The Insane Regressor: Throne of Pride

The moment Ravian stepped out of his house, the poverty-stricken streets swallowed him from every direction.

Narrow alleys stretched before him like cracked veins, their stone walls blackened by years of soot and neglect, while wooden shacks leaned against one another as if nothing but long habit kept them standing.

The sun had only begun to crawl over the horizon, casting a dull orange light that barely reached the ground between the buildings.

Trash littered every corner — broken crates, torn cloth, rusted metal — piled so thickly that even the air felt heavy, almost poisonous. In a place like this, one could find every kind of filth imaginable. Everything, that is, except leftover food. Something like that would never be left behind here.

Ravian swept his gaze around, searching for Thomas and Lucas.

They were nowhere to be seen.

He broke into a run, leaving the alley behind.

A main street welcomed him on the other side, though calling it ”main” did nothing to make it any less poor. People were already opening their stalls along both sides of the road, while only a rare few owned actual shops in this part of the city.

Ravian was tense. Even here, there was no trace of Thomas or Lucas.

And before he could continue his search—

”Lose something, boy?” A deep voice sounded from behind him.

Ravian turned around.

What he saw made him stop.

Standing there was a man who looked to be in his forties — short hair shot through with gray, standing close to six feet tall. Beneath unfamiliar clothing, his body was powerfully built, wrapped in muscles that had no business belonging to someone in a place like this.

He wore leather armor, the kind designed to offer protection without restricting movement, and on his back rested a polished metal spear, its edge catching the morning light with a clean, sharp gleam.

Over one shoulder, he carried a linen bag.

A bag dripping with a dark red liquid.

Ravian studied the man’s eyes.

His unease deepened. This man was genuinely strong — the kind of strong that did not need to announce itself.

”Didn’t you hear me, boy?” the man asked, when Ravian said nothing.

”I asked if you lost something.”

”No, sir. I was only looking for someone. Goodbye.” Ravian answered politely and decided to walk away quietly and continue his search elsewhere.

”Wait a moment, young man. Why the hurry?” the voice called out just as Ravian was about to go.

Ravian stopped mid-step.

’Don’t tell me... does he know something?’

His body had already gone rigid.

He had managed to deal with Max through surprise and sheer brute force. But this man was a different matter entirely.

Ravian turned back around, the same calm expression settled over his face.

”No, I’m not in a hurry,” he said, keeping a measured distance between them. ”Do you need something from me, sir?”

The man’s smile widened.

”Well, I only wanted to make sure you weren’t looking for what’s inside my bag.”

Ravian’s brow furrowed slightly.

”No, sir. Don’t worry. I’m certainly not looking for anything inside your bag. As I said, I’m looking for someone — not something that can fit in a bag.”

He was genuinely confused by the man’s words.

”Ho ho. I wouldn’t be so sure about that. My bag can fit people too, despite its size.” The man’s smile stayed perfectly gentle. ”Take a look and see for yourself. My name is Karius, by the way.”

He said it like a polite introduction, with the same unhurried calm he might use to discuss the weather, entirely unbothered by the absurdity of what had just left his mouth.

For a brief moment, Ravian thought the man was making some kind of strange joke.

So he played along and glanced into the bag.

Ravian’s eyes went wide. For a fraction of a second, his body refused to move, as if his mind couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing.

What he saw inside was the last thing he had expected.

Thomas and Lucas.

No — more precisely, the heads of Thomas and Lucas.

Cleanly severed. Thrown inside the bag.

And the dark red liquid dripping from the bottom?

Their blood.

Ravian’s eyes went wide.

He leapt backward several steps — and did not stop there. He turned and ran, sprinting toward the noble district without looking back once.

’Damn it.’

’Damn it.’

’Damn it.’

’What in the hell did I just walk into?’

He ran like a man on fire. His instinct had been right — that man was dangerous. Truly, genuinely dangerous.

He ran and never turned around.

His speed was noticeably above that of an ordinary person, and he slammed into several people along the way, not slowing for any of them.

”Damn you, brat!”

”Watch where you’re going, bastard!”

A wave of curses chased him through the street.

Ravian did not stop until he had put the slums behind him entirely.

The world around him shifted almost at once.

The cracked, filth-stained roads gave way to clean stone streets. The buildings here stood taller and straighter, their walls free of soot, iron lanterns lining the roadside in polished, unbroken rows, while the people passing by wore clothes that had not been stitched together from scraps.

Ravian barely noticed any of it.

His gaze swept the street until it caught on the nearest blacksmith’s shop — a solid building with thick stone walls and a rhythmic clang of metal ringing out from within, steady and orderly, a sound that felt a world away from everything behind him.

He ducked inside.

Huff.

Huff.

His breathing was ragged and loud.

”Hm?” The blacksmith looked up and immediately registered Ravian’s disheveled, filthy state. His expression darkened and he started toward him, clearly intending to throw him out before he made a mess of the place.

”Hey — you, boy! Get out. I don’t need any assistants. Go look somewhere else!”

”No, wait — I have money!” Ravian forced the words out quickly, buying himself at least a few more seconds inside. Just long enough to make sure the terrifying man from the street was no longer following him.

”I want—”

Before he could finish, another voice cut in.

A familiar, deep voice.

”Give him a longsword, light leather armor, and a waist belt if you have one, blacksmith. He’ll definitely be needing them.” The newcomer spoke casually, a linen bag slung over one shoulder.

A linen bag dripping with red liquid.

It was him.

He had actually followed him here.

The blacksmith took one look at Karius — his build, his equipment, the aura of someone in a very particular profession — and seemed to arrive at an accurate enough conclusion without needing to ask. He turned without a word and disappeared into the storage room to gather what had been requested.

Ravian had no idea what to do.

Karius stood in the doorway, his body filling the exit completely.

There was no leaving.

”Are you finally ready to talk, boy?”