TROUBLE COMES UNINVITED
495 Words
In Franclis, trouble did not need to be hunted.
It walked toward you.
By the third day, Nox understood something clearly:
Franclis was not peaceful.
It was merely delaying violence.
In the market, people whispered about war taxes.
In taverns, soldiers spoke of the borders.
In narrow alleys, goods changed hands without royal permission.
And in such a city, strangers stood out.
Especially those without origin.
Nox was leaving a small inn near the inner wall when three men blocked his path.
Not soldiers.
Not citizens.
Dark leather coats.
Short blades.
Rough spiral tattoos on their necks.
Street enforcers.
“You’re new,” the middle one said.
“And?” Nox replied.
“You worked the warehouse job two days ago.”
He did not deny it.
“That was our territory,” the man continued. “You took our coin.”
“It was open work.”
The man’s eyes narrowed.
“You crossed a line.”
Nox glanced around.
Brick walls.
Shuttered windows.
No witnesses.
A place to disappear.
“If you want money,” Nox said calmly, “work.”
“If you want to live,” the man replied, “pay.”
Nox sighed.
A small problem.
He stepped forward.
The middle man drew his blade.
Nox did not draw one.
He lowered his stance.
Short step.
Boxing form.
The blade thrust.
Nox shifted and punched straight to the jaw.
Light Astra reinforcement.
Bone cracked.
The man hit the wall.
The left one swung his knife.
Nox caught the wrist.
Aikido turn.
Joint twisted.
The knife fell.
He shoved the body into the third man.
The last one retreated, but Nox was already moving.
Low kick.
Silat strike.
The leg folded.
He dropped to his knee.
Nox pressed him against the wall.
“Leave,” he said quietly. “Or die.”
They ran.
Staggering.
No blood.
No screams.
But something had changed.
The city had noticed him.
That evening, in a small tavern near the market, he heard whispers.
“The ruin-born…” “The one who killed rats barehanded…” “The one who broke three men…”
No name yet.
But reputation was forming.
And reputation was a second currency.
That night, someone knocked on his door.
Two knocks.
Measured.
Nox opened it.
An old man stood outside.
Gray coat.
Iron cane.
Sharp eyes.
“I seek someone who works without asking too much,” the man said.
“I am not cheap.”
“I am not looking for cheap.”
He handed Nox a wooden seal.
The mark of Franclis.
“Tomorrow morning. West tower.”
“For what?”
“For problems soldiers cannot handle.”
Nox studied the seal for a moment.
Then took it.
“Fine.”
When the door closed, he sat on the bed.
Street gangs.
Whispers.
A royal messenger.
All in one day.
Franclis was not peaceful.
It was hungry for conflict.
And he had just stepped inside its mouth.
- Writer
