The Farnell Railway Station was a sight to behold: dozens of passenger platforms, hundreds, if not thousands, of bustling travelers, and the constant whistle of departing trains. It was no surprise that this city and its surrounding areas formed a fully-fledged administrative county, with the domain itself being a duchy. Of course, the duke only owned the old district and part of the port, yet he made more from them than our clan ever did from the Bremor Forest – by how much, I couldn’t even begin to guess. The country’s second-largest port and the first one trading with the New World – that was no small matter. The Duke of Farnell was fabulously wealthy, the city’s nobility and businessmen were quite prosperous, and the river of money they controlled attracted thieves and paupers like a lamp’s light drew moths.

A few times a year, my grandfather, Logan, and I – or sometimes someone else from the family – would travel to the capital. So, I had some experience being in crowded places, and the county capital couldn’t exactly be called a backwater. But I wasn’t fooling myself; comparing Avoc’s two hundred thousand people to Farnell’s three million was simply ridiculous. A new city was like a new forest – before the hunt, you had to study its creatures and their habits, and it wouldn’t hurt to hear from an experienced hunter. I didn’t have any contacts here, but the specialist who’d devised the trick of overloading rune seals in an energy node supposedly lived somewhere in this city. Too bad there was no address in the journal, but a talented wizard wasn’t someone who could escape public attention – or the yellow pages.

From the platform, I headed into the station building, found a free phone booth, and pulled a battered phone book off the shelf. The yellow pages were missing every other page, but I managed to find a listing for Harry Smith under the "Magical Services" section. I didn’t want to tear the book further, so I jotted the address down in the blank journal my grandfather had left me. The first entry… I didn’t even bother describing my escape. Grandfather’s journal was similarly concise and often omitted motives.

There were plenty of cabs near the station – something for every taste. A few minutes of observation were enough to figure out how their system worked. The newer motor cabs roared closer to the main entrance, while horse-drawn carriages lingered on the outskirts, but neither stood idle for long. All it took was stepping to the curb and raising a hand, and transportation would arrive. The key was knowing the right "zone of responsibility." Shiny, luxurious cars pulled up directly to the entrance, and I had no doubt their fares were just as steep. I moved farther from the center, closer to the line of horse-drawn carriages. The moment I raised my hand, two cabs raced toward me at once. One motor cab cut the other off, its furious driver blasting the horn, but then a woman stepped up nearby, and the second cab immediately turned its attention to her. I didn’t linger on the cabbies' dispute, opened the door, and tossed my travel bag onto the back seat.

"Rapsey, Longhead Road, number seventeen," I said.

"Got it, sir," the driver smiled into the wide rear-view mirror and reached for the taximeter lever. The mechanical display instantly ticked up five pence, then began its usual incremental count. "First time in the city, sir?"

I glanced at the overly inquisitive cab driver, trying to figure out what had sparked his curiosity. Cab drivers in Avoc never made small talk with me, but there, I was part of the clan that owned the land. Here, I was just another traveler.

"I was here a few years ago," I replied.

"A few years in Farnell is like a century in the provinces!" the driver joked. "You’ve got to visit Shiny at night. The district’s changed a lot. Some places won’t even let you in without a choker, and the prices are biting. Working folk still look for fun in Pubset, but every visitor’s got to see Shiny’s glow at least once."

"Thanks for the tip."

"Where are you from, sir? There’s a touch of the North in your accent."

"Elfshire," I lied, naming Bremshire’s northern neighbor.

"Ah, I’m from the South myself…"

The cabbie didn’t shut up the entire ride, rambling on about the hardships of the southern provinces until we reached our destination. At least he stopped asking questions. I barely noticed when the buildings outside the window grew more decrepit, the proper roads disappeared, and we drove into typical three-story slums. The grandeur of the progressive city had been left behind. The streets were filthy, the glass in the street lamps shattered, and drunks wandered around in broad daylight. Many windows were boarded up, and the roofs of relatively new buildings were already riddled with holes. By all appearances, the inhabitants of this area were not exactly law-abiding or hard-working citizens. To make matters worse, the houses bore no street names or even numbers.

“We’re here, sir,” the cabbie announced as he braked near an alleyway that ended in a building which, by local standards, was relatively decent. At least its windows were intact. Hm… Farnell’s wizards didn’t seem to live extravagantly.

“You’re sure about this?”

“You wound me, sir! I’ve been driving all over Farnell for four years. That’ll be thirty-seven.”

I handed the cabbie fifty pence coin.

“Keep the change.”

“Much obliged!” he said with genuine enthusiasm.

“Don’t rush off just yet,” I requested, a premonition of trouble stirring in me.

“Of course!” the cabbie promised, but as soon as I closed the door and turned away, the taxi screeched off so fast that the tires squealed.

“Stop!” I shouted after him.

Heads started poking out of the windows of nearby houses, and from the alleys spilled gangs of scrappy kids in patched-up clothes, armed with sticks. They moved swiftly, forming six pairs that cut off all my routes of escape. Their tactics mirrored those used against a Thunder Bear. In each pair, one boy was older and bigger, probably around fourteen, while a smaller one, a few years younger, covered him from the side and rear. The older boys were clearly meant to take the first hit while training up the younger ones. It was a strategy we also used in our clan hunts. I couldn’t help but laugh at the comparison, feeling like a powerful yet cornered predator. My reaction seemed to catch the gang off guard.

The smallest of them – a boy in a flat cap, no more than ten – tugged at his partner’s sleeve and whispered something. The older boy frowned, adjusted his suspenders, and asked a follow-up question. He looked older and cockier than the rest, and his outfit and weapon were of better quality. His shirt was intact, his trousers held up by proper suspenders, and two lead knuckles gleamed in the sunlight. All signs pointed to him being the leader of the group, which made him my target. That’s how Thunder Bears broke free too – by eliminating the strongest obstacle in their way.

The leader’s hesitation worked in my favor. Uncertainty always trickled down to the group, so I smiled again and began walking toward him. The boy was about my age and height but at least fifteen kilos lighter – nothing but angles and sinew instead of muscle. I quickly pushed aside thoughts of any advantage I might have. Despite all my training, his experience in street brawls far outweighed my own.

I stopped a few steps away from him. I couldn’t make out what he was whispering to the smaller boy, but their disagreement was clearly to my advantage.

“I take it this isn’t Rapsey?” I asked.

“Knuckles!” the smaller one hissed, but the older boy silenced him with a glare before addressing me.

“Nope, not Rapsey, country boy. You’ve got yourself good and lost.”

I raised an eyebrow at his boldness, letting sarcasm creep into my voice.

“Well, perhaps you distinguished gentlemen might point a poor country boy in the right direction – before anyone gets into trouble.”

The small boy tugged at the leader’s sleeve again, but the older boy swatted him away and spat at my feet.

“Oh, we’ll show you the way. We’ll even keep you out of trouble. And you’ll thank us for it. That’s some nice shiny trinkets you’ve got there. The girls are going to love them.”

I kept the rest of the gang in my peripheral vision the entire time. The other pairs were holding back, keeping slightly more distance than the leader.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” I said, keeping my tone even. “This one’s a gift from my grandfather, and I treasure it dearly.”

"Knuckles!" squeaked the younger boy.

So it was a nickname? Original, I’ll give them that. But it wasn’t a name given lightly – he clearly knew how to throw a punch. Best not to let it come to that.

"He’ll give you another one!" the leader declared, taking a bold and threatening step forward.

I pulled back the flap of my jacket, revealing the pistol holstered under my left arm. That stopped him in his tracks.

"My grandfather’s dead," I said, my tone low and deliberate. "And I’d rather not hear any stupid jokes about it. I might take offense… serious offense."

He hesitated for only a second. He was within a step, close enough to strike. My pistol was still holstered under my left arm, and my right hand held the travel bag. Drawing the pistol would take too long, and Knuckles wasn’t counting on me even attempting it – which was exactly where he miscalculated. He struck out with a classic one-two combination.

I stepped back just slightly, evading his left jab, and swung the bag in my hand. The bag intercepted his right hook mid-flight, and the weight of the iron-clad object inside wrenched his upper body off balance. I stepped in close, using his own momentum against him, and drove my boot heel hard into his shin. A nasty move – one I’d experienced myself once – and it bent him forward, leaving his face perfectly positioned for a follow-up strike with my knee. Fortunately for him, the travel bag got in the way, so instead of a knee to the face, his arrogant mug caught the bag in an uppercut motion. Since the bag was mostly filled with clothes and books, I didn’t hold back. His body spun in a rather elegant pirouette, landing on his head and shoulders before collapsing into a heap, legs splayed out awkwardly. The shiny lead knuckles he had been so proud of clattered to the ground, rolling in opposite directions.

I turned just in time to cut off the rest of the gang’s advance.

"Freeze!" I barked. It worked. The street rats froze in place, still too stunned by what had just happened. Their wide eyes and the tight grip on their sticks made it clear – they hadn’t expected their leader to go down. "Scram," I added, waving them off dismissively.

The young gangsters exchanged uneasy glances. This might have been the first time they encountered prey that bit back.

"Ugh…" Knuckles groaned, proving himself surprisingly sturdy – he hadn’t even lost consciousness. With help from the smallest boy, who was now fussing over him, he tried to get to his feet. I wasn’t having that. I tossed my bag down onto Knuckles’ stomach, pushing him flat against the ground again, and turned my attention back to the others.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"Want me to put the rest of you down too? Get lost!"

With that, I drew my pistol from its holster and cocked the hammer. The younger kids scattered like leaves in a storm, while the older ones retreated more slowly. Only the smallest boy remained, determined to retrieve my travel bag from his fallen leader.

"Not on the ground!" I barked, my voice sharp enough to make the kid jump. "Pick it up properly, and if I find so much as a scratch on it, you’ll regret it!"

Terrified, the boy obeyed. Despite the obvious urge to run, he held his ground, eyes wide with fear but also, strangely, resolve. I stepped over the groaning Knuckles, pressing the muzzle of my pistol to his forehead as I crouched down onto his chest.

"Do you know what a contribution is?" I asked.

"Uh… what?" he stammered, clearly confused.

"It’s when a defeated country has to pay money," the younger boy in the cap – Cap I decided to call him – piped up from the side.

"Correct," I said with a grin.

The concept was a bit broader than that, and I certainly wasn’t expecting cash from these street kids. But I wasn’t about to let them off scot-free either. After all, there weren’t many cabs around here, and I still needed to find a way out of this mess. Not to mention, I owed that cabbie a solid punch to the face for leaving me stranded.

"You’re out of luck, mate," Knuckles sneered, regaining some of his cocky attitude. "We ain’t got no money."

"No profit today? Or am I your first target? It’s hardly early anymore, gentlemen. Lazy thieves, are we?"

"Like I said, no money," Knuckles shot back, "and now we owe Talbot for you. He charges twenty per client. Cash. Plus, the cops want their ten."

"Poor, unfortunate souls," I mocked. "Looks like you’re about as profitable as a leaky bucket. Maybe I should take those ‘shiny trinkets’ off your girls instead. You said they’d like them."

"We ain’t got no girls," Knuckles grumbled. "Just said it for show."

"And what do you do with the trinkets you steal?" I pressed, fishing for the name of their fence. That could be a useful lead – criminals always knew more than they let on. "Think carefully before you answer, mate. I’m starting to lose patience with this conversation."

"I’ll fetch it!" Сap squeaked suddenly.

"Сap!" Knuckles barked, clearly displeased.

Сap and Knuckles – a colorful duo indeed.

"Quiet," I said to Knuckles, waving him off. It wasn’t what I’d expected, but it wasn’t a bad development either. "That would be the right decision in your situation, my young friend. But remember, my patience isn’t endless. And I’ll be waiting…" I paused, pulling out my pocket watch and flipping open the cover. "Two minutes. Time starts now."

"You’ll leave us on the street!" Knuckles warned the boy.

"You’ll survive," I retorted.

Сap hesitated, torn between his leader’s order and the travel bag still in his hands. Realizing what was troubling him, I returned the pocket watch to my pocket and held out my hand. The boy immediately shoved the bag into it and then bolted down the street, his oversized shoes slapping against the pavement.

I set the bag on Knuckles’ chest.

"Сap, stop! Damn it, I’ll give it back! You don’t understand!" Knuckles shouted.

"Enlighten me," I said, noticing the growing number of onlookers peering out of their windows.

"It’s dangerous here at night," Knuckles muttered reluctantly. "People disappear. And storing things at The Coin isn’t cheap."

"What’s The Coin?"

"The business district of Smuggler’s Bay – where the serious folks are."

"You fence your loot there?"

"Yeah."

"Well, look at that – Cap’s actually running back." I had a suspicion that instead of loot, the boy might bring me more trouble.

Knuckles groaned and cursed under his breath.

"Now, now, it’s not that bad," I said, mocking him.

Cap returned, panting hard but managing to meet the two-minute mark. In his hands was a large leather Pouch. I gestured to the ground.

"Dump it."

"We’re being watched!" Knuckles protested.

"As if they didn’t see you taking it in the first place," I countered. "Dump it."

Cap emptied the pouch’s contents onto the ground. Rings, brooches, necklaces, earrings – it was a magpie’s treasure trove. I carefully sifted through the pile, running my hand over the stones. Most were cheap glass, but one caught my attention – a modest citrine set in a primitive copper band.

I held up the ring in front of Knuckles’ face.

"And how much were your distinguished thieves planning to get for this?"

"Ten pence," Knuckles admitted grudgingly.

I shook my head, imagining how much their fence must have been ripping them off. But then Cap surprised me.

"A pound," he blurted out.

"I like you," I said, amused. He had been terrified of me at first, but now… This ring was interesting. I didn’t know what enchantment it held, but it practically radiated heat. Brand-new, it might fetch five to ten pounds, but no one would pay these thieves anywhere near that much.

"Which path are you walking, kid?" I asked, suspecting that Cap might dabble in energy practices.

"I’m not gifted," Cap quickly denied.

It was a personal question, so I didn’t press further.

"As you wish. Gather it all up," I said, gesturing to the scattered jewelry. "Aside from your friend Talbot, do any other cabs come down to this hole? I need transport to Rapsey."

Knuckles stayed silent, forcing Cap to answer again.

"Old Yusom’s got a cart, and he probably isn’t too drunk yet," the boy suggested.

"Horses don’t like me," I replied, dismissing the idea.

"There’s a butcher two blocks from here. The owner’s got a two-seater Austin. I think he’ll take you if you ask, but he’ll charge you at least three quid."

"That works for me." I rapped Knuckles lightly on the forehead with the barrel of my pistol. "See? All sorted. Now grab my travel bag. Let’s see you work honestly for a change."

I pocketed the citrine ring but left the rest of the loot untouched, even though Cap offered me the leather pouch.

"Here, sir," he said timidly.

"Hold onto it for now," I waved him off with the pistol. "Move along, my dear friends. And let’s not get clever with any ambushes. I’m tired and in no mood for games – or mercy, for that matter."

"I’ll go on my own," Knuckles muttered under his breath. "Let the kid go."

"Move!" I commanded, letting the would-be thieves walk ahead of me. "Who do you sell the loot to?"

The boys exchanged glances.

"I might need connections of that sort," I admitted honestly. "Knuckles, keep quiet – I trust Cap more than you. So, my young gentleman?" I holstered the pistol to avoid drawing unnecessary attention.

"We take it to Patrick Mallory at the 'Commode,'" Cap confessed.

"That’s in the Coin?"

"Nope, Pubsate," Knuckles spat. "In the Coin, they wouldn’t even give us that much for it."

As I mulled over whether to question them about vampires, we reached a small butcher shop. Chalked in large letters on a board was the phrase "Fresh Blood." Judging by the sign, the butcher was more in the know than these street kids.

"We’re here," Knuckles said, snatching the pouch from Cap’s hands. "Go home," he barked at the younger boy before opening the shop door and motioning for me to follow. "The kid can’t come in here."

I didn’t entirely believe him, but I wasn’t familiar enough with the local rules to argue.

"Hey, Dick, is your dad in?" Knuckles asked the skinny boy manning the counter.

"What’s it to you?" the boy replied, frowning.

Knuckles nodded toward me and, without warning, flung my travel bag at me. I caught it with both hands, but by the time I looked up, Knuckles had vaulted over the counter and disappeared through a door into the back room.

"Hey!" the butcher’s son protested, but I just laughed.

"My good fellow," I said, trying to sound both amused and composed, "I have a lucrative proposal for your father. Would you kindly fetch him for me?"

The laughter and calm tone must have unsettled the boy because he didn’t argue. When the butcher appeared, I laid out my proposition quickly and clearly, offering half the sum Cap had mentioned as a starting bid. Predictably, the butcher tripled it, but we eventually settled on three pounds.

An hour later, I found myself in a much more affluent part of the city, far from the slums. The butcher, unfortunately, hadn’t known this area well, so it took us a bit of time to find the right street. But the wizard’s mansion stood out immediately.

The surrounding buildings were uniform four- or five-story red-brick structures, tightly packed with barely any room to walk between them. In stark contrast, the mansion occupied an entire block, enclosed by an ornate wrought-iron fence. The gray stone house in the center wasn’t particularly luxurious – It was at least a story shorter than its neighbors – but it was surrounded by its own unruly, overgrown garden. It was a breath of fresh air amidst the oppressive reign of brick, asphalt, and the stench of petrol. Though, to be fair, the last offense might have been the fault of the butcher’s ancient Austin.

I stepped out of the car near the wrought-iron gate bearing the emblem of an anvil, paid the driver, and took a step toward the gate. That’s when I heard someone shout.

"Wait, sir!"

I glanced over my shoulder, unsure who they were addressing.

"You, sir! Yes, you!" A man waved to me from the porch of a house across the street from the wizard’s mansion.

He quickly crossed the road, heading in my direction. As he approached, the amulet on my chest gave off a faint tingling sensation. Subtly, I flipped open the lid of the ring on my finger and dipped my thumb into the concealment-revealing ointment. The broad-faced man, though dressed in an expensive brown suit, didn’t inspire trust.

"Sir Smith isn’t receiving visitors right now," he said as he stopped in front of me.

"And you are…?"

"Martin Belor," he replied, offering a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "If you’re in need of professional assistance from a wizard, I can recommend the Fairburn House – ten specialists, centuries of magical tradition, and its head holds the title of baron.”

It sounded... like an overly rehearsed radio advertisement.

"I’m afraid I need Sir Smith specifically," I said, keeping my tone calm and polite.

Not wanting to escalate the situation, I turned back toward the gate. But before I could take another step, a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder.

"Boy, I said you’re not going in there," Martin said, his tone shifting from courteous to threatening.

I swiped my thumb under my right eye, smearing the remaining ointment under the left as well, and waited for my vision to shift. As the magic took hold, the wizard’s house beyond the garden lit up with energy. I turned back to face Martin, noticing his figure was surrounded by a faint blue aura emanating from his amulet – similar to the glow coming from my own.

"Sir, I don’t appreciate being told what to do," I said sharply.

Martin jabbed his finger into my chest.

"Don’t push your luck, country boy. Get lost!"

I jabbed him back, aiming precisely where his amulet glowed faintly beneath his shirt. Defensive amulets worn over the heart… It would be foolish to place an object designed to absorb hits in such a vulnerable spot, but they still do. Let’s see what this thing was.

The moment my finger connected, the amulet responded with a surge of air energy. I immediately latched onto it and pulled it free from its restraints. The surprise on Martin’s face told me everything I needed to know. His amulet carried an air shield, designed to deflect ranged attacks.

"Listen carefully," I said, keeping my voice cold and steady. "I’m not asking for an apology, but if you don’t disappear in the next three seconds, I’ll beat you so thoroughly no healer will be able to put you back together."

His expression shifted from surprise to disbelief.

Street rats had that same look of defiance – until I pulled out my pistol. This time, I didn’t wait. I drew my FN and pressed the barrel against Martin’s stomach. At this range, even with his shield active, I wouldn’t miss.

"One."

"I understand, sir! Apologies, sir! Forgive me, sir!" Martin stammered, raising his hands in surrender.

He took one step back, then another, before quickly retreating to the house across the street.

I slid my pistol back into its holster and turned toward the gate again. Only now did I notice the faint glow of magic radiating from it. This, undoubtedly, was a security enchantment.