Walking through the shadows of the alleys, Roan navigated the maze of roads toward the western sewer entrance. By the time he arrived, the ninth bell had already rung. It had taken him far longer than he expected.
He was visibly nervous when he finally reached the spot. Even though all he had to do was cross the sewer, fear clung to him. Bruce's warning echoed relentlessly in his head.
The nerves erased any notion of resting, despite how exhausted he was. His left arm felt like a dead weight after holding it above his chest for so long.
Still, he leaned against the wall and rested for a few minutes. Now comes the hardest part—getting down.
The natural slope was too far away, and reaching it meant taking a long detour.
There was a ladder, but it looked old—and he had only one usable arm.
He looked around for another safe way down but found none. He could try jumping; it was just a two-story drop. But if he lost his balance, he'd definitely break something.
Damnit. If he had remembered this sooner, he would've gone for the slope. Maybe it was the blood loss, or maybe just plain exhaustion, but his mind wasn't functioning properly.
No point regretting it now, Roan thought and decided to take the ladder.
He looked up at the sky and prayed to the Lady for safety—not that she ever answered.
Wait, why didn't I ask Naor? He had completely forgotten.
Is there a way to go down safely? he asked inwardly.
"No. You have to use the ladder," Naor replied flatly.
Any safety advice?
"Tch. Check every step as you go down with your legs. Lean your weight into the ladder. Always keep at least one hand on it."
He already knew all that. But it didn't hurt to ask.
He took a deep breath to steady himself and crouched down in front of the ladder. He knocked both sides of it with his fist.
It was sturdier than it looked. He tested the first step with his hand—it felt firm enough. Twelve steps in total.
He gripped the edge of the roof and stepped onto the first rung. After testing it with his foot a few times, he brought his other foot down onto the second. Then, after another check, he moved the first foot to the third step. Both feet now firmly on the third.
He braced himself for the pain and took another breath.
Gripping the second step with his injured hand, he quickly brought his right hand down. Pain shot through him from the sudden pressure. He released immediately and checked—no bleeding.
He paused to breathe through the pain before continuing. At some point, he stopped checking the rungs—almost slipped. Thankfully, it was the last step.
Roan groaned as splinters of wood and sharp rocks dug into his foot. He stepped down quickly and checked—just some scratches.
He wanted to punch himself. Normally, he wouldn't make stupid mistakes like that. But the exhaustion was really getting to him.
Finally, he was at the sewer entrance.
This time, he didn't wait. He needed to get through this fast. Grit would only carry him so far—his body was on the edge of shutting down.
Even through the towel tied around his face, the stench was overwhelming. He thought he was used to the smell of shit after two years in the slums—but evidently, he wasn't.
How do people even do business in this? Roan couldn't understand how smugglers worked down here.
He didn't waste time. He started walking, careful to keep his injured left hand away from the filth.
He followed the markings on the wall. At least Gray hadn't lied about those. He didn't want to think about what he would've done if they had been fake.
After walking for what felt like forever, he suddenly froze. He ducked into the shadow cast by a lantern.
"–trusted you! How could you betray me like this?" a man's voice shouted.
"I was d-drunk. I didn't know it was your wife," another voice stuttered—also male.
"Oh yeah? Then I guess Rayada was lying when she confessed about your affair. And I suppose those account books in your home were brought by ghosts?" the first voice mocked.
"This is a conspiracy! You have to believe me—I di—" the second voice tried to protest.
"Shut up!" the first voice shouted, then suddenly went quiet. So quiet Roan almost didn't catch what came next.
"If only you had told the truth. Now, go and join Rayada, bastard."
There was a brief shuffling sound—then a hoarse scream, abruptly cut off. Distant gurgling followed.
Roan stood frozen in place, listening as something hit the sewer floor with a sickening splash.
"Fuck." That was the last thing Roan heard before the man's footsteps echoed away—toward the.. northern entrance? Most likely, judging by the wall markings.
Roan stayed hidden until the sound of hurried steps completely faded.
At first, he thought about just getting the hell out of there. But greed got the better of him.
He turned the corner and saw a middle-aged man lying on the ground, back flat. His neck had been crudely slit—the work of an amateur.
Cautiously, Roan crouched near the body. The man wasn't breathing anymore. Faster than Roan expected.
He quickly rifled through the man's pockets and sucked in a sharp breath. Seven silver coins. Fourteen coppers. That was nearly 714 copper coins. Just who the fuck was this guy?
Forget it. Not my problem.
He checked the other pocket—found a cheap cigar. That went into his pouch, too.
The man's pants were better than his own, though a bit bigger. He quickly unbuckled the man's belt, pulled off the trousers, and, with some effort, swapped them for his own.
He considered taking the shirt, but the neck and back were soaked in blood.
Now, the whole thing made sense. Roan could picture what had happened here. And he couldn't help but wonder—would he also end up dead in some sewer one day?
He didn't feel pity for the man. Not really. The guy seemed like he had it coming. People die for much smaller reasons every day. Whether it was justified or not didn't matter. The point was—he was dead.
Roan stared at him for a long moment, thinking about how fragile life really was.
Then he checked the man's hands—found a ring and pocketed it. No necklace.
He took the man's boots and pushed the body into the sewer water until it was fully submerged. Then, using his old pants, he bound his injured hand to his neck.
Finally, some fucking blessing.
It left a bitter taste in his mouth that his fortune came from a corpse—but beggars couldn't be choosers, can they?
With the money he had now, he could
afford a decent physician.
Roan glanced back one last time at the spot where the murder happened—then moved on.