Festival-goers stopped and watched, taking in the sight. Many of them were too drunk to know what was going on. But entertainment was entertainment, so they wouldn’t care—It was just some more slum rats fighting.
“So, are we splitting them?” Lincoln said, grunting. He looked from each boy to the next, sizing them up. “I could take the blond, and shorter one. While you get the big one and Adrian.”
Does he not see how screwed we are right now? These aren’t the usual dump guards. And that guy got up a little too casually, for my liking. I mean, who rolls their shoulders after getting up off the ground?
Hector took a step back, signalling for Lincoln to do the same. Confetti flicked by, whipping at his eyes as the gathering crowd watched on. Lincoln raised a brow, giving him a questioning look as he followed. “What’s wrong? We can take these guys.”
“It seems Ghost is scared Adrian,” the older boy said. Chuckling, he rested a hand on Adrian’s shoulder, pointing the other at Hector, “He really is a coward, sneak attacking someone, then running away with his tail in between his legs.”
Adrian—not one to displease his new leader—chuckled. He looked between the older boy and the two others. “I think he is scared of the name Scoda. Him and his other dump friend are just cowards picking on those weaker than them.”
Is he dumb? Why would I fear some random gang that just popped up the other day?
The blond boy chuckled, “So you are saying you’re weaker than them, Adrian? I mean, they’ve been kicking your hide for years.”
Adrian blushed and lowered his head. Hector almost felt sorry for him. He’d walked right into that one. Life was hard being a dog at the bottom of the pack.
“It’s not them I’m worried about,” Hector said, his voice barely a whisper. Scanning around the growing crowd, he didn’t spot any guards. But that could all change in moments. If they were to get cornered now, the chance of an escape to Mr Pennybrook’s stall would be low, if not impossible.
“Alright lads, enough playing around. We can’t keep Claire waiting. You know what she’ll do if we make her wait too long,” the older boy said. “Let’s wrap this up.”
He kicked off the ground, darting forward like a bolt. The surrounding confetti whipped by as he launched forward with a jab. Hector jerked to the side, ducking and sweeping a foot out, slamming it into the older boy’s shin. The boy chuckled—He was a bit harder to deal with when he was ready for an attack.
Hector dove out of the way as Adrian charged forward with a kick. Then another. Then another. Leaping back from the final one, twisting through the air, Hector hoped to a stop. Lincoln charged forward, leaping off the ground, twisting his body and kicking down. The blow landed squarely on Adrian’s head—the second time that empty space had been targeted—dropping him to his knees.
Adrian’s knees then buckled underneath him as he collapsed to the floor—He was not going to be happy when he woke up. The older boy looked at Adrian, kissed his teeth and swung at Lincoln. The blow grazed him, sending him stumbling back.
The other two boys closed in—Hector could see where this was going. He reached forward, grabbing Lincoln’s hand, pulling him back. “We need to go now,” he said amidst the cheering of the crowd—No wonder the nobles looked down on the common folk. If street fights were a valid form of entertainment for them, that left a lot to be desired.
As Hector went to breakthrough the crowd’s encirclement. A scream tore through the festival. Moments later, several feet down the path, a figure shot through a stall and slammed into the cobblestone. The people that were in its path now lay, on the cobblestone, on their sides, clutching at broken limbs.
The air of the festival seemed to still as many fell quiet. The figure got to his feet. It was a man dressed in black robes, accented with gold. Two large black tentacles, writhing and undulating, whipped from his back as he stood with a scowl on his face. Red eyes, hazy with power, stared at something Hector couldn’t see.
What is that man?
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///: Acquiring target stats…
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Cultivation level: [Gravity Forging - 6]
Talent: [Void Embrace[•○○] (1/3)]
Talent Fragment: [2-Rare]
///
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Rare—two tiers above any Hector had seen before—standing in front of him. It would be great if this wasn’t one of the most dangerous people Hector had ever seen. The tentacles on the man’s back lashed at the air, turning the confetti into black ash as it passed. What were those tentacles? To be able to do that to the confetti…
Lincoln tugged on Hector’s hand, narrowing his eyes as their gazes met. “We should probably head the other way. I don’t know what that man is, but it’s not good news.”
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Well, I wasn’t exactly planning to run head first towards him. Even if he’s got a rare Talent.
Hector nodded. In the strained silence—broken only by fragments of distant music—a voice suddenly spoke. “Oh, Draken. Is this really the path you’ve chosen? Giving up on your brothers, your sisters in arms and instead suckling on the teet of your pathetic masters.” A man garbed in dark red robes stepped out from the destruction of the stall. In his hands were two daggers, with flames licking across their surface, giving off a small haze of heat.
“You know nothing, Wymon. Nothing. You are but a sheep used by these dammed nobles. Slaughtering beasts and losing your lives all for their amusement. You think yourself lucky, but you aren’t. You are a fool’s aspiration, a decoration piece.”
The red-robed man—Wymon—snorted, raising his daggers. “At least I have a purpose. What about you? I keep the fragile peace that is left while you seek to open up old wounds and have us all sacrificed for your misguided beliefs.”
A woman with a blond bun stepped next to Wymon, holding a long metal whip. Frost danced across the surface of the whip, icicles filtering to the cobblestone as it swayed. She spoke into Wymon’s ear. He nodded, lowering his stance. “I don’t know what you are planning, but your friend won’t make it to his objective.”
The black-robed man, Draken, chuckled. Hector—taking the time to slowly back up—felt his skin crawl at the man’s laughter. “Just like you, Wymon, always plowing straight ahead, not thinking about what you can’t see.”
The man shot forward, a tentacle on his back lashed out, the air quaking in its wake. Wymon raised his dagger. A metallic clang followed, and he was knocked back, his figure slamming through a stall.
Another tentacle on Draken’s back whipped at the blond-haired lady. She ducked, lashing out with her whip. Draken dodged, sidestepping, and kicking out at her. The blow staggered her as she gasped.
Wymon shot out of the stall, daggers blazing, lunging forward with two practiced strikes. One jabbed into the man’s side. He let out a scream, tentacles flailing. The second went for his chest but was stopped as chitinous plates erupted from his torso, blocking the blow, knocking him back. Draken skidded to a stop on the cobblestone, dropping to a knee and clutching his side. After a moment, he removed his hand. Wiggling flesh moved into place and the wound was closed.
Alright, nope. I’ve seen enough. If this goes on, we could be caught in the crossfire.
Hector swivelled on his feet, dragging Lincoln with him as they bolted in the opposite direction. Those around him—the sober ones anyway—saw this and turned. Screams erupted as the silence that had gripped the area moments before evaporated. Confetti rushed past Hector’s eyes as he made his way around people and headed towards Mr Pennybrook’s stall.
“What in the Great Lake is that!” Lincoln yelled from behind, his sandals slapping against the cobblestone. “Have you ever seen anything like that before?”
“Of course not!” Hector replied, weaving in between two people—the speed of normal people left a lot to be desired. “Mana cultivators don’t just grow tentacles from their back, well, not those in the Gravity Forging realm, anyway.”
Eventually, they came to a stop outside the stall. Panicked festivalgoers rushed by, jolting them and bouncing off. Hector paid no mind to them and bundled into the stall, Lincoln trailing behind.
The sounds from the outside were immediately dulled as the effect of the noise-damping talismans kicked in. The screams and shouts, now a dull din in the background. Hector moved through the tight aisles ducking, underneath a lamp as he made his way further in. “Mirae. Mirae! Are you here?”
“Yes.” Her voice came from further in, past the till section and in the backrooms. A wave of calm washed over Hector at the sound of her voice, only to be drained as he remembered what was going on outside.
He rushed forward, elbow knocking into a shell as he moved with purpose. In moments, he stood at the door to the backroom. Mirae sat on her chair, with her elbows on the table and her hands in her hair. Sandwiches were stacked neatly a short distance away from her.
Mr Pennybrook, stood towards the side of the room, peeking out a small hole in the side of the stall’s fabric, tapping his foot. He glanced back at Hector. “What’s going on out there? What’s with all the screaming?”
Mirae hopped off the chair, scurrying over to Hector, slamming into his chest. Her arms gripped him tight as she let out muffled sobs. “I was so worried. I thought those boys had done something to you. But you’re alright. You’re alright.”
Hector rubbed her head. She didn’t move his hand away this time. Mr. Pennybrook stepped over to the chest in the corner of the room, bent down, and pried it open. He reached inside, snagging a few talismans Hector couldn’t make out—not that he’d know what they were even if he could see them. “So?” Mr. Pennybrook asked, closing the chest. “What’s going on out there? What boys? And where are Marcus and his cousin?”
Hector frowned, brushing a hand through Mirae’s hair, and cradling her head as Lincoln stopped behind him. Mr. Pennybook nodded at him. “Marcus should be alright,” Hector said. “He’s on the east side of the festival. But we won’t be. Some Phoenix Company guys are fighting… I don’t know why. But it’s serious. Stalls are being destroyed and people are getting hurt. We have to go.”
Mr. Pennybook’s face dropped, like he’d just been told he’d lost a praised pet. He looked from Hector to Lincoln. “This is true?”
Lincoln nodded—actually taking the situation seriously. Scratching at the back of his head, he let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know if it will spread here, but it’s getting pretty messy. Hector’s right, it’s not safe here for us. We have to leave.”
Mr Pennybrook’s eyes flickered. He turned and rushed back over to the chest, dropping to a knee and prying it back open. The hinges creaked under the speed. He scooped a hand in and picked up a bundle of talismans before snapping it back shut and hopping to his feet.
He rushed over to Hector—practically tripping—and held out two talismans for him. Mirea briefly moved her head from Hector’s chest, eyeing the contents in Mr. Pennybrook’s hand. Hector took one and held it up to his eye. Energy hummed from the lines that ran across its wooden surface, snaking through like blood through veins.
“That Is a stone-skin talisman,” Mr. Pennybrook said, reaching a hand past Hector and handing another talisman to Lincoln, who accepted it with apparent confusion. “You will need it if things are as dangerous as you say.”
Hector frowned, placing the talisman in his pocket and taking the second one that Mr. Pennybrook was handing to him. “Don’t give me that look,” the man said, noticing Hector’s face. “I’m not going to charge you for them, but I need you children safe. Give one to Marcus and his cousin.” He handed a second talisman to Lincoln.
Paying you back is the last thing I’m worried about. I want to know what you're planning.
“Sir, what about you? Are you not coming with us? Why don’t you just give it to him yourself?” Hector asked, slotting the second one into his other pocket.
The mans eyes lowered, as he bit his lower lip. “I could be about to do something really stupid. If this goes wrong. Tell him I’m sorry.”
“What are you going to do?”