rough scrub and uneven patches of grass whipped under the relentless wind, and where the forest crept closer toward the riverbanks, stood an old, abandoned barn.

The barn sat alone in an open field, isolated from the rest of the village. Its wooden structure darkened. The roof sagged unevenly, leaving small gaps for daylight to filter through. The large double doors, one half of it was permanently ajar.

Inside, the air was thick with a mix of old hay, damp wood, and spilled alcohol. Makeshift tables were made from scrap planks, stained with ale rings, knife scratches. Crates, barrels, and broken furniture were repurposed into seating, arranged in disorderly clusters.

Few villagers ever came this far out. Only merchants or travelers passing along the northwest road would skirt near this place when entering or leaving the village from the northern or western routes, and even then, they kept their distance. The barn had long since earned a reputation that kept ordinary folk away.

Seated atop a large overturned crate, like a king surveying his men, Danz raised a tankard of spirits to his mouth. He drank slowly, savoring the burn of the liquid.

He was tall, around 1.8 meters, with shoulder-length brown hair and a stubble beard he’d roughly cut himself. It was unkempt, splaying out in every direction.

The man wore a crude, stained shirt of thick linen that barely hid the bulk of his shoulders and his biceps. Old scars crisscrossed his forearms, pale against sun-darkened flesh. A pair of worn black trousers and thick leather shoes covered in mud, just for withstanding rain.

A prominent diagonal scar ran across his left eye, splitting it and leaving only a milky white surface behind, lifeless and unmoving. His remaining right eye, a dull brown, scanned the surroundings lazily. After a moment, his gaze dropped back to the tankard in his hand, watching the liquid swirl inside.

And there were many men. Around the barn, rough-looking figures gathered, drinking, laughing, and talking loudly. They sat at the crude tables, leaning back on unstable chairs or perched on barrels.

Some wore simple farming clothes, dirt still clinging to their hands and trousers as they had come straight from the fields. Others bore the marks of labor, cutting timber and working tools before coming here.

The scent of spirits, ale, wood, and straw drifted. The floor was a carpet of straw and dirt, littered with discarded tools and spilled stains.

Sunlight seeped through the gaps in the roof, illuminating dust motes drifting in the air. Rusted farming tools were scattered around, as if they hadn't touched a field in a generation.

“Ahaha, hic-, you know, that guy is a pushove-!” a man crowed from a corner table, his face flushed.

“Pff, Gah!”

Unrestrained laughter erupted from table to table, their voices created a chaotic rumble. Tankards slammed down the table and each other with dull thuds, liquid sloshing over the edges.

Men laughed loudly, argued over simple trivia, slapped each other’s shoulders, and shouted greetings across the barn without any concern for volume.

“Hey, don’t annoy the Boss! We agreed we don’t talk shit about anyone today!”

The warning came with a half-serious tone, though it barely dampened the mood.

The barn, for all its roughness, pulsed with life. To Danz, the scene was one of pleasant vitality. It was a normal, chaotic life, a camaraderie that held the men together.

They were the Tear Drop.

To outsiders, they were labelled as thieves; to the locals, thugs. But to themselves, they were simply men trying to live.

Many had families. Many worked when they could. Collecting taxes, unofficial taxes, and protection fees were just one part of it. These men spent their free days in the fields, cutting timber, or hauling stones.

“This drink is incredible! Mona! What did you call this again?” a middle-aged man asked, leaning his weight against a vertical support beam as he raised his tankard.

“Aha, you should stop drinking, my friend~!

“Drunkyard!” a voice called out from a nearby table, followed by a mocking smirk.

“Shaddap!” “Bahaha!”

“Lunar Spirits! It’s called the Lunar Spirits!” a tanned young man chimed in, his voice rising above the general commotion.

“Oheheah, it is remarkably good for us! Especially for those blessed by the Crimson Church!”

“Ya geezer, don’t bring up the church!” the boy snarled, glancing at Danz out of the corner of his eyes before returning to his serving duties.

“Ge–gggeezer?!” the middle-aged shouted, his face beet red. “I’m barely forty, you rascalll!”

A loud *clank* rang out as tankards collided in a toast, the sound echoing through the barn. It was already noon, and the place was in full swing, which made sense, since this was when most of them had time to gather.

Women, acting as barmaids for hire, moved quickly between the tables. They wore simple but multi-layer dresses, with a mobcap to keep their hair clean. They carried trays of salted bread and foaming ale, spirits tankards, refilling mugs, setting down plates, and exchanging brief words.

They served the thugs with smiles and careful attention, knowing that maintaining favor with the Tear Drop was the surest way to earn a few extra coins and secure their families' safety.

“The Baroness personally approves the spirit.”

Another voice cut through the noise of the barn, loud enough to momentarily rise above the laughter and clatter. Heads turned instinctively toward the entrance.

As a figure stepped inside, several of the barmaids brightened, their fatigue briefly replaced by familiarity and ease.

“Ah, Miss Cinder!”

“Miss Cinder, you’re here!”

“Miss Cinder, you’ve arrived!” voices echoed, pausing in their task of wiping down tables.

“Right at ya, ladies. Good work today,” Cinder replied, waving a calloused hand toward the women.

She strode through the center of the room, weaving past tables and benches. She had short, ginger hair cut in a rough, boyish style that left her neck bare, with uneven strands but practical. Her white long-sleeved shirt was rolled at the cuffs, and her crude black trousers bore signs of wear.

She carried two tankards in both hands. Without hesitation, she approached Danz, who still lounged atop the stacked crates like some lazy bum acting like a ruler.

“Bossa, ya should stop acting like such a jerk, sitting on the high ground like that. It don’t suit ya,” Cinder said, giving one tankard to him. She tilted her head up, eyeing his relaxed posture with mild irritation.

Danz took the drink and smirked. His scarred eye crinkled with cold amusement. “Make me.”

“Tch.” Cinder clicked her tongue, crossing her arms briefly. “Once I ascend to the next stage, I’m going to pull your arse down myself and drag you through the muck!”

“And once I descend, I’m gonna slap you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a whole week!” Danz took a slow sip before replying without missing a beat.

“Pff, ahahahaha!”

The entire barn exploded with a belly-deep laughter. The thugs slammed their fists onto the tables, a few nearly choked on their drinks. Tankards were lifted, thighs slapped, and the sound of their mirth even vibrated the roof.

A collective gasp reverberated among the serving women. The barmaids did their absolute best to hide their expressions. Some quickly looked away, their hands trembling slightly as they poured the drink. Some pretended to focus on their tasks while their shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

“...”

Cinder fixed an intense gaze on Danz; there was a mask of hardened irritation in the way her jaw clicked repeatedly. Danz returned the stare with equal fervor, his single brown eye locked onto hers as if they had been the most bitter of rivals for a lifetime.

“So, when have you two finally decided on the wedding date?” a small, cheeky voice suddenly trimmed into the silence.

Both of their heads snapped toward the source, their eyes flashed crimson, settling on the young man nearby.

“Donquery, that is not a jest a brat should be—” Danz reprimanded, his voice dropping dangerously low. Yet before the sentence could finish—

“When I drag his arse down!” Cinder cut in loudly, laughing as she raised her tankard and drained the last of it in one go. As she finished, she slammed the ceramic vessel down onto a crate with a satisfying thud.

“Gahaha! Boss’s going to marre? Who would believe that!” Laughter erupted throughout the barn again. “Boss! hic–! Stay single! Marriage is scary~, Bahahaha!”

Danz’s brows furrowed slightly, gritted his teeth. But he decided to let the comment fall on deaf ears. He wasn't in the mood to chase the men through the noon.

“I wonder how Amanda got her hands on such high-quality spirits,” Cinder mused, looking down at the empty tankard and licking her lips.

Then, just as abruptly as she had arrived, she waved her hand. “That’s it for me. This woman won’t interrupt you men and your grumbling anymore. Bye~!”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and left, disappearing back toward the barn entrance.

Danz’s scarred gaze briefly followed her departure. He looked down at the liquid in his tankard and thought for a moment, stroking his unkempt chin.

“Did we run out of spirits already?” he muttered.

Donquery, who had been lingering nearby, caught the comment and laughed. “Aha, I heard mister Loyal is asking the headmaid for more right now, Boss.”

“...” Danz’s gaze shifted back to the tanned, skinny Donquery. His eyes narrowed at the ridiculous colorful, dirt-stained shirt the young man was wearing. He felt a surge of irritation seeing the loose scarf knotted haphazardly around his neck, as if it were draped there for fun. To Danz, the young man looked like a traveling jester than anything resembling a thug.

“That stupid chumphead…?” Danz muttered, taking another long gulp before exhaling. “That headmaid at the estate is remarkably strict about her schedule and her time. If we go too soon, we won’t have the goods. Did that chumphead forget?” He shook his head slightly, already dismissing the outcome.

“Boss, I think he’s already become addicted to the stuff,” Donquery said with a grin.

Danz’s gaze drifted slowly across the barn, taking in the entire scene without a word. His single good eye moved from table to table, from laughing men to clattering tankards, to the barmaids weaving between bodies.

After a long moment of silence, he lowered his voice and spoke again, this time directed toward Donquery, who still lingered by the base of his crate.

“How is your mother faring?”

“...”

Donquery’s smile faded immediately. His shoulders loosened, and his gaze dropped to the tankard in his hand. He swirled the remaining liquid slightly, watching it slosh against the sides before answering.

“Still the same, boss,” he replied with a weary, lopsided smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Still sleepwalking..., still not recognizing me as her son.”

Danz looked at the wiry young man, a rare flash of sympathy crossing his weathered features. He reached out and gave Donquery’s head a rough stroke. “You should keep visiting her often. Who knows? Minds are fickle things; maybe one day, she’ll remember you.”

“...”

Donquery stayed silent for a moment before he forced a grin back onto his face.

“You’re right, Boss. As always.” He lifted his tankard high, toasted the air, and took a deep drink of the lunar spirit.

“Ughff...!” He immediately grimaced, coughing slightly as the strong liquor burned down his throat. “That’s strong.”

Danz smirked and slapped his own thigh. “Still too young, Donquery.”

As he finished his sentence, the rest of the crew, who had been eavesdropping on the exchange, let out a collective boom of laughter that shook the rafters.

“Gahaha! Donquery thinks he’s a man now, Boss! We should at least appreciate the effort!” a man shouted from across the barn.

“Shaddap!” Donquery snapped, his embarrassment flaring into irritation. His eyes flashed red as he lunged toward the man who had spoken.

“Gah! He’s abusing his youth! Boss, help me!” The middle-aged man tried to scramble away, but his joints were stiff from a morning of hauling timber. He couldn't outrun the nimble Donquery and was quickly pinned down against a sack.

“Then you should not remind us all of how old and slow you are, old man!” Donquery smirked. He grabbed a piece of dried beef from a nearby plate, stuffed it into his mouth, and stood up with a triumphant swagger.

“Ya! I am only forty years old!” the man protested, slowly pushing himself up while clutching his lower back. “Oh... my back... cursed this weather.”

The barn descended into another round of raucous laughter. Even those who hadn’t been paying attention joined in. The middle-aged man’s face twisted into an ugly scowl.

Just as Danz finished the last of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the barn door groaned. A familiar figure stepped inside.

“Mr. Davis! There you are. I thought I would have to go out and drag you—who is that?” Donquery’s greeting stopped mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the second figure entering behind Davis.

One by one, the voices in the barn trailed off into silence. Every man in the room stopped what they were doing, following Donquery’s gaze to the newcomer.

The newcomer, a short figure with a head swathed in white bandages, slowly stepped past the visibly shaking Davis. He moved with a calm demeanor, oddly imposing despite his stature.

Once he stopped in the center of the straw-strewn floor, he offered a courtly bow, with a smile resting on his lips.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

His gaze lifted, and locked directly onto Danz, who remained seated on his high crate.

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