The leader of those who’d been pursuing Toku felt his heart racing as he raced back through the jungle, the exact opposite way he and his men had been chasing Toku earlier.
In all the time he’d spent on the battlefield, he’d never seen such a monster before.
Even twenty years prior, when the various factions of the second layer had come together to attempt an uprising against the guardian and her minions, the guardian herself hadn’t been so terrifying.
That gave him pause. If he somehow made it back to his superiors, perhaps the catalyst they’d been hoping for would present itself. Given the pressure he felt from his pursuer, though, who was chasing after him like a scorned tiger, he could only hope.
And fucking run.
***
Toku continuously cursed as he chased his prey. Originally, he’d hoped to kill off all of his pursuers in a single moment, but this old fart he was chasing had somehow fended off not one, but a full dozen of his attacks.
He couldn’t help but feel some admiration for the old man. He was short, with hair whiter than than the moon and skin as wrinkly as rough leather. Despite the man’s advanced age, though, the speed at which he was moving would put even the fastest of Kaita’s scouts to shame.
As he chased the old man through the jungle, the briefest flash of red shined through the thick canopy. A single blink and he would have missed it.
A signal, thrown in a moment where his actions were covered by the foliage.
Toku grinned. What an absolute master.
Unwilling to condemn himself to several more hours of playing cat and mouse, Toku dug his heels into the trunk of the next tree. The force brought him to a sideways squat, and it was from that angle that he caught his last glimpse of the old man’s back.
“Fancy I’ll be seeing you again,” Toku murmured. “Special people somehow have a way of reappearing.”
After a quick rest with his hard-earned peace and quiet, Toku made his way, yet again, through the jungle to the grassy knoll upon which he’d slain his pursuers.
One by one, he scrounged through their belongings, but there wasn’t much. A lot of throwing knives, daggers, a few oddly shaped coins and biscuits…
And a strip of white cloth sporting the symbol of a black knife surrounded by a red circle.
Toku hesitated before pocketing the strip of cloth. Then, he turned west and followed the sun as he chomped down on one of the confiscated biscuits.
“Eugh, it tastes like shit!” he exclaimed. “But I guess that fits.”
With a grin, Toku tore another bite out of the biscuit. “Now it’s really like the good ol’ days…”
***
In a rowdy pub on the third layer, a party was in full swing. Two men stood at its edge, observing the others.
“Ay, who’s the drunk?” a man with a bald head and scruffy beard tilted his head to the right and asked his buddy.
“You are!”
“Fuck mate, I know! But who’s THAT drunk?” the man pointed at a particularly charismatic man whose mug he’d never seen before.
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“Oh, he’s a fuckin’ delight, he is! I don’t remember his name, though! I thought it was Sam, but then I asked me brother and he said it was Chee. And get this, I asked Ada, and she said his name was Hunchy. What kinda name is that?!”
The man frowned. “Well, as long as he’s no competition for us, I guess I don’t mind.”
“Competition for what? And I think the handsome lad’s name is Sanchi.” A voice sounded from the man’s left.
“You know, for everything. Marks. Girls. Drinks. Intimidation fees. And—wait a minute, who the hell are you?!”
Halfway through his reply, the man realized that it wasn’t his buddy who’d asked that last question, nor was it his buddy’s arm that was draped around his shoulders.
He slowly turned to the left and saw that the charismatic man had somehow appeared next to him.
“How the hell did you get there! I was just—”
Sanchi motioned toward the door. “I do believe you’re drunk, my handsome friend. How about some fresh air?”
The man was about to refuse, but a tight pressure on his right shoulder convinced him otherwise. “Yeah, I, uh. I could really go for some fresh air now that I think about it.”
Sanchi smiled widely as he firmly guided the man outside.
Once in the street, Sanchi steered the man into a side alley, where he finally, mercifully, let go of the man’s arm.
“Who the hell are you?” the man angrily asked, rubbing his sore shoulder.
“I told you already, I’m Sanchi. And you’re Cormac. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Sanchi pulled out his fiddle and held it by the neck, pointing it menacingly at the unfortunately bald man.
“...Are you seriously trying to threaten me with a violin?”
“Fiddle.”
“That’s just a violin that’s been christened with spilled whisky.”
Sanchi raised an eyebrow, then smacked the man over the head with the fiddle, knocking him to the ground. “Fair enough. But I’d rather you don’t talk anymore unless it’s a direct answer to something I say.”
Cormac glared daggers at Sanchi, but wisely kept his mouth shut.
“I know you’re a member of the Leaky Lighters, but I don’t have the time to run around looking for your boss. So let’s come to an agreement. Tell me where I can find him, and I’ll leave you with enough brain cells to continue drinking that cheap swill you call alcohol.”
“You take that back, our alcohol is the be—OW!” Cormac screeched with pain as Sanchi bonked him over the head again with the fiddle.
“At least bribe me, dammit! Haven’t you heard of carrot and stick?”
“I ate the carrot so all you get is the stick.”
“What does that even—” Cormac yelped as Sanchi bonked him over the head once more.
“Dammit, I’m not gonna let you do this to me!” the man bellowed as he lunged toward Sanchi. For all his effort, though, the only thing that met him was the sound and pain of the fiddle colluding with the dome of his head for the umpteenth time.
Sanchi heard something between a whimper and curse as Cormac, abandoning his line of attack, opted instead to crawl further down the alleyway in a poor attempt to escape.
Cormac glanced back at the crazy fiddler as he rose to his feet, and was beyond thankful that the man hadn’t moved to pursue him.
As his head swiveled back around, though, he collided at full speed with something really hard.
“What, why’s a wall there?” Cormac grumbled as the repeated trauma to his head darkened his sight for a moment.
As soon as the darkness and stars faded from his vision, he looked up, only to see with absolute horror that his way had been blocked by…
“Ghosts!” Cormac screamed at a pitch reserved typically for only the greatest of soprano opera singers.
In a mad panic, Cormac sprinted back up the alleyway and tried to push his way past Sanchi. “Save me! There be ghosts!”
Of course, without success.
“Leave it to those of the other side to be scared of ghosts,” Sanchi muttered as he grabbed onto the man’s lapel.
“This is your last chance. Tell me where your boss is or I’ll have those ghosts haunt you for the rest of your life.”
“Help! Help me! Dammit, why is nobody helping me?!” Cormac screamed at the top of his lungs.
“They’re simply listening to what I have decided they should listen to.” Sanchi shrugged. “You see, I’m something of a performer. A performer whose patience is running mighty thin. We’re approaching the coda, my friend. And if it comes and I still don't know how to find your boss, then…”
Sanchi made some ghostly noises and widened his eyes to the size of dinner plates as he pushed his face so close to Cormac’s that their noses were but a hair’s width apart. “Then those ghosts are going to be the least of your worries.”
“Alright. Alright!” Cormac wrestled himself out of Sanchi’s grip and adjusted his clothes in an attempt to regain some of his composure.
“If you want to meet the boss, then I’ll tell you. He’s—”
“Cormac.” Sanchi shook his head. “How bloody stupid do you think I am? I know who you are, I know who your sister is.”
Seeing the panic in Cormac’s eyes, Sanchi nodded. “That’s right, Cormac. I know that she’s the boss. The prodigy and her idiot brother. Unfortunately, I had to find the idiot brother to meet the prodigy.
“Thankfully… she’s finally here.”