1st of Ash, 124
The crisp morning air, laden with the scent of fallen leaves, clung to Leon’s skin as he strolled through Rosenholz Park, a silent witness to the approaching season of Ash. The trees that lined the Southside stood strong, their leaves still bathed in vibrant hues of green, yet the closer he came to Wintergarten Circle, the more the colors shifted to shades of amber, gold, and burnt orange. It was as though a masterful painter had begun his work on the canvas of the park, dipping his brush into the palette of autumn. Leon couldn't help but marvel at the genius behind the design, as if the entire park had been crafted to welcome the chill of Ash. It was stunning, and he had risen early just to immerse himself in it, to leave the weight of the world behind for a moment and breathe in the stillness before the chaos of the day began.
Spotting an empty bench near a grove of trees, he made his way over, mindful of the built-in ashtray that would spare him the trouble of finding a designated smoking area later, when the park would surely be swarming with people. He sat in the middle of the bench, stretched his limbs, and pulled a cigarette from his pack. As he lit it, he let out a soft sigh, watching the smoke curl and dissipate into the crisp air.
What a journey this had been, he thought. From the prodigal son of the Wralux family, to the hunting dogs of the Ministry of War’s, to someone who had "died" more times than he cared to count. From fighting shadow monsters to working with Arlais' revolutionaries, and here he was. A nobody, just another faceless soul, drifting through a world that seemed determined to forget him. He took a long drag, the embers of the cigarette glowing faintly as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.
“Is this what the afterlife feels like?” he muttered to himself, his words barely breaking the morning’s tranquility. It felt as though he'd lived a thousand lifetimes, each one more ridiculous than the last. And yet, here he was, still breathing, still moving forward, though it felt like he was merely going through the motions. His thoughts drifted to the Ministry of War, the higher-ups, those who had buried the Jaeger Corps project along with the supposed death of its members. After the death of that old fool Markus, who had held everything together, those who knew of the project seemed content to let the Jaegers fade into nothing, their fate sealed. Leon’s jaw tightened as he took another drag. And the Arlais revolutionaries? What will they gain from their fight? Freedom only to be caught between warring empires like a ragdoll in a storm.
"AH DAMMIT!" The shout escaped him before he could stop it, echoing off the trees, his frustration spilling into the morning air.
A passing mother shot him a disapproving glance, her child pulling on her sleeve. Leon shrugged and took another drag, the tension in his body unwinding, even if only a little. His thoughts shifted again, this time to the past few years. Traveling from one place to another, escaping the weight of responsibilities, of expectations. He had toyed with the idea of returning to Rheimanc, to face his father’s lectures and the endless training that never seemed to end. But that thought felt like a prison, and so he had stayed away, wandering, searching for something. What? He wasn't even sure anymore.
After a few more minutes of silent contemplation, Leon stood, shaking off the last remnants of his reverie, and made his way across the park toward a waiting carriage.
“Where to?” the driver asked, eyeing him.
“The bridge before Trashtown,” Leon replied, settling into the carriage. He fished another cigarette from his pack, lighting it as the carriage rolled through the park, the cobblestone roads clacking beneath the wheels. His mind wandered again. Daydreams, distractions, anything to avoid confronting the gnawing emptiness inside.
The journey was uneventful, the city passing by in a blur of half-formed thoughts. Soon, the carriage came to a halt at the bridge marking the boundary between Northside and Trashtown. Leon paid the driver and stepped out, inhaling deeply. The stench of the district hit him immediately. The pungent aroma of sewage, refuse, and the kind of grit that clung to everything. It was familiar, in its own way. He'd been away too long, pampered by the heat of Tranal's hot springs and the comfort of Dardouen's vineyards. But now, standing at the edge of Trashtown, he felt the familiar twinge of something like home.
He crossed the bridge on foot, taking in the rows of shabby residences that lined the riverbank. It didn’t take long before the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted toward him, cutting through the usual stink of the place. Intrigued, he followed the scent to an unassuming little café nestled between two rundown buildings. A quiet, humble place, it seemed out of place in Trashtown, yet somehow it belonged.
Opening the door, Leon was greeted by a rich, earthy aroma. Coffee beans, freshly ground, from all corners of the Imperium. His eyes narrowed in appreciation. It was a hidden gem, a rare find in this part of the city. He made his way to the counter, inspecting the old coffee machine that sat there. It was an older model, certainly not the sleek, modern machines found in Wintergarten, but something more... lived-in.
"BEX870XL," he muttered to himself, inspecting the model number.
A voice broke his concentration. “An older version of the BES901SL,” an elderly man said from his seat at the counter. “But still one of GIM Co’s best models."
Leon turned to look at the man, raising an eyebrow. "Tricky to use, though. Most people skip this one, either going for the predecessor or the newer version."
The man chuckled, turning the page of his newspaper.
Just then, a young redhead emerged from behind the counter, apologizing for the early hour and adjusting her apron. “What can I get you, sir?” she asked, her voice warm and friendly. "We have a variety of beans from all over the Imperium. Anything specific you’re in the mood for?"
Leon fished a cigarette from his pack, twirling it between his fingers as he closed his eyes. "Something that would fit the morning. Something that goes well with the crisp air of Ash, the bells of Saint Ulrich ringing in the distance, the sound of a brushstrokes against canvas..." He paused, his mind wandering. "A finished painting, an empty chair facing the Cathedral, with a half-drunk cup of coffee sitting beside it. The sky is still clear, without the hum of engines polluting the peace..."
The redhead, who had been listening intently, placed a jar of beans in front of him. “Swara Café, in Allnacht," she said softly, "near the Cathedral of Saint Ulrich. The old painter, another unofficial landmark of the city.”
Leon opened the jar and took a deep breath, inhaling the rich, roasted aroma. He grinned. “One cup of that, please,” he said, taking a silver coin and placing it on the counter.
“I’ll be outside for a smoke,” he added, stepping back toward the door.
The morning air outside felt cooler now, as Leon leaned against the café’s worn exterior, savoring his cigarette. The world around him seemed suspended in time, tranquil, peaceful, if only for a moment.
Suddenly, the sound of something shattering broke his reverie.
"TINK! TINK! TINK!"
Leon’s hand instinctively reached for his gun, and he quickly re-entered the café, his body tense, ready for whatever came next. The scene before him was chaos. Three men, rough and unruly, had barged in. One held the redhead by the arm, while another sat opposite the elderly man, attempting to intimidate him into silence. The third was rummaging under the counter.
The one holding the girl sneered at Leon. "We’re not open yet. Scram."
Leon stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Sorry, lads. I’ve got business with the girl too. She still owes me.”
"Why don’t ya take a fucking seat and wait your turn?" the thug growled.
Leon gave him a flat look, unfazed. “Well, I was here first. Why don’t you take a seat and wait your turn?”
One of the men brandished a knife and stood, ready to intimidate Leon into submission. “Don’t know who we are, do ya? We’re under the River Rats. Piss off.”
Leon snorted. “River Rats? Who the fuck are you?” He took a slow step forward, eyes never leaving the thug.
Before things could escalate further, the elderly man intervened, tossing a bag of copper coins onto the floor. "How much does the girl owe?" he asked calmly, his voice carrying authority. "I reckon that should be enough. If you leave peacefully, I’ll have more for you next time."
The thug counting the coins paused, eyeing the old man suspiciously. "So, what’s to stop us from just taking this money and the girl’s too?"
The elderly man leaned back in his chair, taking another sip of his coffee. “Another bag of coins next time. Double the amount. More than you'd get from that poor girl or that unfortunate fellow,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And I’m sure you’re don’t want further trouble with the O’Grim family. That unfortunate fellow fought together with Gresh.”
The thugs exchanged wary glances before deciding, begrudgingly, to pocket the coins and leave. As they exited the café, Leon sat across from the elderly man, still processing what had just happened.
The old man removed his glasses and placed them on the counter. “Retirement never suits you, Wralux.” he said, his voice calm but knowing.
Leon kept his hand on the gun for a moment longer, eyeing Guthenberg with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He finally picked up his cigarette, lit it, and leaned back in his chair, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the air. The tension that had gripped the café slowly melted, leaving behind only the murmurs of distant street noise and the soft crackling of the aging coffee machine.
“You’re right about one thing, old man,” Leon said with a wry smile, “retirement is only for the dead.” He glanced around the café. “But speaking of the past... how is it that someone like you ends up here, in Trashtown, brokering deals and reminiscing over a morning brew?”
Guthenberg adjusted his glasses, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’d be surprised how far the mighty can fall, especially when they become inconvenient to their so-called allies.” He sighed, his gaze drifting toward the café's worn-out walls. “Once, I had factories and networks producing and smuggling more firearms than even the Ministry could keep track of. Now, I can barely afford to keep the lights on.”
Leon took a long drag from his cigarette, the embers flaring. “And yet here you are, trying to play benefactor to some washed-up Jaeger,” he said, his tone half-joking, half-serious. “What’s your angle, Herr Guthenberg? Nostalgia doesn’t pay the bills, and you’re too clever to waste time on sentiment.”
Guthenberg chuckled, his voice a low rumble. “Ah, you’ve always been a perceptive one, Leon. But tell me this. What does a man with no purpose do when he’s spent most of his life fighting, killing, and surviving?”
Leon frowned, tapping ash from his cigarette. “He keeps fighting. Or he drinks himself to death. I’m somewhere in between, I suppose.”
The old man nodded thoughtfully. “Precisely. Men like us don’t know how to stop, so we adapt, evolve, and if we’re lucky, find a new way to play the game.” He folded his newspaper and set it aside, leaning forward. “That’s why I need a Jaeger. The city is a chessboard, Leon, and right now, the major families are making their moves. The Ministry might have buried your old unit, but your skills are still valuable. Especially in a place like this.”
Leon’s lips twisted into a half-smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And what exactly do you have in mind, Herr Guthenberg? I doubt you want me running errands or protecting shopkeepers from local thugs.”
Guthenberg’s eyes gleamed with a spark of cunning. “No, no. I’m thinking bigger, Leon. Much bigger. Think about it. The other families operate with muscle, money, and influence, but they lack... precision. They lack the discipline, the fearlessness that only someone like you can bring to the table.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “If we can carve out our own territory, form our own network, we could challenge them in ways they wouldn’t expect.”
Leon considered this, taking another sip of his coffee. The rich, complex flavors danced on his tongue, but they couldn’t distract from the whirlwind of thoughts in his head. “You’re talking about starting a war, old man. Or at the very least, painting a massive target on both our backs.”
Guthenberg shrugged, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Perhaps. But the city’s changing, whether we like it or not. The Ministry has its eyes elsewhere, and the families are hungry for power. We can either watch from the sidelines as they tear each other apart, or we can make our own move.”
Leon rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of the proposal. He had tried to live in obscurity, to avoid getting dragged back into the shadows of the past. Yet here was an opportunity, dangerous, yes, but also thrilling. The itch he’d been trying to ignore, the part of him that longed for the adrenaline of a fight, stirred to life.
“Alright,” he said finally, meeting Guthenberg’s gaze. “But if we’re doing this, we do it smart. No reckless fighting, no drawing unnecessary attention. We need to build quietly, make alliances where we can, and keep our heads low until we’re ready.”
Guthenberg extended his hand, the wrinkles on his knuckles visible yet firm. “Agreed. And don’t worry, Leon. I’ve survived this long by playing it smart. We’ll be careful.”
Leon shook the old man’s hand, the grip solid and confident. “If this goes south,” he warned, “I’m not dying to save your wrinkled ass.”
Guthenberg laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “Fair enough. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
The door to the back room creaked open, and the redhead cautiously stepped out, eyeing the two men at the table. Leon gave her a reassuring smile, though the weight of what he had just agreed to lingered in his mind. She set a fresh cup of coffee in front of Leon, her hands steady now, though her eyes still held a trace of fear.
Leon watched her retreat, the wheels in his mind already turning. Guthenberg was right. The city was changing, and we would need more than luck to survive what was coming. But for now, he was willing to see where this new partnership would lead.
“Alright, old man,” Leon said, lighting another cigarette. “Let’s see if we can teach these families a lesson they won’t forget. And maybe build something even more impressive than what Markus built.”
The crisp morning air, laden with the scent of fallen leaves, clung to Leon’s skin as he strolled through Rosenholz Park, a silent witness to the approaching season of Ash. The trees that lined the Southside stood strong, their leaves still bathed in vibrant hues of green, yet the closer he came to Wintergarten Circle, the more the colors shifted to shades of amber, gold, and burnt orange. It was as though a masterful painter had begun his work on the canvas of the park, dipping his brush into the palette of autumn. Leon couldn't help but marvel at the genius behind the design, as if the entire park had been crafted to welcome the chill of Ash. It was stunning, and he had risen early just to immerse himself in it, to leave the weight of the world behind for a moment and breathe in the stillness before the chaos of the day began.
Spotting an empty bench near a grove of trees, he made his way over, mindful of the built-in ashtray that would spare him the trouble of finding a designated smoking area later, when the park would surely be swarming with people. He sat in the middle of the bench, stretched his limbs, and pulled a cigarette from his pack. As he lit it, he let out a soft sigh, watching the smoke curl and dissipate into the crisp air.
What a journey this had been, he thought. From the prodigal son of the Wralux family, to the hunting dogs of the Ministry of War’s, to someone who had "died" more times than he cared to count. From fighting shadow monsters to working with Arlais' revolutionaries, and here he was. A nobody, just another faceless soul, drifting through a world that seemed determined to forget him. He took a long drag, the embers of the cigarette glowing faintly as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.
“Is this what the afterlife feels like?” he muttered to himself, his words barely breaking the morning’s tranquility. It felt as though he'd lived a thousand lifetimes, each one more ridiculous than the last. And yet, here he was, still breathing, still moving forward, though it felt like he was merely going through the motions. His thoughts drifted to the Ministry of War, the higher-ups, those who had buried the Jaeger Corps project along with the supposed death of its members. After the death of that old fool Markus, who had held everything together, those who knew of the project seemed content to let the Jaegers fade into nothing, their fate sealed. Leon’s jaw tightened as he took another drag. And the Arlais revolutionaries? What will they gain from their fight? Freedom only to be caught between warring empires like a ragdoll in a storm.
"AH DAMMIT!" The shout escaped him before he could stop it, echoing off the trees, his frustration spilling into the morning air.
A passing mother shot him a disapproving glance, her child pulling on her sleeve. Leon shrugged and took another drag, the tension in his body unwinding, even if only a little. His thoughts shifted again, this time to the past few years. Traveling from one place to another, escaping the weight of responsibilities, of expectations. He had toyed with the idea of returning to Rheimanc, to face his father’s lectures and the endless training that never seemed to end. But that thought felt like a prison, and so he had stayed away, wandering, searching for something. What? He wasn't even sure anymore.
After a few more minutes of silent contemplation, Leon stood, shaking off the last remnants of his reverie, and made his way across the park toward a waiting carriage.
“Where to?” the driver asked, eyeing him.
“The bridge before Trashtown,” Leon replied, settling into the carriage. He fished another cigarette from his pack, lighting it as the carriage rolled through the park, the cobblestone roads clacking beneath the wheels. His mind wandered again. Daydreams, distractions, anything to avoid confronting the gnawing emptiness inside.
The journey was uneventful, the city passing by in a blur of half-formed thoughts. Soon, the carriage came to a halt at the bridge marking the boundary between Northside and Trashtown. Leon paid the driver and stepped out, inhaling deeply. The stench of the district hit him immediately. The pungent aroma of sewage, refuse, and the kind of grit that clung to everything. It was familiar, in its own way. He'd been away too long, pampered by the heat of Tranal's hot springs and the comfort of Dardouen's vineyards. But now, standing at the edge of Trashtown, he felt the familiar twinge of something like home.
He crossed the bridge on foot, taking in the rows of shabby residences that lined the riverbank. It didn’t take long before the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted toward him, cutting through the usual stink of the place. Intrigued, he followed the scent to an unassuming little café nestled between two rundown buildings. A quiet, humble place, it seemed out of place in Trashtown, yet somehow it belonged.
Opening the door, Leon was greeted by a rich, earthy aroma. Coffee beans, freshly ground, from all corners of the Imperium. His eyes narrowed in appreciation. It was a hidden gem, a rare find in this part of the city. He made his way to the counter, inspecting the old coffee machine that sat there. It was an older model, certainly not the sleek, modern machines found in Wintergarten, but something more... lived-in.
"BEX870XL," he muttered to himself, inspecting the model number.
A voice broke his concentration. “An older version of the BES901SL,” an elderly man said from his seat at the counter. “But still one of GIM Co’s best models."
Leon turned to look at the man, raising an eyebrow. "Tricky to use, though. Most people skip this one, either going for the predecessor or the newer version."
The man chuckled, turning the page of his newspaper.
Just then, a young redhead emerged from behind the counter, apologizing for the early hour and adjusting her apron. “What can I get you, sir?” she asked, her voice warm and friendly. "We have a variety of beans from all over the Imperium. Anything specific you’re in the mood for?"
Leon fished a cigarette from his pack, twirling it between his fingers as he closed his eyes. "Something that would fit the morning. Something that goes well with the crisp air of Ash, the bells of Saint Ulrich ringing in the distance, the sound of a brushstrokes against canvas..." He paused, his mind wandering. "A finished painting, an empty chair facing the Cathedral, with a half-drunk cup of coffee sitting beside it. The sky is still clear, without the hum of engines polluting the peace..."
The redhead, who had been listening intently, placed a jar of beans in front of him. “Swara Café, in Allnacht," she said softly, "near the Cathedral of Saint Ulrich. The old painter, another unofficial landmark of the city.”
Leon opened the jar and took a deep breath, inhaling the rich, roasted aroma. He grinned. “One cup of that, please,” he said, taking a silver coin and placing it on the counter.
“I’ll be outside for a smoke,” he added, stepping back toward the door.
The morning air outside felt cooler now, as Leon leaned against the café’s worn exterior, savoring his cigarette. The world around him seemed suspended in time, tranquil, peaceful, if only for a moment.
Suddenly, the sound of something shattering broke his reverie.
"TINK! TINK! TINK!"
Leon’s hand instinctively reached for his gun, and he quickly re-entered the café, his body tense, ready for whatever came next. The scene before him was chaos. Three men, rough and unruly, had barged in. One held the redhead by the arm, while another sat opposite the elderly man, attempting to intimidate him into silence. The third was rummaging under the counter.
The one holding the girl sneered at Leon. "We’re not open yet. Scram."
Leon stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Sorry, lads. I’ve got business with the girl too. She still owes me.”
"Why don’t ya take a fucking seat and wait your turn?" the thug growled.
Leon gave him a flat look, unfazed. “Well, I was here first. Why don’t you take a seat and wait your turn?”
One of the men brandished a knife and stood, ready to intimidate Leon into submission. “Don’t know who we are, do ya? We’re under the River Rats. Piss off.”
Leon snorted. “River Rats? Who the fuck are you?” He took a slow step forward, eyes never leaving the thug.
Before things could escalate further, the elderly man intervened, tossing a bag of copper coins onto the floor. "How much does the girl owe?" he asked calmly, his voice carrying authority. "I reckon that should be enough. If you leave peacefully, I’ll have more for you next time."
The thug counting the coins paused, eyeing the old man suspiciously. "So, what’s to stop us from just taking this money and the girl’s too?"
The elderly man leaned back in his chair, taking another sip of his coffee. “Another bag of coins next time. Double the amount. More than you'd get from that poor girl or that unfortunate fellow,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And I’m sure you’re don’t want further trouble with the O’Grim family. That unfortunate fellow fought together with Gresh.”
The thugs exchanged wary glances before deciding, begrudgingly, to pocket the coins and leave. As they exited the café, Leon sat across from the elderly man, still processing what had just happened.
The old man removed his glasses and placed them on the counter. “Retirement never suits you, Wralux.” he said, his voice calm but knowing.
Leon kept his hand on the gun for a moment longer, eyeing Guthenberg with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He finally picked up his cigarette, lit it, and leaned back in his chair, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the air. The tension that had gripped the café slowly melted, leaving behind only the murmurs of distant street noise and the soft crackling of the aging coffee machine.
“You’re right about one thing, old man,” Leon said with a wry smile, “retirement is only for the dead.” He glanced around the café. “But speaking of the past... how is it that someone like you ends up here, in Trashtown, brokering deals and reminiscing over a morning brew?”
Guthenberg adjusted his glasses, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’d be surprised how far the mighty can fall, especially when they become inconvenient to their so-called allies.” He sighed, his gaze drifting toward the café's worn-out walls. “Once, I had factories and networks producing and smuggling more firearms than even the Ministry could keep track of. Now, I can barely afford to keep the lights on.”
Leon took a long drag from his cigarette, the embers flaring. “And yet here you are, trying to play benefactor to some washed-up Jaeger,” he said, his tone half-joking, half-serious. “What’s your angle, Herr Guthenberg? Nostalgia doesn’t pay the bills, and you’re too clever to waste time on sentiment.”
Guthenberg chuckled, his voice a low rumble. “Ah, you’ve always been a perceptive one, Leon. But tell me this. What does a man with no purpose do when he’s spent most of his life fighting, killing, and surviving?”
Leon frowned, tapping ash from his cigarette. “He keeps fighting. Or he drinks himself to death. I’m somewhere in between, I suppose.”
The old man nodded thoughtfully. “Precisely. Men like us don’t know how to stop, so we adapt, evolve, and if we’re lucky, find a new way to play the game.” He folded his newspaper and set it aside, leaning forward. “That’s why I need a Jaeger. The city is a chessboard, Leon, and right now, the major families are making their moves. The Ministry might have buried your old unit, but your skills are still valuable. Especially in a place like this.”
Leon’s lips twisted into a half-smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And what exactly do you have in mind, Herr Guthenberg? I doubt you want me running errands or protecting shopkeepers from local thugs.”
Guthenberg’s eyes gleamed with a spark of cunning. “No, no. I’m thinking bigger, Leon. Much bigger. Think about it. The other families operate with muscle, money, and influence, but they lack... precision. They lack the discipline, the fearlessness that only someone like you can bring to the table.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “If we can carve out our own territory, form our own network, we could challenge them in ways they wouldn’t expect.”
Leon considered this, taking another sip of his coffee. The rich, complex flavors danced on his tongue, but they couldn’t distract from the whirlwind of thoughts in his head. “You’re talking about starting a war, old man. Or at the very least, painting a massive target on both our backs.”
Guthenberg shrugged, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Perhaps. But the city’s changing, whether we like it or not. The Ministry has its eyes elsewhere, and the families are hungry for power. We can either watch from the sidelines as they tear each other apart, or we can make our own move.”
Leon rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of the proposal. He had tried to live in obscurity, to avoid getting dragged back into the shadows of the past. Yet here was an opportunity, dangerous, yes, but also thrilling. The itch he’d been trying to ignore, the part of him that longed for the adrenaline of a fight, stirred to life.
“Alright,” he said finally, meeting Guthenberg’s gaze. “But if we’re doing this, we do it smart. No reckless fighting, no drawing unnecessary attention. We need to build quietly, make alliances where we can, and keep our heads low until we’re ready.”
Guthenberg extended his hand, the wrinkles on his knuckles visible yet firm. “Agreed. And don’t worry, Leon. I’ve survived this long by playing it smart. We’ll be careful.”
Leon shook the old man’s hand, the grip solid and confident. “If this goes south,” he warned, “I’m not dying to save your wrinkled ass.”
Guthenberg laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “Fair enough. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
The door to the back room creaked open, and the redhead cautiously stepped out, eyeing the two men at the table. Leon gave her a reassuring smile, though the weight of what he had just agreed to lingered in his mind. She set a fresh cup of coffee in front of Leon, her hands steady now, though her eyes still held a trace of fear.
Leon watched her retreat, the wheels in his mind already turning. Guthenberg was right. The city was changing, and we would need more than luck to survive what was coming. But for now, he was willing to see where this new partnership would lead.
“Alright, old man,” Leon said, lighting another cigarette. “Let’s see if we can teach these families a lesson they won’t forget. And maybe build something even more impressive than what Markus built.”