Chapter 13: Undercurrents

  “You've really outdone yourself this time, kid,” Wolf grunted. He was half-kneeling on the floor, fingers slick with medicinal paste as he dabbed them onto the purple bruising along Ronen's ribs. Each press drew a sharp hiss through Ronen's teeth. “Going out and fighting under the legion's banner is one thing, but losing? And to a woman who had already fought several rounds of a gauntlet? You've certainly brought ‘glory' to the White Tiger's Fang.”

  “Uncle,” Ronen gasped through the pain, offering a bitter smile, “at a moment like this, I'd prefer it if you referred to her as a ‘Soldier of the Dragonshield’… I believe she even has a title. They call her the ‘Thorn of the Rose.’”

  “Oh, so now you're interested in titles?” Wolf snorted, deliberately applying the ointment with a bit more pressure. “Should I start calling you the ‘White Pig’s Fang' then? You haven't even left the city and you've already managed to earn yourself a reputation.”

  Ronen didn't argue. He could feel his skin heating up as the medicine took hold; the swelling seemed to recede as the pain dulled. That profiteer's potions were, admittedly, top-tier.

  Wolf suddenly stopped moving, falling silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped an octave. “You should thank her.”

  Ronen looked up, puzzled.

  “Her strikes were incredibly precise,” Wolf said, pointing to the dark bruising on Ronen's abdomen. “If she had truly intended to kill you, she wouldn't have targeted your stomach. A strike to the temple or the throat, and you'd be half a corpse by now.”

  Ronen bit his lip. Memories of the arena surged back—those eyes full of terrifying confidence, that effortless, lingering smile.

  “I was only trying to dig up more information,” Ronen defended himself weakly. Internally, he was flooded with regret; he had taken a beating for nothing, and because he lost, he had walked away without that short sword.

  “You did learn a few things. Though, I suppose that's my oversight,” Wolf admitted, his expression thoughtful. “The organization known as Schr?dinger's Cat might seem mysterious to commoners, but among us insiders, their existence isn't exactly a secret. I wanted you to stay focused on the mission, so I didn't bother telling you. I didn't expect you to stumble upon it yourself. I suppose that’s not a bad thing.”

  Wolf paused, his brow furrowing. “As for this Lucas... I’ve spent years in the city and dealt with the Lapsus Merchant Circle plenty of times, but I've never heard of a ‘Lucas Maxim’ holding much weight.”

  “If that man Alter wasn't lying,” Wolf's voice became barely a whisper, “then the difficulty of this mission needs to be completely re-evaluated.”

  A long silence stretched between them. “We need to be prepared to pull out at any moment.”

  “Pull out?” Ronen blurted. “The penalty for breach of contract isn't a small sum—”

  “Life is worth more than gold.” Wolf stared him down, then reached out to ruffle the boy's hair. “In the mercenary trade, the only real skill is living long enough to retire. If you die, you're just a pension check and two or three sentences of drunken pity from your peers.”

  Ronen fell silent. The air in the room felt heavy, stagnant, save for the flickering wick of the oil lamp.

  “Besides,” Wolf added, his tone softening, “you actually did gain one thing.”

  Ronen looked up, his expression blank.

  “That woman, Vivian.” A trace of a smile—almost one of admiration—tugged at the corner of Wolf's mouth. “To be able to thrash you like that while leaving you healthy enough to walk means she has incredible restraint. She is the real deal. Try to stay on her good side. Since she has a name in Dragonshield, she might be a useful contact if the legion ever takes a contract near the Dragonblood Heights or the Dragonshield borders. Connections are built one bruise at a time.”

  He stood up and clapped Ronen on the shoulder.

  “Get some rest. We move out at dawn.” Wolf walked toward the door, his shadow stretching long across the floor in the dim light. “This mission... has only just begun.”

  Late into the night, even the restless "City of No Night" began to sink into a rhythmic, breathing silence.

  Alter was in his usual state, an old book splayed across his face, his body sunk deep into his chair without moving. It was impossible to tell if he was meditating or had long since fallen into a deep sleep.

  The back door creaked open. The beautiful waitress entered, stretching her lithe body. With practiced ease, she shed her ornate, seductive gown and changed into practical travel gear. There was no hesitation in her movements; she was clearly accustomed to this transition between day and night.

  “It's snowing outside. I suspect it's only going to get colder from here on out.”

  “Is your side finished too?” A muffled, gravelly voice came from beneath the book. “Did you hear, Sisti? A new ‘legend’ was born tonight.”

  Sisti gave a soft, melodic laugh filled with familiar mockery. “The ‘White Pig’s Fang’? You mean the rookie who got his face flattened and his teeth kicked in? Such a nice young man, and you tricked him into saddling himself with a nickname like that. If he ever becomes famous, you’ll be the first person he comes looking for to settle the score.”

  “It is a bit of a pity.” Alter slowly pulled the book from his face, revealing eyes that were far too sharp to belong to someone who had just woken up. “The kid’s luck was rotten, hitting Vivian in his first match. Against anyone else, with his skills, he could have lasted three rounds.”

  “How tragic,” he said, though his tone lacked any real sympathy, sounding entirely detached.

  “However, the next time he comes back, we could set up a real betting pool.” He sat up straighter, a glint in his eyes. “We might actually make a killing.”

  “You've given him such a reputation that if anything goes wrong on this mission, he'll struggle to even stay in Glory City,” Sisti said, shaking her head. Unlike Alter, she felt a genuine pang of pity for Ronen. “I actually liked the look of him; that's why I sent him to you.”

  She walked over and snatched the book from his lap. “He gave you my name. Couldn't you have actually tried to help him?”

  “I did help,” Alter said, throwing up his hands with a look of feigned innocence. “I was even prepared to give him ‘Snow Poem’ for free. It's not my fault he couldn't hold his own.”

  Sisti glanced at him but didn't press the matter. Her expression turned serious. “In all honesty, what do you think of this investigation team?”

  “The two mercenaries and Vivian are reliable enough. The rest? Those four mages are pure theorists. They're fine for decoration, but if they hit real trouble... they're useless.” Alter curled his lip. “I have no idea what Lucas was thinking when he picked them.”

  “On the contrary,” Sisti said softly, “it's possible Lucas doesn't care at all what they actually find.”

  “That would be consistent with the Circle's usual style,” Alter nodded, a hint of mockery creeping into his voice.

  Sisti looked out the window into the pitch-black night, her face growing grim. “The distress signal came from the North as well... it looks like we'll have to go there ourselves.”

  Alter sighed and leaned back. “Sometimes I really envy those bastards in the Merchant Circle. Filthy rich, they have everything they want. When we go on a mission, we have to pay out of our own pockets.”

  “Stop complaining,” Sisti interrupted, her voice low but firm. “It's better to be over-prepared. You saw Lucas's attitude—this road... it's not going to be peaceful.”

  “The Eye of the Blizzard, eh?” Alter followed her gaze toward the North, a slight frown touching his brow. “I really do hate the cold.”