Merch limped into the broken pub of his town. The morning hours didn’t do well for his aching leg, but Merch needed to blow off some steam with work an hour later. A miner’s job wasn’t exactly hard, only taxing on your body.

Strike, strike, strike. The same staggering sound never seemed to escape his ears. From the job itself to every waking and dreaming hour, it pounded in his head like a ticking clock. Strike, strike, strike.

But not when he was drunk, blasted drunk. He slipped the bartender yesterday’s wages, and he replied with a mug of intoxicating ale and a promise of two more rounds to come. A full day of work, and he could only manage three. There were rumors that men often died when they reached four mugs. But few in the bar could ever afford more than three.

He walked around, gliding off of people as he passed. Many were in the bar at this hour—and in fact, every hour. The town at its best was a community of like-minded alcoholics, desperate for that next sip of potent ale.

Merch took his drink and took his first sip. The sourness had faded long ago and had since become sweet to his tongue.

Intense, he thought, taking another. With the music ramping from the jukebox, Merch swayed and swung his arms to the tunes. The music went well with ale. He felt the vibrations hum on his skin, and at times, if he let go of all control of his body, the music would pull him as well. He felt like a puppet controlled by strings from above.

He found himself in a group of four, all dancing with abandon. Halfway through his first mug, he found himself more tender than usual. Worn, beaten, over it all. He could die, and nobody would know better. At age forty, Merch had nobody, his only family being his parents rotting under the ground. No women in his life. Nobody wanted him but booze. It was his greatest comfort.

Light entered the room as the door opened to a particularly eye-striking figure and a large group of men entering behind him. The figure wore an orange suit and mask, with a rugged, rubber scarf around his neck. Oddly, he wore a gauntlet over his left hand.

Merch felt a sting of fear and intrigue by the man. Everyone in his group except himself had weapons, most carrying swords while one carried a crossbow on his back. A large man stood intimidatingly in front of the door, looking like a stone statue, unmoving to anybody.

Are they trying to lock us in? Merch looked around for the reactions of others, but they all continued to dance and drink their misfortunes away. In the vibrant, orange suit, the man sat down on a booth bench after his crossbowman scooted down. Across from them, Garrison, one of the local town dealers.

Garrison was notorious for the drugs he sold, robbing many men of their daily wages to acquire Gem Candy. Merch had never tried it, never had any interest in it. The idea of losing two days of drinking to get one capsule was outrageous to him, so he never pursued it.

But, if Merch could put two and two together, the men across from him might be his supplier. The remainder of his men roamed around, almost scanning the room like they were looking for threats.

Merch broke out of his circle of dancing drunks, scared of what could come next. He approached the bartender. Jare was his name, Merch believed.

“Who are they?” Merch asked.

“Beats me,” Jare said, taking a sip from a glass. He proceeded to burp slightly before sighing in relief.

“Are you drunk?”

Jare gave Merch a flat stare. “Who isn’t in this town?”

Merch nodded. “These men are scaring me. What if they try something?”

“Try what? Rob us? Do you think we have anything for them to even steal? Don’t kid yourself.”

Merch pouted, looking down.

Suddenly, a duo of steps approached him from behind, startling Merch enough for him to look up. He shared eye contact with one of the uniformed men, who smiled slyly.

The other dropped a handful of silver coins on the counter. “Give us as many as this affords.”

Jare nodded, bringing out six glass mugs. He filled each one out of the barrel out the back wall. He tucked each glass on the wine shelf above temporarily until he finished. He handed them their mugs, and they both took three each back to the table with Garrison.

“See,” Jare said. “If they were plotting something, why would they pay for their drinks.”

Merch exhaled before moving away from the bartender. He peeked around and found the men eying the patrons like how predators watch their prey. Perhaps the ale had gotten to him, and maybe it was actively changing his perception. This sense of fear, it might not be justified.

No, that usually didn’t happen until three drinks in.

Still carrying his mug, Merch moved around the bar, actively avoiding bumping into anybody. The bar was trashed, filthy to hollow bottles of beer discarded seasons ago. Jare had only recently purchased new glass mugs. Tiptoeing around the pile of bottles, Merch found the corner of the pub. Next to it was a lone door. He quickly scanned the room, not catching any eyes on him. He entered, trying to act as casual as possible.

The windows were along the right wall, covered in shades blocking the light of day. A dim light shone from above, giving a bleak atmosphere around the room, the other bulbs dead to wear. He looked around. There were a few barrels stacked in rows along the left wall, paper notes on each noting dates of production. Jare himself crafted the ale in this pub and surpassed all the branded ale on the market. The rest of the room was Jare’s living quarters.

Merch felt invasive, but he continued. He looked around the room, finding a small, open safe with nothing but dust inside. Clothes piled the floor like a spotted carpet, and bottles were everywhere. Stains on both his bedsheets and the floor. Merch aimed for the windows leading out to the alleyway to the right of the pub.

He heard thumps coming from the street outside. A screech hit Merch’s ears so loud it felt like it came from right outside the pub. He pulled the string controlling the blinds, lifting the shades to reveal a glimpse of the outside. He peeked, leaning his head from the left, looking right, seeing a narrow view of the outside street. His heart immediately dropped, witnessing a woman impaled with a sword from within the alley.

The man holding the sword into the woman had a crazed expression, like a rabid dog permitted to feast after days and days of starvation. Behind him, men roamed the streets with bloodied swords, walking like they were on a hunt.

As the man pulled his sword back and out of her body, Merch stumbled, tripping backward to fall on his ass. The voices from outside breached inside louder than before. It wasn’t the pub they targeted, but the entire town! Sinister laughter and horrified screams and yelps washed through the room. They mixed with music.

The patrons are clueless, Merch realized, covering his ears to block out the screams. The music, it’s playing too loud! We’re all trapped! We’re all going to die!

Hopelessness filled Merch, like how water flooded a dam or how ale filled his mugs. He saw no out to this massacre. He was as helpless as those on the streets.

What can I possibly do? Warn them? Then what? They would just kill us faster! Fight? No, I can’t fight. I’m a useless drunkard, the same with the rest.

He hugged his legs into his chest, drowning himself in his sorrows. His anxiety was overbearing. He looked to the door, noticing two locks, one on the knob and a deadbolt above it.

Merch considered hiding in here, locking the door, and letting his town be murdered without him. It seemed like the sane option to him. But at the moment, he felt out of his mind. He checked the window and feared when someone out on the streets would look inside and find him fetal and afraid.

He wasn’t hallucinating. His town was dying on the other side of this wall. And soon, so would the inside of the pub.

And he felt the silence for only a moment. A few. Tense. Seconds. And then he heard the screams nearby.

Merch leaped to his feet. He looked at his legs and wondered why they were moving independently. He hit them with the bottom of his fists. He suddenly started moving to his own music, controlled by somebody he didn’t quite feel to be himself. He headed to the kitchen on the other end of the bar. He found a countertop with a large, reflective knife placed sideways.

A chef’s knife.

Merch felt the handle in his hand, and it felt shockingly warm. He lifted it, and it weighed heavy in his hand. His legs started moving him to the door.

Lock the door! His mind screamed at him. But no, his body disregarded the locks, twisting the knob instead, pulling open the door to see the chaos ensue inside.

Immediately, he saw one of the men he danced with have his chest sliced in one fatal swoop of a sword. Blood splattered across the wall behind his body. Merch continued forward, moving as if he hadn’t had any fear at all. He rounded the bottles to reach the bar counter again, seeing Jare’s body lying on the counter, dead.

Merch stopped and took a large sigh. He inhaled one of his final breaths, taking in the situation. Screams and murder came all around him, and the massacre came close to finishing. Merch would be one of the last.

“This one’s mine,” one of the men said, his eyes glaring at Merch.

“Not if I get to him first,” another said from the other side of Merch. They spoke of him as if the killing was a sport to them, sadistic in nature, with no regard to life.

Merch sighed, lifting the knife. He saw the man in the orange suit with his back turned between the two men approaching him. There were no weapons on him, and the man he sat with was reloading his crossbow.

Before the two men could reach him, Merch bolted for the suited man, running with all of his might. The strings that pulled him were no longer the music, not even his own mind, but his very heart. He had to do this. One last thing, kill the man he believed responsible. The patrons in the bar deserved that much!

His steps weren’t perfect, but he needed all of the speed he could muster. His knife pointed straight to his heart from the back. Any faster, and he could slip and die pathetically. He could be a hero, so long as he could do this one last act.

He roared, driving forward, desperate. In what felt like a blink of an eye, his head rammed straight into the man’s gauntlet, and swift darkness followed.

Corolla gasped as he lifted from the couch. He breathed a large breath, feeling the whiplash of returning to his own body. It was such a surreal feeling to lose all control of oneself.

“Are you okay, sir?” Don asked, sitting on an armchair opposite Corolla. “You seem to be a little more distraught than usual when you return to your mind.”

Corolla looked at his hands, his left one gloved in his Soulsmithed gauntlet, wrapped in his rubber scarf, so he didn’t accidentally kill anybody he didn’t have to. “It’s the first time I’ve relived the death of a person I’ve killed.”

Don looked concerned. And naturally, he handed Corolla a bottle of whiskey.

Corolla thanked him, drinking it while he stood up.

Together, they walked over to the crates of Gem Candy capsules imported over from the Kitchen. The left had large Gems, altered to an edible candy, made from those whose lives were addicts to Gemcandy. The souls of those who had their lives consumed were recycled through the eyes of others, meaning they could be relived an infinite amount of times, so long as Corolla kept making candy.

The right bin had the smaller capsules. In there, the Soulgems had little to no variation of size or structure. Small doses that could be consumed all at once, the very pile Corolla used to test if the product came out well.

And it did. He lived through Merch’s most precious and horrible memories, all up until the end of his life. It made him feel jittery, remembering his final moments of desperation at the end. Perhaps if Corolla were somebody else at that moment, he would have at least had that last, heroic kill. But Corolla was a hard man to catch off guard.

How could Merch kill him if Corolla couldn’t even kill himself?

“The dealers will arrive around tomorrow to discuss the distributions,” Don said.

“Good,” Corolla said, taking a sip. His body had since calmed down, but his head still ached. It was supposed to be the pain of addiction, the craving to feel a pain opposite of that. But Corolla got over that pain long ago, right before he got immune. This feeling he had, it had once been excruciating.

“Pardon my question,” Don said. “Is it wise to sell Igor’s product in the very kingdom that has sworn vengeance for its massacre?”

“Not at all,” Corolla said. “But it will incite some curiosity among those interested.”

“It’s an admission,” Don said. “You said you were in the body of a person you killed, right? What about the other bodies that saw you there?”

Corolla locked eyes with Don. “It’s risky. And the risk is one of the few things in this world that can still make me feel. It’s one of the few poisons that still works. Knowing I’m going into danger is all I need to know that I’m actually alive.”

Don nodded, understanding. Nobody understood Corolla better than him. He was there when Corolla became immunized, and he was there when Corolla gained his power, his agility.

“The plan,” Corolla said, feeling his mind clear and recover. For the sake of his syndicate, his father’s wishes, he would achieve what his father could never do—the one kingdom he could never influence. “We have two weeks to get this city hooked. Then, we will move on to another. By the time Winter begins, I want Soucrest addicted.”