An opportunity

Azrael had embarked on an extensive journey, guided solely by the map left by Stark in the soulless forest. After hours of relentless travel, night had fallen and passed, yet Azrael continued his rapid pace toward his destination, refusing to slow down.

"Where in the world are you headed? You've been on the move for hours," Ava exclaimed as Azrael raced ahead.

"I'm heading towards the Lyrac Empire; I must be getting close," Azrael replied, his determination unwavering.

A few hours later, Azrael reached a cluster of towns where the unmistakable flag of the Lyrac Empire proudly fluttered in the breeze. He knew he had arrived at his intended destination, albeit only partially, as the formidable adversaries he sought were likely to be found in the capital rather than these small towns.

In search of a tavern, Azrael strolled through the town, not seeking rest but rather valuable information. Based on his past experiences, taverns proved to be the ideal setting for gleaning tidbits from talkative individuals. He couldn't afford to remain idle for long and eagerly anticipated any mention of a worthy target.

Azrael continued his search, his eyes keenly observant, taking in every detail of his surroundings. The town unfolded before him like a humble canvas, its essence interwoven with the tapestry of daily life. Cobblestone streets, weathered by time, stretched out in an intricate labyrinth, guiding him deeper into the heart of the community.

The buildings, standing shoulder to shoulder, were a medley of architectural styles, a testament to the town's evolution over the years. Some structures boasted quaint thatched roofs, their timeworn beams revealing stories of generations past. Others showcased ornate facades, their intricate stonework hinting at a bygone era of prosperity and artistic craftsmanship.

Narrow alleyways meandered between the buildings, beckoning curious souls to explore their hidden secrets. Vibrant flower boxes adorned windowsills, splashing vibrant hues against the backdrop of muted earth tones. The sweet scent of blooming flowers mingled with the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from a nearby bakery, enticing passersby with promises of culinary delights.

The town square served as a bustling hub, where locals gathered to exchange stories and trade goods. A central fountain, its once sparkling waters now weathered and faded, stood as a timeless monument to the town's resilience. Market stalls lined the perimeter, their wares enticingly displayed, offering an array of artisan crafts, succulent fruits, and aromatic spices that teased the senses.

The soundscape of the town was a symphony of everyday life. The cheerful chatter of merchants haggling with customers harmonized with the rhythmic clatter of hooves as horse-drawn carriages passed by. Laughter and snippets of conversations filled the air, intermingling with the occasional melodious tune played by a wandering minstrel.

As Azrael moved through the town, he couldn't help but feel the stark contrast between its modest charm and the grandeur of Aml city. Yet, there was an authenticity to this place—a simplicity that spoke of honest toil and a genuine sense of community. It was a microcosm of ordinary lives intertwining, hidden beneath the surface of the world's larger machinations. And within its unassuming embrace, Azrael sought the threads of information that would guide his next steps.

"Stop, please!" a woman cried out, desperately clutching a young man who attempted to resist her grasp.

Azrael's attention was drawn to the gathering crowd, their murmurs and hushed tones carrying a sense of solemnity. Curiosity piqued, he joined the cluster of onlookers who had formed a somber tableau.

A disheartened voice cut through the air, tinged with resignation. "Sigh, another mother watching her child go to die," lamented one of the onlookers, the weariness evident in their tone.

Sympathy resonated in another voice, its weight heavy with empathy. "It's truly sad. These ambitious young men of today, they seem to forget about their parents. How many have we lost this week alone?" came the response, tinged with a mix of sorrow and frustration.

"The Ozin Tournament has brought nothing but misfortune upon this empire. Each year, the outcome remains the same," remarked a concerned spectator, their words carrying a sense of disillusionment.

A contrasting perspective emerged, attempting to shed a glimmer of optimism on the situation. "Well, it's good for young men to dream big. After all, the prize is no trifling matter," voiced another onlooker, their tone suggesting a flicker of hope amidst the prevailing darkness.

A dissenting voice chimed in, tinged with a tinge of bitterness. "What's the point of dreaming big if it only leads to their untimely death? Those who partake in that tournament are leagues above us small-town folks," expressed the skeptic, their words brimming with resignation and a hint of envy.

As the voices intertwined, Azrael's gaze shifted, his eyes gleaming with calculative optimism upon hearing their conversation. Amidst the commotion, a poignant exchange transpired between a mother and her determined young son, held firmly in her grip.

"Mother, don't worry. I'll make you proud. I'll win and change our lives," the young man fervently declared, his voice filled with determination as he struggled against her grasp.

But the mother, wise and weathered by the painful spectacles she had witnessed, responded with a mix of love and trepidation. "No, my child. I have watched your peers go and die. I am content with the life we have," she softly uttered, her voice tinged with a bittersweet acceptance.

Azrael turned away from the poignant scene.The search for the tavern resumed, he had heard enough.

Ava's voice echoed in Azrael's mind, carrying a hint of menace as she questioned, "What did you see right there?"

"An opportunity," Azrael responded, his voice dripping with a sinister undertone, matching Ava's devious intent.

"Exactly. This tournament might just be the catalyst you need to boost our strength," Ava proclaimed, her words laced with calculated ambition.

"Our?" Azrael questioned, momentarily taken aback by the implications of their shared benefit.

"Yours, mine... doesn't matter. since I seemingly grow in strength when you do. And this tournament, it seems, has no restrictions on lethal measures. It's perfect," Ava explained, her voice tinged with excitement.

Azrael contemplated her proposition, weighing its potential risks and rewards. "Yes, but the participants may prove to be too weak, and there's the possibility that I won't be allowed to participate. Without enough information, I'll stick to our original plan for now," he reasoned, his caution evident.

"No, instead, gather more information. It won't go against your initial strategy. Join the tournament, engage in battles, kill who needs killing, and then resume your normal course of action. Simple," Ava insisted, her tone resolute.

"That's not a bad idea. Depending on the tournament's mechanics, this approach might actually be easier," Azrael conceded, his mind open to the possibility. With determination in his stride, he proceeded into the tavern he had found, drawing a few lingering stares. Clad in his distinct mask and cloak, he stood out conspicuously, worlds apart from blending into the crowd.

Azrael made his way to the bar, settling onto one of the stools. The bartender, sensing his presence, approached from behind the counter and inquired, "What can I get ya?"

"Although drinking might prove challenging with that mask of yours," the bartender added.

"Just bring me a beer. There's something comforting about the weight of a mug in my hands." Azrael said, acknowledging the bartender's observation ,

The bartender cast a curious glance at Azrael before fetching his requested beverage and sliding it across the counter.

As the bartender turned to attend to other patrons, Azrael seized the opportunity to gather information. "Hey," he called out, catching the bartender's attention, "I've been contemplating joining the Ozin's tournament, but I'm rather uninformed about it. Could you enlighten me?"

The bartender, somewhat dismissively, responded, "I don't work at the tournament. Find your information elsewhere."

Not one to give up easily, Azrael interjected, halting the bartender in his tracks. "Wait. Of course, I plan to compensate you for your time," he offered, his voice laced with determination.

The bartender turned fully toward Azrael, his posture indicating a newfound willingness to listen. "How much?" he inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"100 gold coins," Azrael replied without hesitation, fully aware of the potentially exorbitant sum he was offering for seemingly commonplace information.

The bartender reacted with disbelief, his eyes widening. "Bullshit! Show it to me," he exclaimed, shocked by the audacity of the offer.

Azrael conjuring from his space ring, produced a hundred gleaming gold coins, contemplating whether he might have overplayed his hand.

A small laugh escaped the bartender's lips as he accepted the money. "Don't worry, sir. I'll tell you everything you need to know," he assured excitedly, reassured by the substantial compensation Azrael had provided.