Chapter 9 : Butterfly Effect

Chaos. Pure, unfiltered chaos—that was the only word fitting enough to describe the state of Rutter-Slide now according to Corrin. The streets were a mess of smoke, debris, and bloodied cries, and Corrin could feel the chance slipping through his fingers like grains of dry sand. Just moments ago, he and his squad had been on the verge of claiming their prize. The operation had gone smoother than expected—until he arrived.

Roderick Barrentworth.

The madman with fire in his fists and death in his smile.

Two burning carriages hurled from the sky had turned the tide in mere moments. The first scattered the ranks. The second, well... Corrin didn’t want to think about the second. He had lost too many already, and even more had fled at the mere sight of Barrentworth standing tall amidst the flames.

But Corrin wasn’t backing down. Not tonight.

Not when he had come this far. Not after what he had learned about those two fugitives—Elliot and Serena. They were too important. Too dangerous to be left unchecked. He had to take them. And if that meant standing against a famous pyromancer, then so be it.

His lips curled into a sneer, heart pounding in a mix of fury and panic. “What kind of connection does that lunatic have with them?” Corrin muttered under his breath. “Why is he helping them??”

He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Roderick had no right to interfere. And Corrin was about to make that very clear.

"Attack!" he roared, thrusting a hand toward the crimson-coated man standing coolly at the end of the alley.

The remaining Horn Raiders—a battered but eager bunch—charged without hesitation, crazed eyes wide with bloodlust. Their boots thundered against the stone, blades raised, tongues lolling with manic excitement. Behind them, six gryphon riders descended into formation, circling like vultures preparing to feast.

Corrin watched them go, fists clenched tight around Serena’s stolen staff. The odds, he thought, were not so bad. Six riders, two dozen ground units... More than enough to bury one arrogant fire-wielder, no matter his reputation.

And yet…

At the far end of the ruined street, Roderick Barrentworth stood motionless. Unmoved. Hands tucked casually into the pockets of his tattered crimson coat. Flames still danced around his boots from the landing, but he showed no urgency, no hint of preparation. Just that faint, infuriating smirk playing at the edge of his mouth.

Next to him, poor Gerald trembled like a leaf. The man was practically vibrating with fear, eyes flicking from the charging horde to the unmoved inferno of a man beside him.

“Umm… apologies, M-Mr. Barrentworth,” Gerald stammered, clutching his jaw. “Aren’t you going to—well—you know... do something about that?”

Roderick tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving the approaching horde. A slow, amused breath escaped his lips.

“Do something?” he murmured, his voice low, smooth as smoke.

He took one step forward. Just one. And the temperature in the street began to rise.

The ground crackled beneath his boots. A flicker of orange began to pulse from the cuffs of his coat. And in the distance, even the gryphons hesitated midair, sensing the growing heat below.

He was counting on their arrogance. He wanted them to rush in all at once, like rabid beasts blinded by numbers and rage. And as the horde of Horn Raiders stormed forward, their weapons raised high and their war cries echoing through the scorched alleyway, Roderick Barrentworth did nothing—until they crossed the line.

Just a step.

A single, subtle stomp of his right boot against the cracked cobblestone.

His voice was low, almost inaudible beneath the din, but the word he spoke carried weight like a thunderclap in the soul.

“Inverno.”

The ground erupted in flame.

A sudden, explosive pillar of fire surged from the street, engulfing a massive portion of the charging horde in a roaring inferno. Bodies were thrown back like ragdolls, steel twisted in the heat, and the agonized screams of the scorched filled the air. The scent of burning flesh choked the wind, thick and revolting.

From the sidelines, Gerald flinched violently, one hand raised as if shielding himself from the sheer intensity of it all. He stared, half in horror, half in awe, as scorched silhouettes crumbled into the flames, clawing at the ground in vain, hoping for salvation that would never come.

“By the holy wings of Artheon...” he whispered, his mouth agape. “Would you look at that…”

His voice was a shaky blend of reverence and revulsion. A part of him was relieved—yes, the terrifying ground assault had been all but obliterated—but the manner of it… the raw cruelty of it unsettled even him.

He cast a glance toward the pyromancer beside him, his lips tightening into a grimace. Roderick stood tall, lips curled in grim satisfaction, eyes aglow with flickering firelight.

“He really is the monster they say he is,” Gerald muttered under his breath.

Across the battlefield, Corrin could only watch in stunned disbelief. His entire ground team—gone. Reduced to charred husks in seconds. The scent of burnt leather and blood clung to the air like an omen.

He clenched his fists. No, he wouldn’t accept this. Not yet. Not while he still had the sky.

“Riders!” Corrin shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. “Circle and shoot! Bring him down!”

The sky roared as six gryphons swept downward, wings spread wide, talons ready. In perfect formation, they encircled their prey below, a deadly dance rehearsed countless times. Arrows were loosed in a rain of sharpened death, the sky hissing with their descent.

And Roderick…

He did not move.

He remained exactly as he was, hands still buried in his coat pockets, the hem of his crimson garb fluttering in the updraft of heat.

As the arrows approached, they met an invisible wall of blistering heat. One by one, each shaft ignited midair—consumed by flames before they could ever reach him. What remained were only ashes, drifting harmlessly to the earth like black snow.

Gerald gawked.

“They’re not even touching him...” he breathed.

It was as if the air around Roderick had become a furnace, a burning shield that refused the touch of steel or wood. The very sky seemed to bend around him, warped by the raw heat of his controlled fury.

Corrin’s heart sank, the heat from Roderick’s flames reflecting in the sweat gathering on his brow. His ground forces had been turned to ash, and his aerial assault had amounted to little more than smoldering cinders drifting through the air.

But it wasn’t all for nothing.

No—Corrin was many things, but he was not a fool. The pyromancer’s barrier of flame, while devastating, also served as a prison. It kept Roderick rooted to that spot, cloaked in his inferno, unable to pursue without burning his own surroundings. Those arrows had never been meant to pierce his flesh—they had been a distraction. A precious few seconds.

And seconds were all Corrin needed.

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He turned sharply on his heel, one hand rising in command, his voice barking with authority. “Yam-Yam! Jammy! Lulu! Ban-Bam! Bind them—tie those two up tight!”

In a blink, the creatures sprang to life.

From Corrin’s shoulders, two squat, the boulder frogs leapt into the air. They croaked gleefully as they launched forward, tongues flapping wildly. Two more burst up from the ground near Corrin’s boots, dragging long, clanking chains between their jagged teeth.

Serena was already bracing herself.

“No! No, you revolting toads, stay back!” she shouted, flailing her arms as she threw fists with wild, panicked energy. Her blows were erratic but full of fire—left hook, right jab, a frantic kick to one of their squishy faces. “Get away from us, you slimy little creeps!”

She fought like a cornered animal. But desperation could only delay the inevitable.

A frog latched onto her ankle. Another ensnared her wrist with a snap of its tongue and a flick of its chain. “Agh—no! Wait—stop!” she yelped as she fell to the dirt, her limbs tangled and pinned beneath the weight of the four familiars.

Her voice rang out, shrill and indignant as the chain tightened around her. “Four familiars for one helpless girl?! Where’s your honor, good sir? Have you no shame?!”

Corrin didn’t spare her a glance.

“Now, do the boy,” he ordered flatly.

With a chorus of croaks, the familiars turned to Elliot—still crumpled on the ground, gasping through gritted teeth, his wounds from earlier sapping his strength. He barely raised his head as the shadows of the frogs loomed over him, chains clinking like funeral bells.

Corrin’s eyes glinted behind his glasses. His plan wasn’t over. The storm of fire and madness behind him could rage on for all he cared.

Because in his mind, the true victory wasn’t in defeating Roderick.

It was in capturing the prize.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The sharp cracks shattered the air like thunderclaps. In an instant, the boulder frogs shrieked and dropped where they stood—one after another—small puffs of smoke trailing from their foreheads, each marked with a clean, cauterized hole.

Then, silence… followed by the soft hiss of ashes.

Corrin could only watch in stunned disbelief as his precious familiars—his loyal, grotesque little minions—began to disintegrate. Their bodies crumbled into blackened dust, carried off by the wind like burnt parchment.

His eyes widened, fingers trembling at his sides.

“WHAT?!” he croaked in fury, voice cracking as if something inside him had just snapped. “What just happened? WHO did that?!”

A calm voice answered from the gloom.

“Four shots. Four kills.”

It was a woman’s voice—sharp, low, and perfectly measured.

Corrin spun toward the sound, his expression twisted with confusion and mounting rage.

From the dark recess of a shadowy alley corner, a figure stepped into view. Slowly. Deliberately.

She was clad in a weatherworn brown leather jacket, the collar popped high against her neck. A pilot's cap sat snugly over her short blonde hair, goggles pushed up and glinting faintly in the firelight. In her gloved hands, she held a long, metallic weapon—long-barreled, gleaming at the tip, still trailing faint wisps of smoke.

Corrin has heard about the existance of that thing, but only rumour, he never would’ve guessed he would actually seen one.

“What the hell are you supposed to be?” Corrin barked, incredulous. “And who the hell are you now?!”

He was unraveling. The night had spiraled so far beyond his control that every new arrival felt like a personal insult from the gods.

But Serena, still bound and breathless on the ground, looked at the new figure with wide, grateful eyes.

The woman didn’t answer Corrin immediately. Instead, she walked past the scorched remains of the familiars with casual ease, stepping over their ash like it was just another battlefield chore. Then, she paused—tilting her head slightly, her weapon still aimed lazily in Corrin’s direction.

Her tone was dry, yet laced with steel.

“You were planning to kill those two, weren’t you?”

Corrin narrowed his eyes, uncertain of how to respond.

The woman’s lips curled in a thin, almost amused smirk.

“Well,” she continued, “I’m afraid that doesn’t work for me. You see, those two owe me a considerable amount of money. And it’s rather hard to collect debt from the dead.” She leveled her weapon slightly, her voice darkening with quiet menace. “So until that balance is paid in full… I’m afraid you’ll have to find your punching bags elsewhere.”

Corrin stared in anger.

“That weapon…” Corrin's voice cracked as his eyes locked onto the long-barreled device in Maggie’s steady grip. His bravado faltered, and a tremor seized his body. “Where did you get that?”

Maggie merely shrugged in answer—a casual, dismissive gesture that said more than words ever could. She had no intention of satisfying his curiosity.

Her tone, however, was anything but dismissive. It came low and clear, like steel being drawn in a quiet room.

“Let her go,” she said, “or I’ll put a hole in your head.”

It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be. The calm in her voice was what made it terrifying—a still wind before the storm.

Corrin clenched his jaw, refusing to retreat. “You? Alone?” he scoffed, though his voice had lost its edge. “Just because you’ve got a fancy toy doesn’t mean you can beat me. I’ve got an army behind me!”

Maggie’s gaze didn’t waver. She tilted her head slightly, almost curious. “What army?”

Corrin instinctively turned to his left—his breath caught in his throat.

What he saw stole the words from his tongue.

The battlefield was a graveyard.

Half-orc warriors lay strewn like broken dolls across the scorched earth, their bodies marked with blackened burns. Smoke coiled from the piles of dead gryphons, their wings scorched and twisted mid-flight, their riders charred beyond recognition—still strapped into their saddles.

It was carnage. Utter, humiliating defeat.

And standing at the center of it all, brushing soot from his shoulders with exaggerated flair, was Roderick Barrenworth. The firelight shimmered across his dark coat as he performed a slow, sarcastic clap—the kind one gives after watching a pathetic show come to a merciful end.

“Horn Raiders, was it?” Roderick drawled, voice dripping with disdain. “I’ve seen drunk bakers with more fight in them. You lot couldn’t raid a breadbasket.”

Corrin stood frozen. His limbs refused to move. His jaw hung slack, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. His mind had gone blank—swept away by a tide of fear he could no longer suppress.

“Now,” Roderick continued coolly, “be a good lad. Unchain the girl. Hand her over.”

He smiled. “The boy too, if you’d be so kind.”

“NO!!” Corrin suddenly shrieked, snapping like a frayed wire. “No! No, no!!” His body trembled as he stomped the ground like a furious child denied a toy. “I worked for this—I earned this! They’re mine!”

Clang!!

A heavy metallic impact silenced him mid-rant. Maggie had crossed the distance and, with one clean, practiced motion, swung an iron anvil straight into the side of his skull.

Corrin collapsed like a dropped marionette. Out cold before he hit the ground.

Maggie exhaled, returned the anvil to its resting strap on her hip, and coolly retrieved her weapon once more. Without missing a beat, she leveled it—this time, at Roderick.

“I don’t know who you are,” she said, “or why you’ve taken an interest in these two. But I’m not handing them over.”

Her voice carried a dangerous finality. Confidence, unwavering and unshakable, radiated from her like the hum of a ticking clock on borrowed time.

Roderick… laughed.

A low, dry chuckle rolled from Roderick’s chest like distant thunder. His hands remained in his coat pockets. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink.

“Ohoho… Lady,” he said, voice curling with a devilish calm, “you don’t want to go there. Trust me.”

The tension rose like a brewing storm, suffocating the air between them.

Maggie’s finger shifted on the trigger of her strange, long-barreled weapon. Roderick’s gaze flickered—just once—but the flames that coiled faintly around his boots warned of the inferno he was ready to unleash.

The standoff teetered on the edge of combustion.

“Hold it! Wait just a minute!”

A clamor of hurried boots broke the tension, both hands high in the air. Gerald stumbled in, arms flailing as if to physically part the two forces. “Many many apologies for the intrusion, my lady,” he huffed, “Clearly, you have some unfinish business with these two, but for your information… those two behind you—yes, those two—have a debt to pay!”

“Debt?” Maggie’s brow lifted, her aim unmoved but her focus flicking to the side.

“Debt??” Serena echoed, eyebrows knotting in disbelief.

Gerald, now emboldened with Roderick looming behind him like a demonic bodyguard, raised his voice with the theatrical flair of a stage performer. “That man—that man—trashed my tavern. My sweet, beloved establishment, my pride and joy! I demand reparations!”

Maggie glanced back at Serena and Elliot, her expression caught somewhere between judgment and genuine confusion. “I'm sorry, I must be misunderstanding something... Do you two make a habit of destroying local businesses?”

“What?! Of course not!” Serena snapped, clearly offended.

She turned back toward Gerald, still chained but sitting upright with the posture of a queen defending her innocence. “Pardon me… Kind sir, why—why—would you think we were responsible for wrecking your precious little alehouse?”

“He—” Gerald pointed directly at Elliot, who was still lying wounded, groaning softly. “He used my furniture to beat those half-orcs into the floorboards! I hold him accountable!”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Serena shot back, getting fired up. “He defended me! Those half-orcs were harassing me!”

“Still doesn’t change the fact that he tore the place apart!” Gerald roared. “He threw the first punch! He was the instigator, he started it all”

“No!” Serena barked, eyes blazing. “That’s where you’ve got it twisted!”

Her words began to spill fast, each one sharp and fueled by indignation. “It all started with my recommendation paper—my only letter from the academy. Mr. Flaming-Hair-Ash-Burn over there crumpled it like trash and tossed it under the half-orcs' table. I crawled down to retrieve it, and that’s when they tried to put their filthy hands on me! Elliot jumped in to protect me, and that’s what caused the fight!”

She took a breath, only to jab an accusing glare at Roderick, who watched her like a cat listens to a barking dog.

“Don’t you see?” she cried. “He’s the catalyst! None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t thrown away my recommendation letter! All these trouble happens because he is acting like a jerk!!” Serena ment that last sentence with all her heart, she even said it with the whole chest. Not caring anymore how scary that ‘jerk’ could be.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

All eyes slowly turned to Roderick.

Gerald’s gaze narrowed first—staring at the fire-wielding warrior with a mix of betrayal, disbelief, and something resembling heartbreak. His lips twisted as if he’d just bitten into a lemon and realized it was rotten.

Even Maggie arched an eyebrow in subtle disapproval.

Roderick blinked once.

“…Hm.”

It was the only sound he made.