Northern, with the help of the Spirit Linen, was clothed in a simple yet dashing attire—a complicated weave of white and black cloth, tailored to perfection.
The ensemble was secured with a sturdy belt at the waist, adding a sense of readiness to his look. Over this, a large black hooded cloak was draped, its flowing fabric blending seamlessly with the outfit beneath. His arms were wrapped in bandages, giving a rugged touch to the refined look.
Carefully, Northern walked forward. He had a rough idea of where he was going; besides, before reaching the fountain he had already asked.
Some people had informed him that finding craftsmen was not difficult; they had even guessed that he was a foreigner from the way he asked.
Most of the time, a certain street was always known to craftsmen; they chose a place to be prominent in. Whether it was a blacksmith, a builder, a jeweler, even down to a pawnshop, everything trading and making could be found in Derille street which was down to the right after the Metynnis fountain.
Noticing an overhead wooden arch in front of him, he glanced up a little and read silently.
"Derille: The Union of the Strong."
He did not give much thought to what it could mean; he did not want to concern himself with such useless things at such a crucial moment.
Northern stopped just in front of the signboard and turned to his left, entering into an isolated alley. Despite the brightness of the day, the place was heavily darkened by shadows, almost deceiving one to think night was at hand.
Entering the alley, he was assaulted by a poignant dirty odor that caused him to wrinkle his nose a bit. Piles of garbage littered the left and right walls of the alley.
Experience more on .Côm
Northern’s eyes glinted coldly as he continued to walk deeper into the dark maws of the alley.
’I wonder if this is deep enough...’
He looked around. The alley still went further, almost like the thin and narrow throat of a colossal monster.
For him however, this much was enough; he had no intention to see for himself how deep the alley went. He was only here because he wanted to give some folks the chance they were desperately looking for.
Northern sighed, his eyes—from beneath the hooded darkness—tracing to his right side.
Swiftly, a dagger curved over his neck and a low, gruff voice sounded.
"If you don’t want to lose your precious life, bring out every darn coin in your pocket."
Northern was silent for a little bit. Then he spoke, his voice calm and indifferent.
"I don’t walk around carrying coins; aside from the fact that they are heavy, there’s a smart way to deal with money these days."
Northern’s tone was a stark contrast to how the response had played out in their heads.
The man holding the knife behind Northern expressed a little confusion but immediately straightened his face and frowned.
"Then what are the valuables you have? Bring them out."
He pressed the knife against Northern’s throat, slightly touching his skin—at least that was what he felt as he pressed the knife.
Northern was silent, unmindful of the pressure that the man was intending to exert.
Then his voice came.
"I have a question for you both."
The second man, a little bit farther from the first, flinched. He had stayed farther to keep watch while his comrade committed the atrocity.
The boy had not turned back; they did not give him a chance to—it was part of the plan. So, how did he know there were two of them?
He frowned, slightly shivering. The boy’s voice continued before he could say anything.
"Let’s say, I was bigger, larger, more imposing than this slightly tall and lithe body, would you still consider me a target?"
The man pressed the knife even tighter, reinforcing his voice.
"Just shut your mouth and hand over all your valuables."
"That does not suffice for an answer. You could have just said yes or no."
The man afar watched suspiciously, his frown growing deeper.
"I think the human mind is more oriented towards weakness than it is towards strength. You see an easy mark, and you pounce."
Northern continued, his voice calm but carrying an eerie weight.
"You think you’ve calculated every risk, every angle. But what happens when your prey turns out to be something else entirely?"
The man holding the knife sneered, trying to mask his growing unease.
"Enough with your riddles. I don’t care if you’re a giant or a twig. Give me what I want, or I’ll carve it out of you."
Northern tilted his head slightly, the shadow of his hood shifting to reveal just a glint of his eyes—sharp, piercing, and impossibly steady.
"Interesting. Even with the doubt crawling up your spine, you still choose to push forward."
The second man, standing farther down the alley, swallowed hard. Something about this boy—no, this presence—was off. He had been in countless robberies, but this was the first time he felt like the predator had become the prey.
"N-no more talking!"
The second man shouted, his voice cracking slightly.
"Jarron, just end him already!"
Northern sighed softly.
"So predictable."
Before any of them could react, something very swiftly dropped from the height of the alley.
Its form was blurry; Northern narrowed his eyes with a displeased frown as the form blew past him, their cloak flying into the air.
A slender and beautiful hand grabbed the man by the wrist; it was like he suddenly was held by iron. He tried forcing his hand out, at least wanting to slash the boy’s throat, but the grip was too strong.
The man’s face contorted with pain as he struggled against the vice-like grip.
His knife-hand trembled, veins bulging as he poured all his strength into freeing himself, but it was futile.
Northern turned slightly, his expression impassive as he observed the scene.
The figure stepped forward, their movements fluid yet deliberate, exuding a quiet authority that even the shadows seemed to respect.
The second man froze in place, his instincts screaming at him to flee, but his body refused to move. The air in the alley grew heavier, charged with an energy he couldn’t comprehend.
The figure’s voice cut through the silence, calm yet firm, carrying an edge that sent shivers down their spines.
"You’ve made a grave mistake."
It was a woman’s voice, smooth but with a steel-like undertone.
With a swing of her hand, she rendered her figure from the cloak, sending it flying into the air.
Long, flowing blonde hair cascaded down like a golden river, its radiant sheen almost banishing the surrounding shadows with an incandescent glow.
Her piercing blue eyes, both captivating and unyielding, seemed to hold a quiet authority, framed by stern, determined features that commanded the attention—and submission—of all who dared to look.
She stood before Northern, stretching out a long thin sword.
"I hate guys who prey on the weak."