"Please don't kill me!"

  I killed him.

  I wasn't even looking at the thug who said it. My hand had just moved on auto-pilot, snatched a hammer from the table and flung it like I was a programmed Koopa from Mario Brothers. The resounding wet crunch and stifled wails of terror that followed from his allies suggested a clean hit.

  I continued staring through the slits in my mask, growing impatient waiting for Hanover's answer. The blacksmith was still staring at the injured and or deceased thugs.

  "Get over it. These jerks were going to kill you. And I'm definitely going to kill them along with whoever sent them. So write them off your conscience and focus."

  Hanover gulped. "No, this furnace isn't hot enough for cremation."

  "That's a shame," I said. "On second thought, I shouldn't have you waste time on corpse disposal."

  "We have to get out of here," Oglock whispered to his injured comrades, Lorthvar, and Thomson.

  Thomson lay on his back with two blades in his chest, blood likely filling his lungs. Lorthvar fared far better, only sporting a single throwing knife in the back of his right knee.

  They inched backward, leaving Thomson behind, like I didn't see them in my peripheral vision. But I was more concerned with getting Hanover back onboard the money train. Not expecting a light bout of violence to shake him this badly.

  "Think of the gold. I'll handle them, along with this problem of yours," I said.

  Mentioning the gold spurred the blacksmith back into action, he moved to the furnace and stoked the flames while I sauntered through the workshop after the thugs.

  "Who sent you?"

  "Fuck you! You'll kill us no matter what we tell you," Oglock spat.

  I reached down and picked the hammer out of their fallen friend's face and carried it past them out into the scrapyard. The resounding reverb of live music being played several blocks over masked their ragged breathing. A deep bass rippled in the distance, accompanied by drums, pipes, and strings echoing over the sprawling promenade.

  I hummed along to the distant melody, taking up a position in the scrapyard, twirling the hammer in hand.

  "Damn, I bet I'm already late." I groaned, remembering my meeting with Eamon. "Let's try again. Who sent you and where can I find them?"

  Lorthvar lowered his bandana, cupped his hands over his mouth, and screamed. "Help us! Anyone please!"

  I threw my head back, joining in with his desperate pleas. "Guards help us! Please, Oarwin's phantom is going to kill us and dismember our bodies!"

  I noticed it the first time they screamed. How it became a faint echo, warped and swallowed by the ambient clamor of the workshop, the distant roar of the concert, and the way the surrounding alleys and crooked buildings dispersed the acoustics of their cries.

  Nobody would hear us. And if they did, nothing in this city had convinced me anyone would come to their rescue.

  Oglock tested his mettle by pulling one of the many throwing knives from his leg, and kindly returned it with fervor. Despite his efforts, I caught the blade and immediately shot it back into his knee.

  He reeled back in pain, cursing between clenched teeth, and I got the sense he wasn't going to talk. So I chucked the hammer his way, nailing him between the eyes.

  "That leaves you, Lorthvar," I said, wondering if I butchered the pronunciation of his name. "Talk or join your gang in pieces, which will it be?"

  "I'll talk," he mumbled.

  +15 XP

  +5 Karma

  ***

  Lorthvar actually provided some decent insight into Ingcaster's underbelly and how the gangs operating throughout the city differed from those in Oarwin. He explained how Oglock's small-time gang was hired for the hit by a freelance broker named Aetherian, who operated out of the Stacked Deck, an underground gambling den and hot spot for illegal activity south of Oarwin, outside of the Slaver’s Union's grasp.

  The goon even delved into the history, explaining how the rise of the Slaver's Union fractured Ingcaster's criminal underbelly, resulting in warring factions, and entire organizations dissolving or adopting more decentralized practices.

  He droned on and on like every extra tidbit would be the one detail that saved his life.

  In the end, Lorthvar ended up with the rest of his unlucky group. Diced up and wrapped in a tarp left atop a wagon in a random alley within the Merchant's Promenade, destined to be discovered the next morning or whenever the smell caught people's attention. I partially regretted not giving my new scythe a test drive, but opted out, wanting to keep my clothes relatively blood splatter free.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Eamon's waiting.

  So, what?

  At this point, I was already due for an earful when I got back. What was another few hours? Early evening turned into late night as I returned to Oarwin. I evaded several patrols, all consisting of level twos and threes.

  Half of them swept through the buildings, while the rest patrolled the streets. I effortlessly made my way down memory lane, until I approached Thunder & Fang's half-demolished, abandoned tavern. Both moons shined bright in the sky, though I was uncertain if they were at their highest points.

  I silently entered the building's first floor through a massive hole in the wall. As I scanned the ravaged tavern, Karma's Gaze activated, gleaming a status of someone in the basement through a crack in the floorboards.

  Target: Abdo

  Level: 5

  Karma: -1350

  Additional Data: Previously ranked eight in the now defunct Sanguine Syndicate. Age unknown. Male. Visits brothels more frequently than his family.

  Perched on a crooked wooden chair, he leaned forward with his chin in hand, eyes fixed on the staircase across from him. The basement reeked of rust and sweat, empty cages bare but not clean lined the walls.

  I used Dagger Step and teleported downstairs, appearing in front of Abdo for maximum dramatic effect. He flew out of his chair on the verge of a heart attack, eyes bulging out of their sockets.

  He stumbled backward, knocking over the chair as he put his back against the wall.

  "I did as you said! Even with the guards swarming the district, I've come here every night." He raised his hands in the air, his stump of a right hand wrapped in bandages.

  "Settle down. I didn't come this far to kill you."

  "Of course," Abdo said, averting his gaze to the ground, legs shaking.

  "I need your help finding an assassin."

  Abdo's eyes lit up, eager to be of use. "I know plenty of assassins!"

  "His name is Whitcomb, and he works for Soul Viper."

  The brief hopeful glint in his eyes vanished like I had just splashed him with gasoline and lit a match.

  "Only Soul Viper knows who works for Soul Viper..." Abdo shook his head, goosepimples rising across his flesh. "You’re involved with them? Did they have you wipe out the syndicate?"

  "No. Like the Slaver's Union, they're another problem that needs to be solved."

  Abdo tightened his jacket as he anxiously tugged on its drawstring. "Then, who do you work for?"

  "Gadika."

  "What does that mean? You work for the realm?"

  "Someone has to. This world is hurtling toward utter destruction, yet everyone acts like it's business as usual. Slavery, human trafficking, bribery, and corruption trickling from top to bottom... I can't fucking stand it."

  Abdo pressed his back against the wall, beady eyes trembling as he realized what I was. "You're an idealist."

  I tilted my head, the Grimstone Mask's frigid interior suddenly swelled with heat.

  "No, I'm an executioner with an ever growing list of individuals and institutions that must be decapitated."

  "If I ask around about Soul Viper, I'll be the one decapitated."

  Since our dinner together in the Outer Dimension, I hadn't put too much thought into the ramifications regarding Whitcomb's survival. His continued breathing was less than ideal, but I didn't see any way to get to him. Knowing Soul Viper, I imagine they'd be the ones reaching out to confirm their own assassin's batshit story of gods, giant sand worms, and Chinese food.

  "Fine. What about the names Taragon and Chevdekt?" I asked, recalling last night's rogue visions. "I saw a warehouse and a courtyard. They were transporting an elf."

  "Chevdekt? The name sounds familiar, I'll look into it. But I know who Taragon is," Abdo said with a smile, raising an index finger. "He's one of the union's countless dogs, works out of one of their processing centers. The union poached him from the syndicate."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know specifically. The union's got shops and warehouses all over west Oarwin. And none that I know of have courtyards."

  "Find out, soon. I'll be back."

  "Yes-yes, I can do that."

  I heard Abdo breathe a sigh of relief as I re-triggered Dagger Step and vanished from his sight, teleporting upstairs before I dashed toward my next stop.

  ***

  The Stacked Deck's name implied the establishment's games were rigged. Yet, the tables were full, drinks were flying off the bar's shelves, and patrons were blowing stacks of coins. Although their security team probably wondered why a masked man was freely strolling across the floor, headed straight for the VIP section.

  "Hey, there's no masks in here," a level three security guard said as I approached the roped off stairwell.

  "They said the same thing outside," I said, pointing a thumb over my shoulder toward the entrance, not mentioning the half dozen I dispatched to get in. "I'm here to see Aetherian."

  "Hold on, take off the mask first" the guard said, reaching for it.

  A shadow flicked by, too fast for his eyes to see and severed fingers rained from his hand. Shock hit him before the pain, then a woman sitting at a card table spit out her drink and screamed.

  The joyous clinging of chips, and drunken conversations turned silent like a switch had been flicked.

  "Excuse me."

  I stepped past the injured guard. His blood smeared the roped off section as he stumbled through it and fell to his knees. A haze of incense lit by cool blue magelights cast shadows through the seedy establishment. Silk clad dancers writhed to the band's rhythm, seducing high rollers. Private booths lined the perimeter, curtained off with heavy brown drapes.

  At the heart of the room, a ring of obsidian tables hosted high stake games where dice clattered, cards snapped, and fortunes evaporated with the twitch of a wrist. But I had my eyes on a grey door on the other side of the pit. I already knew Aetherian was in his office thanks to the quick tour I had taken with Void Seer before entering the premises.

  While the VIP section saw some sort of scuffle was occurring near the pit's entrance, the gamblers remained seated, and the dealer's kept dealing, probably thinking the several security guards swooping in from behind would deal with me.

  They may have been seven feet tall, and built with steel tempered muscles, but they were only level threes or lower.

  "You don't know whose place this is," one of them growled.

  I ignored him, and descended into the VIP pit, evading them with ease as they gave chase. Startled guests yanked their coins off the tables, and headed for the exits while the real degenerates started a side-pot betting on how long I'd last before I got my head caved in.

  "Fucker!" The brute swung his cudgel.

  I ducked under it, along with a second attack from another flea. One guard threw a knife that I didn't even need to side-step, it just went wide and into his associate's shoulder.

  "I bet 20 gold he makes it through the pit," a shit-faced gambler exclaimed as he nearly fell out of his chair.

  "The house takes your bet," a deep voice said from behind a curtained booth.

  The curtain pulled back revealing a grizzled bald man with crooked teeth, and lipstick smudges on his face.

  Karma's Gaze activated, and I smiled underneath my mask, happy to find an opponent that would give me XP.