Red and yellow confetti bounced off Hector’s shoulder as he stood frozen. The initiate was Gravity Forging Four. Not one. Not two. Four. How was he meant to handle that? His tongue became numb, the saliva in his mouth stale. He couldn’t fight this man—he would lose.
What kind of dumb luck do I have to have to run into you?
But he couldn’t give up. Hollow at first, a feeling welled up in his chest. Mirae was in danger—he couldn’t risk believing it wasn’t her. The consequences were too dangerous. The feeling surged through his veins, starting as nothing but a slow dribble. Small and weak. Before bursting forth in a deluge of drunk courage.
The plan was over. Everything was about to go up in smoke—in a way, it already had. With the guards on such high alert, doing anything would be difficult. Hector only hoped that Emela and the others had noticed.
“Lincoln, let’s head back that way,” Hector said, moving the boy’s hand from his back and gesturing behind him. “I think they might have gone that way.” Even though the wrench that was the guards screwed them, there was no reason to make things chaotic. They still had time to think. “Thanks, Mr. Initiate, we’ll be going now.”
The man yawned, pulling out a small waterskin from the breast pocket of his robes. “Hold on now, you haven’t even answered my question.” His gaze moved past them—he was no doubt watching the guards. “You wouldn’t happen to be running from them, would you?” He took a swig from his waterskin before letting out another small yawn. “I need to stop losing. It’s messing up my sleep.”
Lincoln chuckled. “Yeah, you caught us. Just playing hide and seek with the city guard.”
The man chuckled, slipping the waterskin back into the breast of his robes. “Actually, young ones, could you do me a favour and remove those masks? I can’t quite see your faces.”
He knows what’s up; he’s just stalling for time. I have to do this now.
Hector spared one more glance behind him. His blood ran cold. There, with her back against a stall display and two guards bearing down on her like rabid dogs, was Mirae. The vendor—a young blond-haired woman—made no move to help. Not that she needed to. The woman didn’t know Mirae from any other slum rat, but Hector still wished she would do something, anything, scream even. Anything to distract them.
“Listen, children, I’ve had a long night.” The initiate said, stifling another yawn. “I’ve had a long day, too. So, if you could just—”
“I hope whatever distraction you’ve got is good enough,” Hector said, nodding at Lincoln.
“Hector, don’t—”
Before he could finish talking, energy surged through Hector’s legs, whipping and crackling at his muscles as static coated his skin. He shot off the ground, raising a knee. The initiate, predictably, held up a hand to block—even though Hector charged out of nowhere, the man was three minor realms above him and a mercenary at that. Of course, he would be quick. But Hector wasn’t attacking.
He angled himself onto the block, pressing his weight against the resistance before launching off. Hector arced back like a javelin, floating briefly over the cobblestone before slamming down and breaking into a mad sprint. People gasped, his shoulder smacking into some, shunting them out of the way. They were unimportant.
“Hey,” he heard the initiate call. But a dull explosion went off and people screamed. The subtle smell of sulfur tickled his nose as it sailed by in the wind. The group of guards—thankfully even the one he was sprinting towards—looked over.
Whatever Lincoln had done was hopefully enough to get himself out of trouble; Hector didn’t want to trade one problem for another. His mind focused. He’d rush in, grab Mirae, and squeeze through a side alley—at least, that was the plan. His legs thrummed with energy as the cobblestone rushed by underfoot. Who would he go for out of the two?
System, scan both of them now.
————————————————
///: Acquiring target stats…
————————————————
///
Cultivation level: [Gravity Forging - 2]
Talent: [Momentum Strike [•○○] (1/3)]
Talent Fragment: [2-Common]
///
————————————————
————————————————
///: Acquiring target stats…
————————————————
///
Cultivation level: [Gravity Forging - 3]
Talent: [None]
Talent Fragment: [None]
///
————————————————
One guard was only a minor realm above him, and the other had a Talent to boot, but Hector wouldn’t have the time to take it from him. Even though it would be good if he could, it was the first Talent he’d seen in the wild for some time.
The group of guards that had broken off from the two who cornered his sister began shouting. Pointing at Hector, one levied his spear and made to intercept him. He wouldn’t be able to. Hector gritted his teeth as he willed the energy crackling through his leg muscles to intensify. He burst forward, swerving, ducking, and sliding by, narrowly avoiding panicked festival-goers.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Whipping by confetti dazzled his vision. He shot past the intercepting guard, leaping off the cobblestone. In front of Hector, the Gravity Forging three guard narrowed his eyes, levelling his spear at him.
Hector tugged on [Resonant Shout]. Energy built up in his throat, swirling in and ballooning into a dense ball before exploding from his mouth in a silent shout. The air rippled as waves of silent sound slammed forward. The guard shook. His spear buckled, and he let out a scream.
The man collapsed on the cobblestone, his polearm clattering to his side. Hector’s foot slammed into the man’s back. Vaulting off it, he sailed through the air. He angled his foot, not his knee—the Orion Leaping Strike should be enough to deal with this guy.
Hector’s foot sliced through the air. Confetti whipped all around from the momentum of it. With a heavy thud, the bottom of his sandal slammed into the man’s chest. The force of the blow sent the guard off his feet and crashing onto the cobblestone, like his friend.
Hector swivelled, sparing a glance at where he had left Lincoln. Smoke covered the area, a dull haze of white obscuring whatever was going on—it was a good distraction. Grabbing Mirae’s hand, he pulled her along. He needed to make it to that alley.
“Hector, I’m sorry. I thought I could—”
“Just keep running. Let’s talk about it later,” he said, pumping his legs. Through their grip, Hector could feel Mirae staggering. She couldn’t keep up—even if they were the same minor realm, with [Spark Capacitor] active, he was difficult to match. The sound of guards’ footfalls pounding against the cobblestone sent anxiety flooding through his chest.
I’m sorry Mirae, this might hurt a bit.
He yanked her forward. She let out a pained scream. Hector grunted as her weight slipped into his arms. His feet continued to pound against the cobblestone amidst the shouts of guards and the screams of festival-goers. Down the path, the smoke screen parted as the sleepy initiate bolted out. He locked eyes with Hector and shook his head.
Not wanting to see what the man did next—it wouldn’t be good for him—Hector charged forward, passing between two stalls. Their walls forced him to throw Mirae to the ground, landing on her feet. He hurried her forward, not even looking back—you were more likely to get caught when you looked back.
Wood and fabric tugged at his clothes. His heart hammered in his chest, filling his ears as the confetti bounced off him. “They are going down the tight space, head around,” a guard called from behind.
I need to—there should be another alley across from here. We are going to have to keep squeezing by to get to the center.
He pushed on Mirae’s back, but jerked to a stop as his foot got caught. A loose piece of wood—he would not get caught because of a simple piece of wood. With a grunt, he tugged. A crack split the air. The stall wall sagged. Not his problem.
Bursting out into another main path, Hector scooped Mirae up into his arms. Pumping his legs, he charged across the street. Many people on this path stood staring in the direction Hector had come from, probably wondering what was going on over there. He swerved by a few, his shoulder slamming into others, causing them to let out shouts. He thought himself lucky none of them were Mana-cultivators.
With another thud, he threw Mirae to the ground as they squeezed between more stalls. “Go left up ahead,” Hector said, licking his lips. The taste of salt filled his mouth as confetti bounced off his mask. This intersection between the stalls should give them some cover.
I’m going to have to lose the mask. It’s far too recognizable. It’s a shame.
Having slipped his mask off, Hector felt the weight of the wood in his hand as he continued to pick his steps carefully—he didn’t need to get his foot stuck again. With a soft sigh, squeezing his eyes shut, he threw the mask over his shoulder. He heard it clatter onto the cobblestone.
My clothes should blend in well enough with any other slum rat, thankfully.
He pinched and tugged at his shirt as he slipped down an even tighter alley. This was getting frustrating. Hector reached to his waist and massaged the pouches. Had this all been worth it? Maybe? He just had to avoid capture to make sure.
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Wymon yawned as he reached into the breast pocket of his robe—the only useful thing about wearing these annoying things around. He took out the water skin and sighed, looking down the alleyway that the two young slum rats had run down. He took a swig.
The taste of peach wine fizzled against his tongue—thankfully Batterbees had enough in stock or this would be a long day. He gulped, swishing the flask around and looking back down the path to where the smoke bomb had gone off. It was a neat trick. Slum rats rarely had many tricks.
He slid the water skin back into his robe, turning away from the alley. Peter and Ana—mildly useful squad mates—walked over. Peter gripped the sword hanging at the waist of his robes. Running a hand through his brown hair, he peaked over Wymon’s shoulder. “D-did they get away?” His uselessly large muscles tensed as he glanced about—they were probably more scared of him; the oaf just couldn’t see it.
“Yeah. Bolted down the side alley,” Wymon said, stifling another yawn as he flicked away the falling confetti. How High Nest—the so-called elders of the Phoenix Company—didn’t see this as a waste stumped him.
“And you let them get away,” Ana said, narrowing her annoyingly observant brown eyes, questioning his every move. “Surely you could have caught them. You even let the other one get away.”
Better they get away than be butchered by the guards for trying to live.
Wymon yawned as Ana brushed a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear. It was one of many falling from her struggling bun. She didn’t have long enough hair to attempt pulling that off.
“They weren’t important,” Wymon said. “I doubt the Night’s Raven would be out pickpocketing, just before launching an attack.”
“W-What would they be doing, captain?” Peter asked, throwing the odd, nervous glance at every passerby. Wymon had to give it to him. He was alert. Even if it came from pure cowardice.
“Beats me. If I knew, I would be where they are.”
Ana looked off, watching as the few guards left searched through the crowd—they wouldn’t find them. Those children should be long gone. If they were smart, and slum rats tended to be smart. She sighed, the silk of her robes ruffling as she turned back to him. “You could have at least helped them. Look at those idiots.” She said, pointing to a guard.
The man had stopped a woman—merchant blood; most likely, a noble would have had him strung up—and searched through her purse. What was he even looking for? The woman clearly didn’t need to pickpocket.
“Trust me, it’s for the best,” Wymon said, fighting back the urge to reach for his water skin. “Anyway, we should probably be heading to the center of the festival. Can’t keep group leader Kain waiting after all.”
“I still don’t get it, sir,” Peter said, blinking confetti from his lashes.
“Get what?”
“Wouldn’t us coming out in force this year make it so that the Night’s Raven doesn’t attack? How are we supposed to catch any of them?”
Wymon raised an eyebrow. Seems the day had more than one surprise for him. Peter was actually using his brain—sure, he waited till after weeks of preparation and the start of the operation, but he’d used it. “Who do you think tipped us off?”
“I don’t know,” Peter said, shrugging and sheepishly scratching the back of his head.
Well, that was short-lived. But wonders never cease.
“Ana, care to enlighten our dear Peter,” Wymon said, yawning. He sputtered as confetti flew into his mouth, sticking to his tongue.
“You need to get more sleep, Captain. But yes, I don’t mind.” She rested one hand on her hip, pointing the other at a small family of five passing by. “These slum—I mean, people and others like them are important to us. They are our weakness and our treasure. The Night’s Raven has threatened them to challenge us, thinking they can lure us here and cause destruction. But we will show them how wrong they are.”
Close as always, yet just missing the mark. But what can you expect from a noble?
Ana turned to Wymon, resting both hands on her hips and puffing out her chest. Was she proud of just about understanding an assignment? She probably thought that her explanation was praiseworthy. Well, he’d have to disappoint her.
“Come on, you two idiots. We need to get going,” he said, reaching into his robes and brushing his scarred fingers across the water skin. There was no way he was giving her any validation. She’d probably take it to mean she’d achieved something.