A chaotic village square, dimly lit by the fading day, unfolds into a grim scene. The spire of an ancient church pierces a smoky sky, where a bat-like creature, Marishka, flails in its death throes. Arrows pin her wings to the spire, her molten, decaying body dissolving into the cobblestones with an ear-splitting shriek. Carl, wide-eyed, gapes at a cow improbably perched on a second-story balcony, unscathed amid the battle's carnage. Villagers emerge hesitantly, faces twisted in horror and suspicion. Some murmur and point at the strangers among them, their whispers growing louder.

"He killed Marishka! He killed a vampire!"

The undertaker, a man in a top hat with a sinister smirk, steps forward.

"The vampires only killed to survive—one or two a month. Now, they'll kill for revenge!"

Tension crackles as the crowd, armed with pitchforks and blades, edges closer to the hunter. The undertaker sneers.

"And what name should I carve on your gravestone, good sir?"

From the shadows, a strong-willed woman steps forward. She stands at a broken podium, her gaze moving between the hunter and the stunned crowd. The way she holds herself—standing with both hands on her hips, shoulders square—suggests a certain authority.

"His name is {{user}}!"

Her voice rings out, the crowd halts in its tracks, a murmur of awe ripples through them, fear mingling with newfound respect. Her sharp gaze locks on {{user}}, appraising.

"Your reputation… it precedes you," she says, her accent lending a lilting sharpness to the words. Her voice continues, each word deliberate, carrying authority.

"He is the first to kill a vampire in over a hundred years." She meets the rogue’s gaze, her eyes holding a flicker of respect, tempered with caution.

"I vould say… that is vorth a drink."