The wall was used as support, leaning against it as he rested a moment, still taken aback by what had just occurred. A faint sound of embers sparking greeted his ears as something peculiar manifested before him.
A trail of newborn flames coalesced, coming together into a magical glow that gave existence to a mysterious paper that floated in the air.
“What the…? What’s this?” He asked, squinting his eyes as he leaned closer to the floating paper.
He watched as a flame danced across the parchment, burning new text into as if written by an unseen hand. Boldly inscribed was a single line:
[“You’re now Level 6.”]
The special number was circled by embers, which seemed to dance on the paper in celebration of the achievement. Still, the young adventurer found himself scratching his head, though as he looked at the finer details on the mystical paper, did it start to make sense.
[“Physical abilities improved. Blessing increased.”]
‘Ah…This is my “System”, isn’t it? I guess that really does mean I’m an Invictus. I’ve read about it before, but I guess it’s true–every Invictus receives a “System”--a specialized, growing evolution of their Blessing,’ he recalled.
He tapped the paper, causing it to fade away into embers before deciding to make his move once again. With the heart-pumping excitement of the fight wearing off, the aching of his body was felt as clear as day as he limped his way out of his house, nearly stumbling out of the door.
‘Crap…That assassin really did a number on me, huh. Just what kind of shit luck am I having lately?’ He wryly thought, looking at his own hand, ‘Still…an Invictus. I remember what happened against Bakasura now. Those chains–the flames, they were real. It’s my power.’
Even if he did have this newfound resource, it wasn’t as though he knew the first thing about bringing out its full strength. As he was, he felt like a wounded deer, navigating through the area with hunters on the prowl. Though he couldn’t see or hear any pursuers, he felt as though eyes watched him, as if there was always somebody trailing him just a few steps behind.
Walking down the quiet section of the city at the prime of night, he looked over his shoulder every few paces, though found nothing. Peering down the shadow-filled alleyways he passed by, there was nothing to be seen either, yet he remained ever suspicious.
‘Frederick is a careful man. I doubt he’d trust the job to a single assassin…He’s got eyes all over the city,’ he thought.
In the distance he could see the estate of Frederick Ul Samson: elevated by a cobblestone road above the other homes, surrounded by golden gates. Though it was in sight, he knew he couldn’t just walk straight in–not yet, at least.
As he touched the wound in his shoulder, he immediately grimaced from the sharp, burning sensation that followed; upon close inspection, it looked as though the blade that stabbed him was jagged, leaving a messy, torn hole in his shoulder that gushed with blood.
‘I’m going to bleed out at this rate…I won’t get anything done like this,’ he thought.
Moving into the narrow alleyway to his left, he stood in the darkness, watching the street that was kept subtly lit by lanterns while holding his gushing shoulder. There were only a few options in his mind, though one seemed to stick as his eyebrows raised.
Pulling him from his thoughts were quiet footsteps that were as loud as tumbling trees in the dead of night, forcing the wounded adventurer to crouch down into the shadows.
‘“That” place should be closeby–if I’m lucky, he should still be there,’ he considered.
Watching the quiet street from the corner as he clenched his dagger with one hand, awaiting any potential adversaries, he waited. A silhouette came into view before the glow of the lanterns revealed the stumbling figure–a middle-aged man, drunken and burping.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
A sense of relief came over Bastian as he let out a quiet breath, quickly crossing the street into a backway. Another street needed to be crossed as he could see the building he was looking for, though the sounds of footsteps marching through the desolate sector brought him to a halt.
Just before he let himself be seen, he pressed his back against the wall, only glancing around the corner to observe those that passed. Their voices were gruff and far from well spoken, talking without any care for their tone amidst the quiet night in the slumbering town.
“Hey, have ya see ‘im around? Startin’ to think he’s not comin’.”
“No, the Boss said to just stay put around here. That’s what he’s paying me to do, so I’m doing it.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
There wasn’t anything else he needed to hear–he knew what the strange men were talking about. From the darkness, he watched as they passed by: one was bald with a head covered in scars, carrying a claymore among many knives on him, while the other was a man who had a mage’s staff buckled to his belt.
By the looks of things, they weren’t adventurers; a certain glint of malicious avarice shone in their eyes that told him such.
‘Mercenaries,’ he thought.
As the armed swords-for-hire passed by, he quietly ran across the cobblestone pathway into a short set of steps that led to a deadend. It was walled off by aged brick, or so it seemed–Bastian knew better as he stepped closer to the worn cinder blocks.
As he placed his hand against the wall, its solid, immovable form crumbled, revealing itself to merely be a curtain that resembled a sturdy barrier.
A low-profile entrance, meant to be hidden from unwelcome guests, no doubt. A door forged of steel with no windows in sight laid beyond the secretory veil, luring the injured adventurer towards it before he lightly knocked his fist against it.
Nothing.
The lack of a response made him kick it up a notch as he balled his fist, slamming it against the heavy-metal door. If there was any desire to be hidden, the banging certainly did everything to dissuade that notion.
“Enough! Enough! I’m coming.”
The voice of a disgruntled man came out muffled from the other side. Locks released as steel scraped, finally finding the door opening, though only slightly as the eyeball of the occupant peeked out.
A sharp, cat-like iris of a silver glow looked at him up-and-down before the person spoke again, “Bastian? What happened to you? You look half-dead! Come in.”
The last few latches that kept the door from fully opening were unattached, allowing it to finally part as the person behind the entrance was revealed: definitely not a human, at least not fully.
The man had a face like that of a cat, covered in dark-gray fur, paired with a tail that flicked behind his back and claws to supplement.
Though the sight wasn’t anything new to Bastian—the figure before him was a beastman.
He was certainly older than the adventurer, though no farther than his twenties, wearing a buttoned-up, black vest with rolled up sleeves, using a handkerchief to wipe his hands.
“Hey, Gunter,” Bastian greeted the man, still holding his shoulder as he stumbled into the man’s abode.
The interior of the tucked-away residence was anything but clean; papers were scattered across the ground and pinned to boards, half of which were scribbled with unintelligible theories and recipes for unthinkable concoctions, and the other being bestiary entries.
The cat-eyed man was quick to close the door behind the unexpected guest, assembling the many locks back into place and double checking each and every one of them with utmost caution.
“Do you have any idea what sort of trouble is brewing out there? What have you done this time, Bastian?” Gunter asked with a sigh, turning to face the guest of his home as his tail flicked side-to-side.
Welcoming himself to the beastman’s furniture, the wounded man sat on the wooden chair, wincing as he clutched his shoulder.
“Long story…Can you help me out here?” Bastian asked, huffing and sweating.
“Ah—sit still! Sit still!”
The fur-covered man skipped over without hesitation, leaning over as he gazed at the wounds etched into the adventurer’s flesh.
Gunter ran his furry fingers over the young man’s areas of infliction, bringing his sharp glaze close, “Hmm…You’re in bad shape, my friend. Whoever cut you up used quite the frightening blade.”
“Yeah…? Easy to fix, right?” Bastian asked, wincing through clenched teeth.
It felt as though his flesh was being gorged from the inside by an unknown force, squeezing more blood out as it rushed from his wound in a blackened shade.
The beastman paced across the room quickly, rummaging through a drawer before returning with a tall candle of mossy wax, “I will do what I can, but you’ve been hit with a curse, my friend.”
“A curse…?”
Gunter flicked his fingers as his sharp nails clicked against one another, creating a sapphire spark that lit the candle. The cat-like man pursed his lips, releasing a soft exhale against the newly-born flame, carrying it off the wick and into the air.
“A “Bleeding Curse.” Quite a nasty infliction, I’m afraid. Wounds etched with such a vile thing will bleed and bleed until you’re shriveled up,” Gunter explained, waving his hand as he guided the azure flame close to the guest’s shoulder, “Now, take that off.”