Sylvester couldn't get up after receiving that punch. An unexpected hit, of all things, was what it took, which resulted in a bad fall. The uneven ground beneath him dug into his lower back, causing him excruciating pain—enough to make Sylvester hold in his screams of agony.
To keep his dignity as a nobleman intact, he couldn't afford to be seen as pitiful by commoners. Grabbing the first slender ankle in sight, he thought he could convince the woman to call the guards.
Sylvester didn't expect the woman he grabbed would hurl words that cut him down.
Though the light was dim, from his angle, Bethel's features were visible. Her eyes were deep pools of obsidian, reflecting the dim streetlights with a cold, clear gleam.
Her sharp facial features distinguish her from even the fairest noblewomen. Her light pink lips were shaped like rose petals, absent of any rouge. She was a notorious beauty, a rarity that set her apart, without equal. A single earring caught his eye as it glowed an eerie amber color.
"A woman shouldn't speak like that unless she's on a stage for an audience."
His gaze slid from her face to her figure as she squatted down. The motion pulled her dark cloak taut, hinting at the curves beneath.
"Ah, I see," he continued, his voice a low, mocking hum. "A lower-class woman who believes her pretty face and tempting figure are all the law she needs. It's a simple life, isn't it?"
She didn't respond to him as she pulled his hand off her ankle, annoyed at being touched by a rotten stranger with breath reeking of bitter ale.
"How about selling your body to a better bloodline? There are plenty of fellow noblemen who will throw you a few coins just for standing before them with nothing on." He snickered.
This crossed a line with Bethel. Not wanting to utter another word, she scooped up a handful of mud, dumping it onto his face. He coughed violently as some slipped into his mouth.
'If one is going to talk like dirt, then eating some shouldn't be a problem,' By that logic, Bethel continued smearing mud on his face; who knew what had been mixed in? Bethel didn't show mercy as he pleaded for her to stop.
"It smells! Are you trying to kill me!" Gone was his earlier 'high-horse' attitude.
Bethel could stop... but why would she? The days of stress and suffocation seemed to melt away. She had felt as if everything she was working for would be meaningless. Each night of searching for where Josephine lived was met with dead ends. Even the thought of failing made her feel suffocated. Each bit of mud she smeared on his face made her shoulders feel lighter.
Sylvester gave up pleading for sweet release. He only prayed for this horrible being in a woman's skin to leave him be. Fearing another word out of his mouth would prolong his suffering...
"I need to wash my hands." Wiping the excess dirt off the nobleman's outer coat, Bethel pulled out a canteen, rinsing off her hands. She then retrieved the nobleman's handkerchief she had been using to relieve stress.
He didn't complain, just pretending to be unconscious. 'Please go away! Please go away! Please go away!' he thought internally.
"You shouldn't pick fights with the elderly. Being a commoner isn't disgraceful. But talking down to others, disrespecting them, and believing you are constantly in the right—that's a good way to earn resentment," Bethel told the nobleman calmly, after making him eat a few chunks of dirt moments ago.
"You may think I shouldn't act like I'm better than you, since I'm a commoner with a tempting figure. But I'm also someone who spent the last few minutes painting your face with dirt, probably mixed with someone's urine or feces. Who knows at this point?"
She giggled at the attempt to raise his arm to wipe his face, just to lay it back down without doing so.
"The next time you grab a woman by her ankle, she wouldn't show you the same kindness as I did. Most likely a heel would be impaled into your skull for such actions." Tapping his forehead to drive her point, Bethel gently laid his used, filth-stained handkerchief on his face, the same way one would cover the face of a deceased person.
Placing her hands together in a mock prayer, Bethel stood up, having given this man a warning he wouldn't fare well a second time. Walking away to continue her search.
Sylvester exhaled in relief as his tormentor left him to lie here in peace. 'I want to go home...' Tears of the struggle endured today broke free.
An hour later, after wandering around three different guard stations, Bethel tried asking the residents sitting outside in groups. Giving a description of Josephine and a phony story of being her childhood friend, they apologized for not being able to help.
"No, no, thank you all regardless." Bethel bowed her head in gratitude. This night was turning into another dead end...
"Umm." A woman cradling her youngest child spoke. "Have you tried the market? In the West Quarter, there are quite a few traders operating stalls. They are quite good at remembering people's faces; your friend could have shopped there."
Hopeful in this new piece of information, "Where exactly do I need to go to reach that place?" Bethel asked the woman. She pointed towards a street nearby as she gave directions.
"On Rivera Street, pass about four or six streets until you see a short bridge going over the canal. In a straight line after walking to the other side of the bridge, walk an extra three streets. There will be an old guard station; behind it is an open area where you will find the market."
Immediately, Bethel took the woman's hand. "Thank you, thank you so much!" Words dripping in sincerity, the woman laughed. Sprinting off before hearing the rest of what the woman had to say. Leaving the group dumbfounded by her speed.
"But they only open up shop from noon until sunset... The place is closed at this time of night," the woman said, where only her friends were able to listen.
Following the directions, Bethel reached the old guard station. The doors and windows were boarded up as part of its roof was gone. Moss covered its walls as vines grew upwards from the foundation. A ruin of hardworking efforts from laborers, left to decay, once more becomes a part of nature.
Places left behind, discarded, weren't rare in the capital; it's an expected sight. Bethel didn't linger for long, especially when she heard small movements inside, likely a stray animal or someone from the slums taking shelter for the night.
"..." Making her way around the old guard station carefully so as not to bother what's inside. "Apologies, I won't disturb your night."
Successfully rounding towards the back of the building, an open clearing as the woman had described could be seen. The market stalls were empty, as only banners of different ownership flapped above them.
She relaxed her shoulders, realizing now that she was getting ahead of herself. "Lord... I should have come during the daytime—of course, there wouldn't be anyone here."
Compared with the alley where the voices of a family flowed out, or the hustle and bustle of a nobleman getting knocked down by an elderly man, this place felt absent of any form of life, not even the sound of flies buzzing.
"I will just look around before heading home," not wanting to waste coming here for nothing. Bethel goes deeper into the quiet traders' market, where only the sounds of her footsteps accompany her.
"Maybe I should have used the sledgehammer on that nobleman earlier instead? Feels a bit pointless to carry something around and not use it." Paying no mind to the cruelty of her own words.
Bethel continued deeper into the quiet traders' market, taking stock of the banners: from the snowy peaks of the northern countries to the tropical islands of the southern seas. Almost every slice of trade group across each continent was represented here.
How many are even operating at this limit? she wondered. They must have cut a deal. Traders wouldn't be allowed entry without filling somebody's coffers—not in the Kingdom of Cinderite, which had been so strict with trade for seventy years.
The laws were born in a fit of rage. The King's reaction when the crown prince abandoned his right to the throne, reportedly hiding among traveling traders to slip out of his homeland.
Weeks later, when the news broke, the furious King had signed a ruthless bill. Now, traders weren't allowed to operate within capital limits unless they had permission from a Ruling Royal Member and were under the protection of a high-ranking noble family.
Seventy-five percent. Bethel's lips sloped downwards at the thought. That's the majority of earnings the noble families demand as payment, replacing the original fixed 15% rate. The King hadn't just lost his favorite heir; he'd bled the traders dry, ensuring only the nobility benefited from the aftermath.
As she neared where the warehouses were located, sharp curses broke the silence. Bethel quickly hid behind a cluster of trees.
"YOU DUNDERHEAD! We hired you because you're a cheaper option. But you still don't follow orders properly!" A man of short stature with a gaping bald spot revealing more skin than hair. His pot-sized belly jiggled as he yelled grotesquely. She glanced at who was on the receiving end.
A man about three heads taller, a figure of long legs and a thick, muscular physique with broad shoulders. Unruly curly hair reached his shoulder blades. He appeared to have spent years training, maintaining, and perfecting himself to clearly achieve his current state. From Bethel's line of sight, his stance is similar to a seasoned soldier.
"Your Guild Master did warn us that you would do as you please at times. But for the goddess's sake! It's only been a week, Rupert!"