Throne of Blood

*Ding!* Two swords clashed in the air, ringing sharply. Maxwell Reed struggled to breathe under the weight of his heavy, black armor, while his opponent, similarly clad in black armor, seemed more adept at the fight. Maxwell still couldn’t understand why the girl beside him had dragged him into this inexplicable battle. Her promise that the last victor could fulfill all their wishes seemed too hollow to believe. Yet, everything happening before his eyes was as unbelievable as the situation he found himself in. Though he knew he might decay into nothingness, Maxwell was not ready to die obscurely in an unremarked alley. The chaos started somewhere noisy. Dazzling lights assaulted the eyes while speakers, turned up to the maximum volume, played DJ tracks. People around sang along or danced to the music. Others just sat and drank continuously—of course, that didn’t mean the others weren’t drinking. This was a place for drinking, where music dreams or dance dreams grew rarer by the day. Places that once served alcohol might have carried the dreams of singers, poets, or dancers. If one were to trace back through history, perhaps these places even held the dreams of heroes. But that was all in the past. Now, it was just a place for drinking. Was drinking really exhilarating? It seemed not entirely so, as conversations about drinking invariably ended with dizziness, confusion, or even nonsensical babbling—otherwise, it wasn't considered real drinking. If one drank too much, stomach acids churned, mixing alcohol with undigested food and spilling them out together. When one overdrank, such torture was inevitable. But indeed, such places existed precisely to offer this kind of torment. Perhaps those who visited occasionally could suffer less, but regulars often found themselves in such states—yet, intense suffering might momentarily erase oneself, though memory remained, shattered into pieces, spilling out instinctively in the unconsciousness. Perhaps that was why some indulged in drunkenness, at least that’s what Maxwell believed. He was a regular at the Orchid Lounge. His first appearance in this bar was a year ago. Since then, Maxwell’s presence became a fixture, unlike the most devoted drunks who wandered from place to place, always seeking alcohol elsewhere. He looked robust enough to fend off any troublemakers. His arms, already thick from holding drinks, could deter any foolish challenges. Yet, occasionally, someone looking to stir up trouble would confront him, though no serious incidents had ever occurred. Though he spent every day soaked in the bar's atmosphere, his hair growing longer with each passing day, no one thought him slovenly. His attire was always neat upon arrival, and upon departure, aside from the smell of alcohol, there seemed nothing else particularly reprehensible about him. Occasionally, a lady would challenge this solitary drinker. Maxwell didn’t reject them all; it seemed he wasn’t merely a purist about his alcohol. To dabble in wine was romantic for a gentleman, as was love, but purely physical relationships were perhaps not the acts of a true gentleman. Still, that was merely Maxwell’s own view. Despite this, in most cases, he entered the bar alone, got drunk on his own, and left alone. He wasn’t immune to drunkenness; his steps were not steadier than other drunks. The only slightly different thing might have been his insistence on finding a room to lie down in before he was completely overtaken; he always stayed in a small hotel near the bar. Luxury didn’t matter; he just needed a place to rest. No one had ever heard him talk nonsense while drunk. On reflection, he hardly knew anyone in the bar, except the bartender who served him daily. Maxwell always sat in the same spot, drinking in isolation. His drinking was pure—he drank solely to drink, engaging in nothing else unless in a particularly good mood. As for drunken truths, he likely had no interest in spilling his sorrows to strangers, at most, he might laugh loudly upon getting drunk, though such laughter was quickly drowned out by the loud music and merry singing. However, today, he hadn’t started laughing yet when he heard his cellphone ring. “Where are you? It’s so noisy. Drinking again?” a male voice asked from the other end of the phone. “When have I not?” Maxwell replied irritably, hanging up promptly. In fact, he had received many calls over the year, almost every three or four days, usually from the same person. He didn’t care about these interruptions; he just continued drinking. But today felt different from usual. Shortly after the call, a girl approached and sat down beside him. Girls who sat next to him usually came to flirt, though some just needed a place to sit. This girl, however, seemed out of place in the bar’s atmosphere. Girls here usually dressed provocatively and wore heavy makeup, the allure undeniable. But she was clad in a long coat, her body lacking any curves, probably shorter than anyone else around. She wore a scarf that covered much of her face, and her bangs shielded her forehead well, leaving only her eyes visible. Though Maxwell was somewhat inebriated, he sobered up a bit when he saw her eyes. They were unlike any he had ever seen here—they didn’t sparkle with seduction, weren’t glazed over from drunkenness, nor frenzied with revelry. Her eyes were cold. They seemed to disdain even glancing around, reflecting a pride that Maxwell thought inappropriate for a place dedicated to indulgence and merriment. If one entered with such a critical attitude, it was nothing but arrogance, using disdain for the patrons to feel superior. Yet, as Maxwell realized, he had no right to judge her, for when he himself looked around at the other patrons, perhaps he too harbored similar thoughts. But his thoughts were soon interrupted, for he noticed those eyes were now staring at him. In the year he’d been coming here, he’d only seen pleasure-seekers, never someone like her looking at him, which he found strange. He always thought people like him wouldn’t exist in such a place. But this girl was indeed not like the others; she ordered a juice. Maxwell secretly rejoiced when the juice arrived; he was convinced she was just another pretentious kid who couldn’t keep up the act of maturity and had to settle for a compromise.