10 AM.

Near the South Market, 45 Sweetwater Lane.

An old woman with silver hair walked out of the wooden house's front door.

She wore a wide-brimmed windproof hat on her head, carried a wicker basket full of dirty clothes in her left hand, and leaned on a wooden cane in her right. She was dressed in a half-worn linen skirt, limping towards the alley entrance one faltering step at a time.

Old women dressed like this were a common sight on the streets, utterly inconspicuous. Naturally, no one paid her any mind.

The old woman seemed to be in a hurry. Despite her poor mobility, she moved swiftly, reaching the alley entrance in no time.

After leaving the alley, the old woman quickly glanced back, then turned right onto Riverside Avenue.

Next to the avenue flowed the Yellow River, crowded with all kinds of boats and ships.

Riverside Avenue was also bustling with activity - peddlers hawking their wares, oxcarts transporting goods, sailors resting ashore, prostitutes soliciting customers - the congestion made the avenue almost impassable.

The cacophony of noises was like a boiling soup, nearly deafening.

On such a busy road, the old woman moved like a carp returning to a river stream - swift and nimble, weaving through the crowds effortlessly like bubbles in water, disappearing and reappearing at will.

She hurried down the avenue for a while before slipping away from the crowds again. She followed the riverside stairs down to a laundry pier, then walked along the shore to the sandy banks of the Yellow River.

The riverbank was shallow here. Not far away was the laundry pier, where over a dozen women gathered to wash clothes while chatting and complaining.

From her appearance, the old woman also seemed to be heading there to do laundry.

But surprisingly, instead of going to the pier, she kept walking down the sandy shore until she reached a secluded corner at the southernmost end.

This corner was overgrown with tall, withered reeds, providing ample cover. If someone slipped in and crouched down, they would be invisible even to a watchful eye.

The old woman squatted among the reeds and swiftly stripped off her hat and skirt, revealing a sturdy male physique underneath.

From the basket she took out a clean set of unworn clothes and dressed swiftly.

Just as he was halfway done, a soft whistling sound suddenly cut through the air.

It was faint, almost drowned out by the chatter from the pier, but the man was extremely alert. His skin flickered with light as he lunged forward in alarm.

But it was too late.

The flying projectiles were too fast, arriving with the wind. There was no time to react.

Almost simultaneously, bloody flowers burst from both of the man's kneecaps and shoulder joints. The glimmering light on his skin was also extinguished by the sudden pain.

"Hmph!"

The man grunted and collapsed to the ground.

Though he struggled fiercely, his limbs refused to obey. He could only flounder in the mud like a fish out of water, soon coating himself in filth.

Blood poured from his wounds, rapidly sapping his strength as the excruciating pain overwhelmed his will.

After thrashing futilely for a while, the man went limp in the muddy riverbank.

Gasping for breath, his eyes were resolute and his lips pressed tightly together as he stared in the direction of his unseen assailant.

He was waiting!

Waiting for the ambusher to show himself while he still had the strength for one last counterattack.

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But again he had miscalculated.

The assailant did not reveal himself, and the steady blood loss continued to drain the man of his final reserves.

Panic flickered in his dark brown eyes.

Gradually, he felt his whole body turn cold. The world before him darkened as the searing pain from his wounds began to recede, fading away.

This was the harbinger of death - his life force was almost spent.

At this point, even staying conscious took all his effort, let alone counterattacking.

As his vision dimmed, the ambusher finally appeared.

It was the teenage boy, as expected.

The corner of the man's mouth twitched into a bitter smile.

After all these years mixing with the Silvermoon underworld, he had become someone of renown, yet here he was, laid low by a mere boy.

What cruel irony.

Pain flared in his wounds again, rousing his fading consciousness.

He felt his mouth being forced open and sweet, salty liquid poured down his throat - some kind of medicinal potion.

As the warm liquid entered his stomach, warmth returned to his icy body and a hint of vitality along with it.

His mind cleared and he took stock of his situation.

He still lay in the reeds, his wounds tightly bound. The pressure was agonizing but had staunched the bleeding.

Thick ropes encircled his hands and feet, tying them fast with dozens of loops - escape would be impossible even if he were uninjured.

The teenage boy stood 3 meters away, holding an ornate staff, watching him with cold, emotionless blue eyes.

This was, of course, Lawson.

After vaulting from the window, he had secretly flown back onto the roof to keep watch. After patiently waiting over an hour, he finally caught this wily rat.

With a thought, a sharp stone rose from the ground to hover just 10 centimeters from the man's mouth.

"From here on, I will ask, and you will answer. Hesitate for more than 3 seconds, and I'll knock out a tooth."

Without waiting for a response, Lawson immediately asked, "Name."

No reply.

After 3 seconds, the stone shot forward, precisely striking out one of the man's front teeth.

"Agh!"

The man cried out in pain but fell abruptly silent - not by choice, but because an invisible force clutched his throat, cutting off his breath.

As he struggled to breathe, the man's face turned crimson, then purple, until he was on the verge of blacking out. Only then did the choking pressure relent.

"Hahhh..."

He gasped deeply for air as unconcealed terror crept over his features.

"Name!" The cold voice came again.

"Tiger...Tatatari."

"Where are you from?"

"Ash Town, south of here, just half a day's travel from Silvermoon. Ash Town in the south."

"What do you do?"

"Dirty work. The big shots care about reputation and don't like getting their hands dirty. So they hire me to do it for them."

"Who do you work for?"

"For money. I work for whoever pays me."

"Who paid you for your most recent job?"

"I don't know. No no, don't hit me! I really don't know because the client didn't show their face."

"Old Murphy gave me this job. He's the shoeshine at the marketplace, always sitting under the big tree by the Rathsburg Cutlery. He shines shoes there every day and knows all kinds of big shots!"

Lawson quickly glanced through the adventure log and located Old Murphy - a man in his 50s half-buried in the dirt.

"Good. What was your mission for this job?"

"To kill. To kill the alchemist Stan... There were two of us, one to do the deed, one to watch. But my partner Wolfgang already got nabbed."

"You're lying!"

Crack!

The man lost another half of a tooth, leaving the other half jutting painfully from his gum. His face contorted in exquisite agony.

"I'm telling the truth!"

"If he was your sworn brother, why didn't you help when he got caught? Why didn't you do something to get him out of trouble?"

"That's the code - never confront the city guard outright in broad daylight. But after Wolfgang gets locked up, I'll find a way to get him out."

Lawson was eighty percent convinced and had gained some solid leads. This half-dead thug was of no more use.

As just a disposable flunky, even if killed, his death would simply be chalked up to underworld feuds and Silvermoon authorities wouldn't look into it.

If left alive though, he might seek revenge.

After a brief deliberation, Lawson focused his will and a metal bead shot out with a whistle, drilling straight into the man's eye socket.

The man's body convulsed once and stilled in death.

Lawson walked over and waved his staff. Five metal beads emerged from the man's wounds, flew to the nearby river, swirled in the water to wash off the blood, then returned to Lawson's pocket.

Another wave of his staff raised over a dozen fist-sized rocks. As if alive, they filed into the dead man's mouth and down his throat, distending his stomach.

The corpse then floated up and drifted out over forty meters into the deeper water before sinking below the surface.

In the frigid winter waters, by the time the body resurfaced during spring thaw, all evidence would have rotted away.

With all traces of his actions erased, Lawson flew back to Riverside Avenue and raced towards the South Market marketplace.

At noon, he arrived at the cutlery storefront where Old Murphy sat gnawing on a piece of hardtack beneath the tree roots.

Lawson sat down next to the old man and flicked a gold kroner into his pocket.

Old Murphy twitched in surprise, scattering breadcrumbs from his sparse stubble.

"Lad, no need to pay so much just for a shoeshine."

A faint smile touched Lawson's face as he said softly, "Tatatari's job - who gave it to you? Tell me and I'll be on my way."

Old Murphy ducked his head and continued chewing in silence.

Two more gold kroner sailed into his pocket.

Still Old Murphy held his tongue, though his leathery skin quivered with the desire to speak.

Another two coins.

Finally Old Murphy could restrain himself no longer. "Boy, I just pass on messages, I don't know much. And if I talk, no one will hire me as a middleman again."

Yet two more gold kroner answered him.

This was too much money given too freely. The lad was clearly dangerous.

Old Murphy knew - such men could be reasonable at first but once their patience wore thin, thunder would strike.

Clutching his heavy pocket, he trembled, "Two more coins and I'll tell you!"

He had already resolved to take the money and flee.