Corolla dreamed of death and release. He reminisced the days where the only responsibility he had was to ready himself for the day he had to take over his father’s business. But it had been years already since he took charge of the Green Chefs, the second-largest crime syndicate in all of Valoria. Initially, he didn’t believe he could be a successful boss.

But, the demand for syndicate’s products had never been higher, the business never more profitable, and all but two kingdoms were under the influence of his drugs. Overall, Corolla knew himself to be an effective leader. And even so, he hated himself for what he had to do to guarantee his syndicate grew to what his now-dead father believed it one day could be. That dream, the one Corolla inherited, he knew was approaching. The day when the Green Chefs became number one.

Just a few more seasons, Corolla thought. Just a few more atrocities.

Corolla guessed himself awake, though his eyes favored the pitch dark beneath his eyelids. He heard the horses pull from both in front and behind the carriage he rested in. The hay bed under him was stiff and uncomfortable. His face and body were drenched in sweat as he wore an orange mask matching his orange suit. Appearance, Corolla learned, was everything when in a position of leadership.

The suit he wore had cost a few thousand gold coins to produce, woven with exotic silk harvested from shredworms, a species long out of Valoria in the swole continent of Brontos. He got in touch with whoever tailored the Crimson Cloaks and paid them a fortune to thread his suit like the Cloaks. While it looked like an ordinary suit, the seemingly thin threads offered the same protection to swords as cold hard steel. Wearing this silk was like wearing lightweight mythstone that coated over his body. A blade’s edge struggled to cut through the fabric, but the fabric didn’t protect him from anything blunt.

On his left hand, Corolla slept with his gauntlet on. It became a symbol of his leadership and his power.

“Are you up?” a voice said. Probably Don, his personal guard, his right-hand man. He sighed, getting no response out of Corolla. Eventually, he touched Corolla’s shoulder—

Corolla snapped his left hand, snatching Don’s face with his metal gauntlet. He gasped, reacting instantly to what he had done. In his half-consciousness, he almost killed Don in cold blood. Fortunately, the rubber scarf wrapped tight around the gauntlet’s fingers.

“You scared me,” Corolla said, retreating his gauntlet back to his chest.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Don said, mildly annoyed. “But we are a few minutes away from our destination.”

“Soucrest?” Corolla asked.

“Sir, we’ve been in Soucrest for two days now,” Don sighed. He handed Corolla a bottle of whiskey for the morning. “We are approaching Igor soon, sir, a small town influenced by your product.”

“Soon?” Corolla asked, popping open the whiskey bottle before taking a small swig. “You could have let me rest a few more minutes.”

“Terribly sorry, sir.”

Corolla stood up, stretching his arms above his head. He turned to the carriage wall away from Don, spreading apart both his arms and legs. After a while, Corolla turned his head to Don.

“Sir?” Don asked.

Corolla wiped some of the hay off of his back with a glide of his wrist. There were spots far too unreachable for Corolla to bother. “If you would.”

Don nodded. He was obedient, never had he hesitated serving Corolla in his many years by his side. His hands swiped the hay off gently, starting from his upper back down lower to his legs. He finished with his arms. Corolla could handle the front on his own. For the coming meeting, Corolla wanted to look perfect.

His father taught him that appearance was among the most critical factors in a leader’s power. Yet Corolla had a different philosophy than his father in that regard. While Corolla focused on his tangible image, his father always preferred to influence through fear of name alone. Alphonse had tortured many who worked for him, even killing a few of his own men to set examples to the others. Corolla hadn’t been so brutal. He got with the new times, adjusting for the softer generation that came after his father’s own.

Perhaps Corolla gave himself too much credit. I am more brutal than my father. Only, my brutality serves a purpose. Right, that’s it. It has to be done.

Don strapped his crossbow to his back, the grip sticking out a few inches below his neck. He had that contraption for many years, the gray paint with a red emblem of a heart he painted on the side.

Corolla pulled the rubber scarf off of the gauntlet and wrapped it around his neck. A red-painted cross appeared on the back of his gauntlet, the universal sign for help and health. Whenever he saw the cross, he shivered. Corolla wasn’t a maniac. If he was, he might have found it amusing that he was using a tool meant to save lives and instead chose to kill with it.

“We’re approaching, sir,” Don said.

Corolla took another drink of his whiskey. Alcohol hadn’t been effective on him since he first inherited the Chefs, but whenever he didn’t have it in his system, an unfeeling void formed within him. At times, Corolla hated being so dreadful. Sometimes, if he hadn’t had any poison to drink, he often contemplated suicide, favoring death over the weight of life and responsibility bestowed to him by his father. At the end of the day, it was the booze that kept him from killing himself. Ironically, it was what made him responsible too.

“Please finish the bottle before we step out,” Don said. Short, a few inches under Corolla’s height of six feet, he still looked imposing with his broad shoulders and fierce body. Put Don and Corolla shoulder to shoulder, and you would find Don to be more “put together.” Yet still, Corolla was boss. “It’s bad manners to bring your own bottle to a pub.”

Corolla nodded. He drank about a quarter of the bottle in a single gulp. “And we’re going to a pub? So there will be booze there as well?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good,” Corolla said, finishing the remainder of the bottle, tossing it in a wooden bin, clinking as it hit the other bottles overflowing. The drop rung in Corolla’s ears. Noises like those induced headaches in the morning. Corolla shrugged, looking out the front window, looking past the driver, looking around the other carriages that accompanied him on his mission.

Soucrest had been beautiful everywhere else, with plenty of green fields and plains, a few trees in the distance off the main roads, and plenty of deer and other wildlife running free. However, in this part of Soucrest, Igor, the life here was desolate, like nature had long passed, like ruins of a village long ago abandoned. Yet there were people; some trudged through the dust-covered sidewalks, drunk and stumbling. Others lay fetal on the ground, and Corolla couldn’t quite tell if they were dead or just asleep.

Corolla yawned. The carriage continued to jump violently as they continued down and into Igor. Corolla didn’t know much about the town, but he’d known other places like it. An afterthought in an otherwise prosperous nation.

A total shame.

They entered the town's main strip, with all the bars and shops. Corolla could count the number of buildings without a broken or shattered window on a single hand. They were as worn as their people. These sorts of people worked all day just to get drunk all night. They were slaves to their lives, their freedom relegated to alcohol and Corolla’s drugs. Hell, they reminded Corolla of himself.

The gold rims wheels and stations attracted many eyes to their caravan as they stopped in the middle of the street. Corolla waited, and eventually, a few of his men puzzled together a steel staircase outside his door, letting him walk down without jumping. His suit might have been waterproof, but it collected dirt like it collected hay.

Corolla brought ten carriages from their home base: the Kitchen in Gleon. All but Corolla’s private one had seven guards inside each, bringing his forces to sixty-four, including Don. He utilized more spacious stations, each capable of holding a dozen and half men comfortably.

And many, many more uncomfortably.

“Is this the place?” Corolla asked, looking at what he believed to be a pub. The sign at the top of the building had lone letters in red, though only three were left intact, and Corolla didn’t have a clue to what the place was supposed to be called. He noticed a few letters buried in thick, heavy piles of dirt off the side of the road on the sidewalk. This town was built on one of Soucrest’s main roads, but it was no place to stop for the night, it seemed.

The people here really don’t care, do they? Corolla thought. That at least comforted him for what came next, yet also terrified him. For Corolla had contributed a fair amount of the shoddy conditions of this town—they, after all, would rather give Corolla their hard-earned coins than their community.

“How do you want to do this?” Don asked.

“We have a meeting, don’t we?” Corolla asked.

“Well… yes, but we aren’t—”

“We don’t break commitments,” Corolla said.

“Sir, we didn’t even bring any—”

“Don,” Corolla said, glaring. His bodyguard nodded, understanding. Corolla looked around. He had a large force, too many to enter the pub with him. He pointed out nine men, telling them to enter inside with him. Don, of course, followed as well. Corolla was the last to enter. He turned to the remainder of his men. “First group that finishes business gets a few extra coins in their pay.”

His men grinned, and they dispersed throughout the town. They all had swords equipped around their waists, with a few choosing to have crossbows. They all were in uniforms of emerald-colored leather and tan trousers to mimic the attire of traveling merchants from Wargon, passing through on their way back home.

Corolla entered the pub, embracing the music as it got louder the closer he got to the jukebox, which played a repetitive, upbeat track. Even when the Igor citizens were dancing, they had nothing precious about their movements. No care.

The bars had dozens inside despite it being early morning. And Corolla thought he was an alcoholic. There was nothing but abandon in their arms as they partied.

“Stand by the door,” Corolla grabbed one of his men by the shoulder. “Make sure no one enters or leaves.”

The man nodded, smiling at the command. They never smiled under his father’s regime. Still to this day, Corolla didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing. His men were obedient, hardworking, and yet, needed no discipline.

In older days, the only ones afraid of the Green Chefs—formally the Green Dragons—were those who worked for Alphonse. To the general public, they were little to fret about. But everything flipped over on its head when Corolla took charge. His men didn’t fear him, but he’d be damned if the world did not.

Father was a strong leader, Corolla thought. He ruled by order and fear. Me, I rule by feeding their sickly desires.

“Where is he?” Corolla asked Don, looking for his contact.

Don pointed to the back corner. There, a middle-aged, fair-skin man sat juxtaposed to the poor atmosphere. Something about him leaked privilege. His wealth was worn with a gold chain over his tightly pressed vest collar. Like a needle in a haystack, the man looked like a nobleman in a town of peasants. A gold nugget in a landfill of crap. “The single man who is not wearing rubbish.”

Corolla walked forward, heading to a booth. His short slick blond hair made him look professional, perhaps two leagues above any of the other patrons, who all might as well be cavemen.

Corolla, of course, looked better. A full suit, white shirt threaded the same as his suit jacket. While some criticized the mask, Corolla thought he looked dashing with it on. Underneath, there wasn’t anything special. Nor anything atrocious. The mask, however, was a symbol human skin could never represent.

As Corolla approached, the man smiled, extending his hand to shake. Corolla ignored it, standing aside to let Don squeeze into the booth first before taking a seat himself.

“Sir Corolla,” the man said. He sipped from his mug. From the smell, Corolla recognized his beverage as ale. “It’s a great pleasure to finally meet you.”

Corolla turned to Don. “Who is he again?”

Don sighed, pinching his nose and looking down.

“No, no, it’s quite alright,” the man said, waving his hand dismissively. “My name is Garison. I do trade here. I’ve sort of been a middleman between your goods and the people here for about a year now.”

Corolla raised his hand, snapping his fingers. Two of his men hurried over at the signal. His men were both muscle and servants, something his father could never figure out how to achieve. When you trained all your men to be fierce, they wouldn’t reduce themselves to mere errand boys. Corolla pulled a handful of silver coins out of his pocket, and the men he trained abided like it was their pleasure.

Treat your men well, and surprisingly, they treated you even better. “Buy as much ale as this affords,” Corolla said, handing the coins over. He turned back to Garison. “A year, you say? And uncaught?”

Garison grinned. “Never. You’ve seen this town. Look around. Do you think Soucrest even cares about these people at this point? Some ‘Great King.’” He laughed, taking another sip from his mug, drinking at an amateur’s pace. “Everyone in this town is in one of three groups. They are alcoholics, addicts to your Candy, or they partake in both. Eighty percent.”

“Eighty percent?” Corolla asked.

“There are two hundred grown adults in this town. A hundred and sixty are addicts to your Gem Candy,” he boasted. “But, unfortunately, our supply has run dry, and we require more.”

“Eighty percent?” Corolla repeated, scratching his chin. The bottom of his mask was open, arching around his top lip, coming down like two fangs around his jawline. It let him drink without taking it off. The strap of the mask wrapped around the back of his head, concealing his ears. The weakest point on his body was behind the metal of his mask.

“Fantastic, isn’t it?” Garrison looked to Don, who nodded in agreement. “You have an average of what? Fifteen percent in countless cities and towns throughout Valoria?”

“Eighty percent?” Corolla repeated once more. He made sure to keep his tone uninterested in that figure. Before he could shut down his numbers, the two men came back, delivering six mugs of ale on the table. “Thank you,” Corolla said, reaching for his pocket, giving his men a few more coins. “Now buy a round for our men.”

They nodded. At first, the men seemed confused about why they were buying the ale in the first place, considering their business, but they eventually shrugged it off, going back to the bartender, who too was drunk off their ass. How did this place stay alive when all of them were addicts?

“I brought the usual amount,” Garison said. He pulled a medium-sized burlap sack and plopped it down on the table, pulling the twine around the neck of the opening, revealing a hill of gold coins inside. A wide grin formed across his lips. Corolla suppressed himself from gritting his teeth at the expression. “Two hundred gold coins.”

“Only two hundred?” Corolla asked. He drank from his first mug, completely downing it before slamming it back down on the table. “A gold coin is worth two servings, but our shipments contain six hundred servings. The math doesn’t add up. Are you trying to rip us off?” He felt rasp with the ale, speaking sternly to the middleman.

“No sir, not at all!” Garison shook his head, getting a tad nervous. “In the business, the dealer usually gets a large cut for taking such a huge risk distributing your goods. You guys do the challenging part of cooking the Candy, right? Well, I’m the one who has to make real contact with people. I’m the one at risk. I’m the one who would get arrested first.”

Corolla said nothing. He took another mug, emptying it of its ale, cleaning it fully. Corolla felt no different, despite drinking two full mugs of ale. Why can’t you poison me anymore? Corolla thought, looking deep into the abyss of an empty drink.

“And if I were to get arrested, I would never sell you guys out. You write my checks!” His nervousness started to show, and he knew this conversation wasn’t getting anywhere beneficial for his image. Corolla had known many overconfident clients and knew exactly how they acted under pressure. His eyes wandered, looking for something to change the subject, eventually settling on Corolla’s finished mug. “The ale here is good, eh?”

Corolla nodded.

To his side, Don had pulled over the sack of coins, pouring them out on the table, counting them. He started whispering, counting the numbers, “One, two, three…”

“This ale is famous. Though, I warn you. Some fall dead on the fourth mug,” Garison said. He pulled one of Corolla’s ales to himself and took a sip, coughing bitterly afterward. “Strong stuff.”

“I wouldn’t know…” Corolla mumbled. He had three ales left now that Garison stole one of his. He sighed, taking his third one, drinking this one a little slower while collecting his thoughts. This is a little more boring than I thought it would be.

A few men had collapsed to the ground around the room since Corolla first walked in. How long until their natural demise? How much more poison could they handle before they perished. Then again, no matter how much cycled through Corolla, nothing seemed to put him down.

Two men attempted to leave the pub, but his man posted by the door followed his orders, keeping them locked inside.

They didn’t even seem upset, choosing to go back to the bartender to purchase more drinks.

“You’re smart, right?” Corolla asked, feeding to the man’s ego. The most interesting thing he could do now was tear down this man’s perception of himself. “Do you know how Gem Candy is made?”

“It’s an honor that you call me smart,” he boasted, like Corolla’s praise was as valuable as gold. “Coming from one of the wisest, most talented businessmen I’ve ever come in contact with, it means a lot. It truly does. But to answer your question, Gem Candy is made, simply speaking, by turning Soulgems into an edible product.”

Who do you think you are, trying to marinate me? Corolla thought while he finished his third mug, moving onto the fourth. “Correct…” he said, though that hadn’t been too hard to figure out. It was in the name Gem Candy. The Soulgems harvested from dead bodies were brewed through Gemchemy to make an edible product. “And have you ever tried it? Gem Candy?”

“No…” Garison admitted. “That kind of stuff is not only addictive, but it messes you up.”

“That’s a shame,” Corolla said, continuing onto his fourth mug. “I thought we were on the same page.”

Garison frowned before clearing his throat. “Have you?”

“Have I? More than you’ve ever sold in your life. But I remember one vividly. I devoured my own father’s memories,” Corolla said. He felt a chill ride up to his spine, and the feeling of frustration boiling up inside influenced him more than any ale could. “I consumed them all in succession. But you know what? Nothing was as surreal as seeing yourself through your own father’s eyes, seeing his memories. I saw my mother for the first time through his eyes.

“I learned many things from many memories. Eating my father’s soul was like reading a book; it took me three days to complete it. He, you see, had a larger soul than most people, taking longer to consume. I believe it’s one of society’s greatest tools for understanding one another after death, but the world classifies it as a drug. A total shame. A crime against something soo supernatural.”

His father’s soul had been one of the thousands he had consumed through the candy. Like alcohol, his body had grown tolerant to the poison concocted to make the Gem Candy. Though, these past few years, Corolla had stuck to his alcohol addiction rather than scratching the candy itch.

“I understand, Sir Corolla,” Garrison said. “But why do all of my clients tell me it’s the most terrifying experience they’ve ever witnessed?”

Corolla moved from his fourth to his fifth and final mug. “So you don’t understand, huh?” He shook his head.

Meanwhile, Don passed the hundred count, continuing up on his way to two hundred gold coins.

Garrison laughed. “You’re so right, sir! I don’t understand; I only sell. But I sell it well. Eighty percent! That’s a huge percentage of a town. All addicted to your product!”

“Eighty percent,” Corolla once again found himself repeating. He started to laugh softly at the figure, almost spitting out the ale he drank in the face of the smiling man in front of him. “My one percent in Fallendale yields me more coin than your eighty percent here!”

“Sir?” Garrison frowned at Corolla, irritation rising in his voice. “I don’t want to argue with you, sir. Let’s move on, please…”

“Alright,” Corolla snapped, sighing with contempt. “Do you know how we obtain the Soulgems for our Candy?”

“No, but if I took a guess, it would be grave robbing.”

Corolla grinned. “Sometimes,” he paused, looking around the room. The entire bar was clueless about what was happening to their town outside. The music was so loud. The ale played against their better judgment, and they continued to dance like it was their last day on earth. Bodies swayed to music that kept thumping and thumping to wild rhythms.“We sometimes have to collect our materials in person. Usually, when our supply is running on empty…”

Garison looked around, understanding Corolla’s threat. He eyed Don, who was near the end of his counting. He looked back to Corolla, a sense of worry on his face as he glared at the empty mugs in front of him. “Five ales? You are stronger with ale than most.”

“I’m rather disappointed I didn’t die,” Corolla sighed. “Like you said I would.”

Garrison laughed, nervous about what Corolla was implying. Corolla held his blank stare.

“Two hundred,” Don finished, sliding the gold coins back into the burlap sack. He stretched the neck, twisting it and tying it to seal it.

“As promised,” Garison smiled slightly. “Now, do you have the product with you?”

Corolla looked to Don’s brown eyes, nodding before returning his gaze to Garrison. “I’m sorry, but as I said, we have ran dry on material,” he said. “No material means no product.”

Don pulled the crossbow from his back, pointing at Garison.

“No, no,” Garison waved his dismissively, trying to keep calm. “I got more coin back at my place. We can go there and collect it… think of it as an advance.”

Don looked at Corolla, waiting for a signal.

Corolla yawned, stretching his arms above his head.

“Not an advance!” Garison pleaded. “How about… a good-faith investment? Please, I’m a good supplier. I could move to a different city. I could give you a thousand gold to spare my—”

“Sorry,” Corolla said.

Don pulled the trigger of his crossbow, impaling Garison through the right of his chest, pinning him to the back seat of the booth.

Like that, Corolla’s men drew their blades and advanced. In a way… it was almost like they were dancing as well—dancing to their slaughter.

“You care for your life,” Corolla said to Garison. The man’s head hung down, his hands clenched to his chest. His touch drifted to his lap as if life exited his body. “I’ll give you that much. I even envy you for that, but I just plain don’t like you.”

Corolla’s men stabbed, sliced, and carved through the men inside. Blood blasted off of corpses. The bartender pulled out a club, but one of Corolla’s men cut through the club, shredding through to catch the man across the chest with the tip of his sword. They were all too drunk, unarmed, and untrained.

His men didn’t discriminate. Corolla ordered them not to, whether it be man, woman, or child. His only request was that the act be done swiftly to all and that they shouldn’t torture their once loyal customers.

Pitiful, Corolla thought. He stood up, sliding out of the booth. Don stayed inside the booth, reloading his crossbow spinning his reel to pull the string back. These poor people will make me rich…

Looking down at the table, Corolla eyed the bolt pierced through the client’s chest. From the looks of it, it didn’t strike anywhere too vital. He raised his left gauntlet, bringing it forward to grab—

Steps approach rapidly from behind. Shoes, not the boots his men wore, slapped against the floor. His body twisted instinctively, swinging his left hand along with his waste, catching a patron charging him with a large chef’s knife in hand. Corolla snatched the man’s head with the fingers of his gauntlet, killing him instantly. The knife fell from his hand, spearing over the table, gliding forward to stab the wall.

His hand held onto the patron’s face, and steam emitted from under the tips of his finger as large sparks of electricity surged through the patron’s head. Even a dead body danced when shocked, and the corpse’s arms flailed around to the jolts. Pink mist leaked from the palm of his gauntlet, where the Soulgem had bonded into. Corolla let go, and the body fell backward, hitting the floor.

Corolla returned to the table, taking the mug Garison stole and finished it. He burped, looking to Garison, who had his eyes closed and his head hanging down. “You said after four I would die, but I just finished my sixth, and I feel just fine. You lied to me.”

“Monster,” Garison mumbled, caught playing dead. Blood dripped from his mouth. He gained the courage to lift his head, looking up at Corolla.

“What’s the point of playing dead?” Corolla asked. “What happens when we drag your body away? You hoping we wouldn’t notice? You will soon bleed to death. But, what if you do make it back to our Kitchen? Will you continue to play dead when we toss you into the earth to feed the worms? You fool. I envy you so.”

The man whimpered. The tears from his eyes flowed down to mix with his blood. He looked to Don, who aimed at his head. Garison closed his eyes, bracing.

The crime lord looked away at the jukebox, still playing music. Of course it did. Like Corolla, it had no heart. It had no prejudice. It just did what it was engineered to do. It’s purpose. The crafter designed the music box to play music like his father raised him to be a boss.

“Don,” Corolla stopped him from pulling the trigger. He swallowed, pointing at the jukebox. “Can you… turn off the music for me? It’s… agony.”

“Very well, sir,” Don said, aiming at the jukebox, pulling the trigger to blast the box. A good shot, as the machine exploded on impact. However, the sweet sound of silence was interrupted by screams as the remainder of the pub was slaughtered.

“Let them clean up,” Corolla said. He grimaced at the sight of blood flooding the floor, leaking through the creases between the floorboards. Fortunately, his suit’s fabric was waterproof, and the blood flowed right off. “I’m feeling tired. I want to take a nap.”

“Very well,” Don said. He accompanied Corolla out the front door. With a head start but a lot more to slaughter, the others of Corolla’s muscle were cleaning up the city street, hauling their corpses to pile into the six carriages. To harvest their Soulgems, he needed to bring the bodies back to the Kitchen. Corolla’s men would transport back through the other carriages, though the seating would be tight.

They wouldn’t complain.

It seemed Corolla owed these men their fair coins, eying the blood painted on the building walls. Corolla nodded to his men as he passed them by, finding his way to his carriage. He walked up the metal steps set up for him, entering inside to rest on the bed of hay.

Finally, silence once again.