The sound of the festival hit Enma before he even stepped onto the square. Loud drunk laughter, girls’ squeals, the crackle of the bonfire, and the strumming of an old lute all blended into one thick, boozy rumble that made even the cold spring air feel almost warm.

  One step—and his left boot treacherously sank into thick brown slop right up to the ankle.

  "Kuso!" Enma hissed viciously through his teeth in his native tongue, balancing on one leg and flailing his arms like an idiot.

  "Ha-ha-ha! Look, boys! The stranger’s dancing! Go on, kid, don’t fall!"

  Three burly men sat at a rough table made of unplaned boards. In front of them lay a battered deck of "Orphans," along with jugs and bowls of snacks. Bright daylight fell on their faces, making their stubble and old scars stand out even more.

  Enma yanked his boot free and walked over, shaking off the mud.

  "You’re Enma, right?" asked the bearded one with the red nose and wide grin.

  "Yeah."

  "And where’s your brother? Four days ago he kicked our asses in a fistfight. Your brother’s smaller than you, but he whooped all three of us good! My head’s still ringing, damn it. We want a rematch."

  "He went to buy a boat a couple of days ago. Should be back today."

  "Then hurry the hell up," the scarred big guy slammed his palm on the table so hard the jugs jumped. "He’s a damn good man. Sit down, kid. You and your brother are practically family now."

  Enma dropped onto the rough bench. The bearded one grabbed a jug and poured him some thick dark brew. The smell of fresh rye bread hit his nose, but underneath lurked a burning hoppy bitterness.

  Enma took a sip and grimaced, already about to set the mug aside.

  Three pairs of eyes locked on him at once—heavy, threatening.

  "Don’t offend us, boy," the scarred man said quietly but hard.

  Enma looked at them, swore inside his head, and drained the mug to the bottom. His throat burned.

  The men instantly brightened and roared with joy.

  "There! One of us! That’s how a real man drinks!"

  The mustached one dealt six cards to each.

  "‘Orphans.’ Six cards. You put one face down. We all flip at the same time. Each card has a value based on historical strength—from the War of a Hundred Names. At the end of the game, the winner flicks the loser. Three blind swaps per game."

  They played the first round. Enma lost five out of six. The men just chuckled while he got angrier and angrier, but somewhere in that anger a strange, wild excitement was waking up.

  When the last card was flipped and it was clear he’d lost the whole game clean, the bearded one leaned across the table and cracked him a hard flick right on the forehead.

  Enma jerked, angrily rubbed the spot, then suddenly grinned—anger and excitement mixing into one.

  "Fuck… I’m starting to like this game."

  The men roared with laughter and grunted in approval.

  They kept playing. Mugs emptied one after another. The sun slowly sank toward the horizon, covering the earth in a thick crimson blanket. Enma stopped counting how many flicks he took and how many he gave. The brew flowed like a river. The men laughed louder, missing the table more and more.

  In one hand Enma carelessly tossed a card onto the table. It showed a warrior with a huge sickle behind his back, the blade curving in a predatory crescent. The men whistled all at once.

  "You idiot…" the bearded one breathed, slapping the table so the mugs jumped. "That’s Father Kenshin himself. The strongest card in the whole deck! You’re supposed to guard it like your balls in a fight, and you just threw it away!"

  Enma only grinned wider in his drunken smirk. For a second something cold stabbed his chest—like the card itself had looked at him with living eyes. But the brew washed it away fast.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  They kept going. Enma sat there breathing hard, head burning from the brew and the flicks, feeling the world pleasantly spin. He was just about ready to pass out right at the table when a light, ringing laugh sounded behind him.

  Warm arms slid around his neck, and sharp little teeth playfully nipped his ear.

  "Well, hero of the card table?" Elinka whispered right into his ear, breathing hot against his skin. "A little more and you’ll fall asleep right here. And I thought you came to have fun."

  Enma turned his head. She stood pressed tight against him, smiling that same smile—tender and incredibly magnetic.

  The men who still had any sense left grunted in approval.

  "Go on, kid…" the bearded one mumbled, barely keeping his eyes open. "A girl like that gets whatever she wants…"

  Elinka grabbed Enma’s hand and dragged him into the middle of the square. The sun had almost set; now only the bright tongues of the bonfire lit the place. Flames threw dancing crimson shadows across people’s faces, making the night feel alive.

  They joined the circle. The music sped up, drums pounding wildly. The dance was frantic—everyone spinning, switching partners, shoving, laughing. Enma felt clumsy at first, but Elinka never let go of his hand and kept coming back to him.

  At one point the circle brought them together again. He scooped her up and spun her high above the ground. When he set her down she didn’t pull away. She pressed her back to his chest, tilted her head, and looked up at him. Her cheeks glowed from the dance, freckles like dark sparks on her snow-white skin, eyes shining brighter than any fire.

  Her hair smelled of meadow herbs and smoke. She ran her palm over his shoulder, then lower across his chest, and whispered almost too softly:

  "See… even a big guy like you can completely lose himself in the dance."

  Her fingers lingered over his heart. She rose onto her toes.

  Enma leaned down, already feeling the warmth of her breath on his lips…

  When Elinka suddenly went rigid.

  Out of the darkness behind her stepped Moksha, Borko, and a few more guys. Sparks from the bonfire flew upward, lighting their angry, twisted faces.

  "Get your filthy hands off my girl, outsider," Moksha growled through his teeth.

  Elinka quickly pushed away from Enma. Guilt and raw fear mixed on her face. She dropped her eyes and almost ran to Moksha.

  "I… I was just killing time while I waited for you," she said quietly, ashamed.

  Moksha roughly grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close, staring at Enma with open contempt.

  "This is your last warning. Come near her again and my father—the captain of the guard—will hang all of you himself. You, your brother, and that fat fuck Yakov. Got it, you imperial bastard?"

  Elinka obediently lowered her head and wouldn’t look at Enma. She followed Moksha’s group like a shadow, shoulders hunched, eyes on the ground.

  Enma stood frozen. Disappointment and a heavy, dull emptiness crashed over him. He’d been rejected. She’d chosen that pimple-faced piece of shit. He felt stupid, humiliated—like someone had just spat in his face and ground it in with a boot.

  Right then the air beside Elinka rippled.

  Out of the gloom appeared two small figures—the size of children.

  Bishu—skinny and tall, with a grin stretched ear to ear, eyes two huge white saucers of pure terror bulging like they were about to pop out of his crimson skull.

  Biza—graceful like a little geisha, with long black hair and completely bottomless eyes, a predatory toothy smile.

  They walked on either side of Elinka, holding her hands from below as if leading her to the altar.

  Bishu giggled in a thin, screeching voice:

  "And you’re just gonna let someone take what’s yours? What a pathetic little crybaby… Go run to mommy… oh wait, she’s dead!"

  He threw his head back and cackled.

  Biza leaned closer, her voice sweet, moaning, almost tender:

  "What a delicious body she has… Look how she sways her ass walking away from you. She clearly wants you to take her right here, in front of all these pathetic worms…"

  She gave a soft, pleased moan.

  "How romantic that would be…"

  Bishu and Biza dissolved into gray smoke, leaving the metallic taste of fresh blood on Enma’s lips. He smiled slowly—mad, teeth bared like a wolf that had caught the scent of prey. His violet eyes flared with hungry fire, reflecting the sparks from the bonfire.

  Elinka walked over to the table where Moksha and his crew had already sat down. Moksha sprawled on the bench and, without even looking at her, grunted:

  "You’re just standing there like an idiot. Go get us drinks."

  When she turned to obey, Moksha grabbed her wrist, yanked her closer, and hissed low and mean:

  "Use your head next time. If it weren’t for all these gawkers I’d already knock some sense into you. Understand?"

  Elinka nodded silently, eyes still on the ground.

  And in that instant a silhouette flashed behind her, blocking the moonlight with a huge black shadow.

  It was Enma.

  His long arms wrapped around Elinka from behind, palms greedily clamping onto her breasts and squeezing hard. His thumbs slowly, shamelessly stroked her nipples, feeling them harden instantly under his touch.

  Elinka shuddered all over. A soft, helpless moan escaped her throat. She tried to pull away, but there was no strength—only a weak, trembling squirm in his arms like prey caught in a spider’s long legs. A moment later she stopped fighting and pressed her back against his chest, breathing hard, letting his hands keep going.

  "Look, pimple-face," Enma said hoarsely, still fondling her breasts right in front of everyone. The vicious grin never left his face. "She’s not even resisting. She likes it. Look how hard her nipples are… you can see them through the dress. She’s crazy about me."

  Moksha jumped up, red with rage.

  But Enma was faster.

  He shoved Elinka aside and slammed Moksha into the table with one powerful blow. The guy’s head cracked against the wood with a sickening crunch. The table split.

  Moksha went limp.

  Enma threw his head back and laughed—loud, hysterical, insane. His violet eyes burned bright in the night, and the laughter rolled across the entire square, freezing everyone in place.

  "Oh… he’s a tough one…" he breathed through the laughter, still holding Moksha by the hair. "Or maybe I’m losing my touch… because I wanted to smash that stupid head of his…"

  My dear Bushi