Chapter 13: Found

  Ten days earlier, the Magic Academy had begun researching a healing spell—one that required a large number of human organs each day. This kind of research, which desecrated the dead, could not be conducted in daylight; it would easily be discovered by most students, so all work took place at night. Thus, every evening, Ethan would load a cart with corpses and organs and deliver them from the west of the city to the Magic Academy, located in the heart of the capital.

  These nightly trips had been an eye-opener for him. He had lived in the capital for two months, but had never ventured out after dark. He had assumed nights everywhere were like those in his hometown: silent, broken only by the occasional crow of a rooster or bark of a dog. On moonless nights, you dared not go out without a torch or lantern—afraid of stepping into a paddy mud pit or tripping and falling, lying injured until someone carried you home at dawn.

  The capital’s nights were not lit by the moon, but by countless street lamps. Taverns stayed lit and noisy until the early hours of the morning. Women in glittering dresses stood by the roadside, calling out to passersby. Drunks stumbled past, sometimes rushing into alleys to vomit. Luxurious carriages raced through the streets, stopping at mansions to drop off or pick up noble men and women.

  The people here seemed to have endless energy and money to burn at night. Singing, dancing, wine, feasts—they did everything to thrill and amuse themselves, as if tomorrow were the end of the world. They were willing to trade all their vitality for a moment of wild pleasure. Ethan could not fathom why they lived with such a delusion.

  But he had no desire to find out. Even though he walked the same streets every day, he felt utterly alien here—as if he had stumbled into a strange world ruled by unknown creatures. The people here also did their best to ignore him. Even when a drunk occasionally stopped him, looking for trouble, a single glance at his face would send them scrambling away.

  Each night, Ethan returned late from the Magic Academy. He had to wait for the day’s research to end, then take notes on the organs and limbs needed for the next day.

  The duke’s mansion was not far from the Magic Academy. He passed it every night.

  Sophia had been back for half a month. Yet the wanted notices were still posted, and the royal guards’ search had become a mere formality.

  Had she not explained things to her father? Or did she also think he deserved to die? Did she know her injury was actually his fault? Would he have to spend the rest of his life as a fugitive? Ethan had been miserable these days.

  The previous night’s research had dragged on late, ending only at dawn. Ethan took the list, pulled his empty cart, and walked down the deserted streets. The only quiet area in the entire capital was the vicinity of the Magic Academy—no matter how wild people got, they dared not act out near the Church.

  Some distance from the duke’s mansion, he spotted two luxurious carriages. Five well-dressed men and one woman stood outside, their voices raised in argument.

  This was a common sight on the capital’s nights. Ethan paid it no mind, continuing along in the darkness. It was only when he drew closer that he recognized the woman, illuminated by the carriages’ torchlight.

  He had seen her before—in the procession escorting Sophia. She had stood beside Clovis, with the same smiling eyes, thin lips, and features similar to Sophia’s. She must be Sophia’s younger sister.

  Now, the younger sister was wearing an absurdly luxurious dress, her hair styled in an even more extravagant updo. She was arguing with several young men, whose clothes marked them as nobles. As the argument heated up, she tried to walk toward the duke’s mansion, but one of the men—with a small braid—grabbed her hand, as if begging her to stay. She turned back, shouted a few more words, then slapped the braided man hard across the face. Enraged, he struck back, and the two began fighting.

  This, too, was a common night scene in the capital. Noble young men and women often fought over trivial things—probably because they had too much energy with no outlet. It was a typical quirk of their lives. Ethan kept to the shadows by the street, minding his own business.

  The braided man seemed furious, hitting hard. Unlike her sister, the girl was no match for him; after taking a few punches to the head, she fell to the ground. The other men rushed to help her up. The braided man—apparently the leader of the group—ordered them to carry her to the carriage. The men hesitated, and he snapped at them angrily.

  Ethan had reached the opposite side of the street by now. He heard every word clearly. “What are you afraid of?” the braided man snarled. “Even if I take her now, do you think the duke will eat me? He’d lose face if this gets out—he’ll have no choice but to marry this bitch to me!”

  No matter how common this scene was, Ethan could not stand by. He suddenly shouted: “Put her down! I’m going to get help from the duke’s mansion!” Usually, men like this were guilty of wrongdoing—one scare was enough to make them run.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  But these men were clearly not “usual.” They did not think they were doing anything wrong, so they felt no guilt. The braided man turned, his face red with anger, and roared: “Who’s there?” A coachman on one of the carriages waved a torch, saying: “Looks like Old Sandro’s hunchbacked assistant from the west of the city.” Ethan was now something of a celebrity—no matter which identity he used.

  The braided man stumbled toward Ethan, waving him over. “Don’t be afraid. Come here—I want to talk to you…” When he drew near, Ethan caught a whiff of alcohol. Suddenly, the man pulled a dagger from his coat and stabbed at Ethan’s chest, screaming: “I’ll teach you to go get help!”

  Mid-stab, the braided man felt a sharp twist on his wrist. His hand went limp, as if it no longer belonged to him. A searing pain—like nothing he had ever felt—jolted a scream from his throat, but a sudden dull blow to his Adam’s apple choked it back. In the end, he could only let out a gurgle, like a pig being smothered, before collapsing to the ground, twitching.

  Twisting the man’s wrist had been a reflex. Striking the man’s throat with the edge of his palm, however, had been a necessity. Compared to these men, Ethan had far more to hide—far more reason to fear being discovered by the duke’s household.

  The other men moved to help, but were stopped by the coachmen from the two carriages. “You’re no match for him—stay back!” The two coachmen drew longswords from their waists and charged together.

  One look at their stances told Ethan these were no ordinary coachmen. He dodged two sword swings, abandoning his pretense of being lame and hunched. He moved with all his speed and agility. These two were surprisingly skilled swordsmen—likely the braided man’s bodyguards.

  Finally, Ethan found an opening. He rolled and scrambled out of their encirclement, yanking off his cloak and throwing it at the closer swordsman.

  The swordsman sliced the cloak in two with a single swing. A seasoned warrior, he did not dodge—when you had the upper hand, the most important thing was to press your advantage, giving the enemy no chance to recover.

  After cutting through the cloak, the swordsman was met with a burst of red light. Before he could understand what it was, a fireball exploded against his nose.

  It was just a beginner’s fireball—its power was modest, roughly equivalent to a bundle of large firecrackers. It would not blow his head off, but it was more than enough to shatter his nose.

  Boom. The sparks that erupted on the swordsman’s face were dazzling in the dark. He fell backward, stiff as a board.

  Ethan picked up one half of the cloak from the ground and threw it over the other swordsman’s head. At the same time, he waved his hand and shouted what sounded like an incantation. In reality, it was a dwarven curse from his hometown. With his limited skill, he could not cast magic in quick succession.

  The swordsman ducked, dropped to his knees, and rolled backward nimbly. But as he stood up, he found the half-cloak flying toward him. A bulge suddenly formed in the fabric, slamming into his chin. He heard a clear crack, screamed, and fell.

  Ethan could barely believe he had taken down two swordsmen so easily. After so long without practice, his skills had not grown the slightest bit rusty.

  He walked toward the carriage. When the torchlight fell on his face, the remaining young men screamed: “Monster!” and scattered.

  “Ah!” A shriek rang out. The girl suddenly jumped out of the carriage and fled toward the duke’s mansion. She had not been knocked unconscious—she had been watching the whole time.

  Afraid someone might hear the commotion and come, Ethan hurried to pick up his cloak, pulled his empty cart, and fled into the darkness.

  The next morning, at the duke’s mansion.

  Chris had broken her usual habit of sleeping until the afternoon, getting up early to join her father for breakfast in the dining hall.

  She had barely slept, tossing and turning all night as she replayed the bizarre experience in her mind—it had been more thrilling than alcohol.

  Even though her eye was still black and blue from the beating, it did nothing to dampen her excitement. She gesticulated wildly as she told her father about the previous night: “Dad, you know those two bodyguards—they’re top-notch fighters! But against that man, they were like little kids. He waved his hand, and boom—magic! He can use magic too! Knocked them flying right away!” She straightened her body, mimicking the swordsman’s fall in an exaggerated way.

  Duke Mrak frowned slightly. He had always disapproved of his daughter associating with that group of idle nobles—they did nothing but cause trouble, and this time, they had nearly gone too far. But he had no time to educate her himself now; he could only lecture her earnestly when he had the chance. But at her age—especially with her personality—reason clearly meant nothing.

  Chris waved her hands excitedly: “Then that man threw one punch, and the other guy went down! One punch! Last time that bodyguard helped us beat someone up, he took several knife wounds and was still fine!”

  “But when that man walked over, and we saw his face clearly… the others ran away immediately. I got scared too—didn’t know where I found the strength, but I ran back. Because he was so ugly. Like, really ugly.” Chris’ mood dropped at the word “ugly,” shaking her head in disappointment. It was a shame her savior had been such an ugly man, not a handsome knight in golden armor with long hair.

  Duke Mrak swallowed a piece of bread and picked up a glass of milk. He would have to send his daughter out into the world—let her see life beyond the mansion, let her taste its joys and sorrows. Only through experience could a person truly grow up.

  “That ugly man is so weird. When my sister first came back, he climbed onto her carriage, trying to peek at her. Back then, he was lame and hunched over. But last night? Suddenly he wasn’t lame anymore! He stood up straight, and he’s actually pretty tall. Too bad he’s so ugly.”

  A sharp crack echoed. The glass shattered in Duke Mrak’s hand.

  Slowly, the duke turned to stare at Chris. “What did you say? What did that man do when your sister first came back?”

  Chris saw a look in her father’s eyes she had never seen before. Sudden fear washed over her. She whispered: “He tried to climb onto my sister’s carriage. Brother-in-law almost killed him.”

  “Why didn’t he do it?” the duke muttered, as if speaking to himself.

  “I don’t know. Everyone says that ugly guy is Old Sandro’s assistant—you know, the one from the west of the city. I heard them say that last night too.”

  Duke Mrak stood up. “Stay with your sister. I’m going out for a while.”

  Chris asked cautiously: “Sister’s doctor will be here soon. Where are you going?”

  Duke Mrak wiped his mouth and strode out of the dining hall without looking back, leaving a single sentence: “I need to go thank this hero who saved my daughter—personally.”