It had only one rule:
Do not waste time.
And yet, tonight’s meeting was entirely about one town.
Duskwatch.
A place that, by all logic, should have been ripe for plundering.
Instead, it had become an unbreakable fortress of economic prosperity and public safety.
And none of them could figure out why.
A rough-looking man named Gregor the Vulture slammed his fist on the table.
"We have a problem," he growled. "Duskwatch."
A scarred bandit leaned back in his chair. "Thought we agreed to leave that place alone?"
Gregor gritted his teeth. "That was before we lost three crews in a row!"
A murmur ran through the council.
A thin man known as Snake-Eyed Joran raised an eyebrow.
"Three crews? What happened to them?"
Gregor rubbed his temples. "That’s the problem. We don’t know."
Joran snorted. "What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’? Did they get arrested?"
Gregor shook his head. "No. They just… left. Gave up crime. Got jobs."
Silence.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Then a younger bandit laughed.
"Wait, you’re telling me a town convinced them to go straight? That’s ridiculous!"
Gregor glared. "You think I’m making this up?"
He pulled out a stack of letters.
"Here. These are from the men we lost."
To Gregor,
Boss, I ain’t coming back. I know this sounds crazy, but I got a job at a brewery. They pay me fair, I get free beer, and no one’s trying to stab me. It’s… nice?
I don’t know how to explain it, but once you stay in Duskwatch for a while, you just kinda… stop wanting to leave.
Tell the boys I’m sorry. But also tell them they should really consider taking up a trade. I hear the blacksmith’s hiring.
—Karl (Formerly "Karl the Gut-Stabber")
Boss,
I tried robbing the town hall last night.
Elaine Stormcrest caught me before I even got the lock open. She didn’t even arrest me—she just stared at me like I was a particularly stupid dog.
I don’t think I can handle that level of judgment again.
I’m leaving. Gonna raise chickens or something.
—Milo
Gregor,
I have stared into the abyss, and the abyss stared back at me. And it was drinking tea.
Lord Veilwood is not a man. He is an unknowable force of nature. He moves without moving. Rules without ruling.
I tried to negotiate with him, and he just waved his hand and said, ‘Crime sounds exhausting.’
HE BROKE ME, GREGOR. I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE.
I am farming turnips now. Do not look for me.
—Jasper (Formerly "One-Eyed Jasper")
The room fell into chaos.
"They BROKE Jasper?! The man burned down a noble’s estate for FUN!"
"What kind of town turns bandits into taxpayers?"
"I heard their militia trains by FIGHTING EACH OTHER in the streets!"
"I heard Lord Veilwood once convinced an assassin to retire just by ignoring him."
Snake-Eyed Joran exhaled slowly. "This isn’t natural."
Gregor nodded. "It’s a trap. A slow, creeping trap that turns criminals into citizens."
The room shuddered at the thought.
A silence settled over the table.
Then, a burly man in the back muttered:
"…Maybe Duskwatch is cursed."
No one immediately disagreed.
After all, what else could explain a town that ruined crime itself?
Gregor sighed and leaned forward. "So… what do we do?"
Snake-Eyed Joran finished his drink. "We do nothing."
The bandits turned to him.
"Let Veilwood keep his cursed town," Joran said. "We’ll find easier prey."
A long pause.
Then, one by one, the bandit lords nodded.
Duskwatch is officially off-limits.
Not because of guards.
Not because of soldiers.
But because they simply refused to play by the rules of the world.
And that was too dangerous.