A grunt escaped the boy’s mouth as he sailed forward, slamming into the ground and rolling a few feet before coming to a stop. The chatter of the crowd paused, all falling silent as they took in what happened.

Hector watched as the boy groaned and climbed to his feet, cursing. The boy had taken the hit surprisingly well—though he was a Mana Cultivator, so that was to be expected.

“Who do you think you are?” the boy said, raising a veiny finger and jabbing it at Hector. “Do you know who you’ve just attacked, who you’ve just insulted?”

“No, not really,” Hector said. “And I don’t care. You messed with someone, and now I’m messing with you.”

The boy’s eyes went wide, seething with rage. It was as if he were a noble and Hector had insulted his house—though, if he were the kind of Farmhand Hector assumed he was, then it probably felt like that to him.

“Glimleck!” the boy screeched, whipping his hand to the side. “Beat this piece of slum trash into the cobblestone.”

Across from Hector, a plain-faced Farmhand nodded. He then turned toward Hector. “Your sneak attack worked once. I hope you enjoyed that.” The boy charged and slammed his fist forward.

Hector took a step back, raising his arm and blocking the blow with his elbow. He felt the crunch of the boy’s knucklebone amidst the gasp of the crowd. On instinct, Hector turned his head, finding the pompous fool—now off the cobblestone—with his fist driving through the air. It slammed into Hector’s cheek, dropping him to his knee.

And they judged me for launching a sneak attack, though I guess I can’t complain. I started it.

A shadow passed over Hector, and he glanced up, spotting Lincoln. The boy’s fist rammed into the side of the pompous boy’s face. Lincoln then swivelled and bore a kick from the third Farmhand, who then shot forward, swinging wildly as Lincoln casually dodged to the side.

It was poor technique on the Farmhand’s part, though it made sense. One, they weren’t trained in a dojo, and two, they were Farmhands—from what Hector had heard—they didn’t gain their techniques till much later ranks. So why were these guys in the Gravity Forging realm in the first place?

Shaking off the thoughts, Hector launched off the ground, barreling at the pompous boy with another Orion Leaping Strike. He seemed to be the leader, so it was perhaps best to take him out first. But Hector missed as the boy stepped out of the way. Not faltering, he raised his hands, following the Orion fist technique, and began raining a flurry of blows onto the boy’s chest. Each blow landing with resounding thuds.

A grunt came from behind him. But before he could turn, Lincoln was popping up from between his still-swinging arms. Shooting straight up, like a jack-in-the-box. Lincoln ploughed his fist straight into the pompous boy’s chin, delivering an uppercut. The blow snapped the boy’s head back as his feet briefly left the ground, and he was sent falling flat onto the cobblestone, knocked out cold.

One of the other Farmhands circled to the front, blocking the boy on the floor. His friend rushed in a few seconds later and scooped the unconscious boy up amidst the jeering of the crowd. They rushed back, forcing their way through the crowd as Hector watched on, with Lincoln at his side.

“I had him,” Hector said. “You didn’t need to get involved.”

Lincoln chuckled, slapping Hector on the back and shaking his head. “I’m sure you did. But we all need a little help sometimes. How is your cheek?”

Hector raised a hand, bringing it to his cheek and rubbing it. It hummed with a low pain. Pain that he’d grown used to. It wasn’t much. He’d had worse. “I’ll be alright.” Hector then looked over at the boy Marcus had called Delworth.

He was a thin boy—much like many in the slums. Delworth no doubt struggled to get a good meal. He wore a thin black lace-up shirt and a pair of brown leather trousers. On his feet were sandals that looked marginally better than Hector’s—though not by much.

Marcus rushed over, dropping to one knee and steadying himself with one hand on the damp cobblestone while the other rested on his cousin’s shoulder. “What did they want this time?”

This time? So it wasn’t just a one-off. I hope we didn’t just make things worse for him.

The crowd began to clear out—with no show to occupy their mundane lives; they had to get back to them. Hector made his way over to Marcus and his cousin, Lincoln, trailing behind him and glancing around at the crowd.

“Are you okay?” Hector asked. “Can you stand?” His arm most definitely looked screwed up—unless Marcus’s cousin was weirdly double-jointed, he’d need to get that seen. Though luckily they knew someone. Hector glanced at Lincoln, who gave him a knowing nod.

Misses Clearwater should give him a discount, if she doesn’t do it for free. Even I feel sorry for him.

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The boy looked pathetic. His hair was a mess, dirt and specks of blood splotched its fringes and his clothes were torn in places. The boy smiled at Hector. It was weak and filled with undisguised pain. “I think so. It’s just my arm. My legs should be fine. Are you two friends of Marcus?”

Hector raised an eyebrow at the boy’s manner of speech. He’d thought the Farmhand was just being rude earlier, but maybe he was a bit... Though, perhaps it was just the shock of it all. Hector reached an arm out for the boy to grab as the crowd began to flow by once again. He’d have to try his Talent again once the cooldown was done.

Delworth, gripping Hector’s outstretched hand with his good arm, clambered to his feet aided by Marcus, who slung an arm around him to assist as a stifled cry of pain seeped through Delworth’s lips.

The boy took several deep breaths before patting Marcus’s back, signalling for some space.

Marcus let go, stepping back as Delworth let out a low sigh and smiled. “I’m sorry you had to save me. I’m Delworth. Marcus’s cousin.”

Hector nodded.

“I hope you aren’t too annoyed.” He glanced at Marcus, the two of them sharing a look. “I was meant to meet you by the Mask stall. Old Digby knows me. I didn’t wish to be late. Things got out of hand.”

“No need to apologize,” Lincoln said. “How were you meant to know that those Farmhands would do that? Have they been giving you trouble in the past?”

Delworth paused and frowned, looking to the cobblestone, then looked back up. “I should have known. Forget about it. We should get your masks?”

Lincoln’s mouth parted, but whatever he was going to say, he held it back. He instead looked at Marcus, which was probably for the best. As much as they were all friends, Hector understood that it was up to Marcus and his family if they wanted to talk about it—but if he could help, or Marcus was in need of it, Hector wouldn’t hesitate.

I may not keep to my father’s teachings all the time, but I can still do what is right.

Marcus, for his part, looked nervously from his cousin to Hector, fidgeting. If he wanted to say something, it wouldn’t be coming anytime soon. Eventually, after a few awkward moments of silence, Hector decided that it would have to be on the back burner for a while.

“Let’s go get the masks then,” Hector said, turning and walking toward the stall. The other three followed behind. But after a moment, Lincoln fell into step next to him.

“This probably isn’t a good time,” Lincoln’s voice dropped to a whisper, “but do you think this Old Digby guy will give us an even bigger discount now, seeing as...” He gestured behind them with his eyebrows.

“Yeah, Lincoln,” Hector said. “It’s probably not a good time to be asking that.”

Lincoln shrugged, seemingly happy to put that line of questioning to rest, which was probably for the best—they had saved the boy. No need to start exploiting him immediately after. Hector loved Lincoln, but sometimes he said the stupidest things.

After a few moments, they were back at the Mask stall. The old man still sat on his chair, his weathered hand resting on the side of his face as he looked on absentmindedly. Bored. Unbothered.

“Hello Old Digby. I have come to buy some masks,” Delworth said, letting out a wince as he smiled at the stall owner.

“Ah, Del boy—What in the great lake happened to you?” Old Digby said, snapping from his seat. “Your arm. It’s all out of place.”

“Yes. But me and my friends have come for masks,” Delworth said. He gestured to Hector and then to Lincoln. “My cousin has told me they have found some. He would like to pick out a few. We can then work out a deal.” Delworth then did—what was most likely a wink, but it came out strained and oddly clumsy, like it was his first time trying to do it.

“Uh...” The stall owner looked between Hector and Delworth, then from Delworth to Marcus. “Well, alright then, I’m sure we can work something out. But then you have to head straight to a healer.”

Yep, this guy is definitely not normal. He’s even got the old man more interested in life.

After a few moments of searching, followed by the old man urging them on so Delworth could get checked, they left the stall with six masks in total. Delworth had apparently been informed by Marcus about the operation and was now interested in helping out—apparently, he didn’t have many friends and it sounded fun.

Which was odd enough, but Hector got the feeling that Marcus may not have emphasized how serious this operation was—that or much like his arm, the seriousness of the matter was lost on Delworth. Hector wasn’t doing this for the fun of it. He had a debt to repay.

“So, why were those Farmhands after you anyway?” Hector asked, as they all made their way through the market, heading for the exit. Hector needed to know what he had gotten himself into—that, and Delworth was now involved in something that was meant to be a group secret.

“Well...”

“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” Lincoln said, fiddling with his mask. He brushed by someone and almost dropped it, but was quick with the recovery. “Besides, if anything, we will just knock them out again.”

“Stop messing around,” Hector said, glaring at Lincoln. “But he’s right, we’ve got your back.”

“Well, I don’t know if it’s bad. Hammond, the leader of the group, has been bothering me,” Delworth said, clutching his side and letting out a wince. “He said I can be useful. He said I could be great. I should follow him. He will show me how to be more than a pig... I didn’t want to go.”

“Not surprised,” Lincoln said. “The guy’s closer to an actual pig himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he warmed his bed with a few.”

“Lincoln!” Hector snapped.

“Sorry, sorry, continue, Del boy.”

“It’s Delworth. Only Old Digby can call me Del boy,” Delworth said, turning his head to give Lincoln a blank stare. “But I rejected Hammond again today. It made him angry. He did this.” He raised his good arm and gestured to the twisted one.

Spotting the exit a little way down the market, Hector stopped walking. The group did the same. He looked over at Delworth and then turned to Marcus. “We were thinking...” he said, gesturing his hand toward Lincoln, “he could follow us back to the Sirius quarter, to get looked over by Lincoln’s mom.”

Marcus lived on the other edge of the slum, and Hector had never seen Delworth around. So it stood to reason that he didn’t come from the Sirius quarter—but then again, he could have spent all his time at home. He didn’t have any friends, after all.

“That sounds good,” Marcus said. Cocking his head, he turned to Delworth and raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to do that? You can then spend the night at my house if you want to. I’m sure Father would be happy to see you.”

Delworth rubbed his side and raised his hand, dabbing it on his battered lip. “I think that would be good. Uncle has a well-maintained house.”

“To my house then,” Lincoln said. He skipped by, slapping Hector on the back and flashing a cheeky smile.

Hector sighed. They weren’t kids... but he’d be damned if he didn’t pound the fact they needed to grow up into Lincoln. “Get back here, you idiot.”