The sounds of combat grew louder as Avian rounded the corner, and his first thought was Not my fucking problem.
His second thought, as he saw the knights getting their asses handed to them, was Shit.
Four knights — real ones, not the decorative assholes who strutted around noble houses comparing penis sizes. These had blood on their armor that wasn't all theirs, moved like they'd earned their steel the hard way. They held a defensive formation in the alley, backs pressed against some shop's door while trying to keep a kid alive.
The kid in question looked about his age, dressed in the kind of traveling clothes that screamed 'I have money, please rob me.' Noble, definitely. Probably important given the quality of the guards dying for her.
The bandits knew their business. Twenty-something of them, moving like wolves who'd done this dance before. No glory-seeking bullshit, no wasted attacks. Just steady pressure, letting numbers and exhaustion do what individual skill couldn't.
Kidnapping job. Someone paid good coin for this.
"Left flank!" The lead knight's voice cracked with exhaustion as he parried desperately. Blood ran down his face from where a club had found its mark. "Hold the fucking line!"
Good man. Probably had a family. Probably thought he'd see them again when he woke up this morning.
Probably wrong.
Walk away, the smart part of his brain whispered. You've got your own shit to deal with. Heroes are dead, remember? You're living proof.
But his feet were already moving, because those knights fought like soldiers he'd known. Men who'd stand until they couldn't, who'd bleed out standing rather than fail their duty. The kind of loyalty that deserved better than dying in some piss-stained alley.
Dex had always been weak for that kind of stupid nobility.
He pulled his hood forward, making sure it shadowed his face completely. The bent training sword was back at the compound, useless anyway. But Fargrim hung across his back, rust-covered and starving but still remembering what it was made for.
The first bandit never knew what hit him.
Avian came from behind, Fargrim punching through cheap leather like it was paper. The blade might be sleeping, but it still knew how to find kidneys. The bandit dropped with a wet gurgle, hands trying to hold in what wanted out.
Still sharp enough for this work, Avian noted with satisfaction, already moving.
"Behind us!" someone shouted, voice high with panic.
Three bandits turned from the knights, seeing a hooded figure standing over their friend's corpse. They saw common clothes, a rust-covered sword, one person against many.
They made the kind of assumptions that got people killed.
The first one learned that lesson when Avian flowed past his guard, Fargrim finding the sweet spot between leather plates. The second managed to scream before an elbow crushed his windpipe with a wet crunch. The third actually got his sword up in time to block.
Avian's boot shattered his knee sideways anyway.
Three down. Twenty to go. Shit odds.
Good thing he'd had worse.
More bandits were turning now, recognizing the real threat. Their leader — identifiable by slightly better armor and the way he let others do the dying — barked orders.
"It's one man! One fucking man! Take him!"
They tried. Five rushed at once, coordinated enough to be dangerous if he'd been what he appeared to be.
But appearances were lies, and Avian had always preferred brutal truths.
He let his aura flare — controlled, kept within Expert bounds, but enough to turn his movements from human to something else. Met their rush head-on, Fargrim singing its old song despite the rust. The blade carved through leather and flesh and bone with equal indifference, painting the alley walls in arterial sprays.
Duck the wild swing. Let it pass close enough to feel the wind. Step inside. Fargrim up through the armpit where armor didn't protect. Use the dying man's weight as a shield against another attack. Pivot on blood-slick stones. Open a throat. Sidestep the spray. Next.
Always next. Always moving.
Because stopping meant dying, and Dex had already done that once. Wasn't eager to repeat the experience.
A club cracked against his ribs — one lucky bastard managing to land a hit. Pain flared, hot and familiar. In the old days it might have mattered. Now, with aura-reinforced bones, it was just annoying.
Avian's response was to grab the club mid-swing, channel power through his grip until the wood exploded into splinters, then ram Fargrim through the attacker's sternum. The man's eyes went wide with surprise, like he couldn't believe someone had the audacity to kill him.
Welcome to the real world, asshole.
"Demon!" someone screamed. "He fights like a fucking demon!"
Close enough.
The remaining bandits were backing away now, the easy payday having turned into a slaughterhouse. More than half their number decorated the alley, insides becoming outsides, life leaking into the gutters.
"Run," Avian suggested, voice rough from disuse and violence. "Or stay and feed the rats. Your choice."
The leader tried to rally them, voice cracking with desperation. "He's one man! Wounded! We can still—"
A throwing knife — pulled from one of the corpses — sprouted from his throat, cutting off whatever inspiring bullshit he'd planned. He toppled backward, hands clawing uselessly at steel that had already done its work.
That broke them.
The survivors scattered like roaches when the light comes on, abandoning wounded comrades and profitable ambitions with equal haste. They disappeared into the maze of side alleys, leaving only the dead and dying to mark their passage.
Avian turned to the knights, keeping his hood low. They stared at him with the kind of wariness reserved for dangerous animals and natural disasters. Professional soldiers trying to process how one man had butchered over a dozen bandits in less than two minutes.
"You're bleeding," he noted, nodding at various wounds. "Might want to handle that before you leak out."
The lead knight found his voice. "Who are you?"
"Nobody important." Avian was already mapping exit routes, ready to disappear before this got complicated. "Get your charge somewhere safe. This wasn't random."
But the girl stepped forward, moving with the kind of grace that came from expensive tutors and genetic lottery wins. Even blood-splattered and shaken, she radiated the particular flavor of authority that came from birth rather than earning.
"Please, wait." Not begging — commanding. Like the universe owed her obedience. "You saved our lives. I need to thank you properly."
"No thanks needed. Or wanted."
She tilted her head, studying him with eyes too sharp for her age. "Those techniques... I've read about something similar. In grandfather's restricted texts. But that's impossible."
Fuck. Of course she's educated. Of course she recognizes it.
"You read too much."
"I read exactly enough." She stepped closer, and her protectors moved to stop her. She waved them off with casual authority. "Those movements, that efficiency — it matches descriptions of the Demon King's forbidden style. But you've made it... better. Refined it."
The knights tensed at 'Demon King,' hands finding sword hilts. Even five hundred years later, the name carried weight. Fear. Hatred.
All the things Dex had earned by saving their worthless world.
"Careful with accusations, girl. Some names shouldn't be spoken lightly."
"It's not an accusation. It's an observation." She smiled, and it was sharp as any blade. "I'm Celeste Aurelius, by the way. Crown Princess of the Empire. And you are?"
Of fucking course you are.
Because his life wasn't complicated enough. Now he'd saved imperial royalty while demonstrating techniques that shouldn't exist. In front of witnesses. While trying to avoid attention.
If the gods existed, they were laughing their asses off.
"I'm leaving," Avian said flatly. "And you're going somewhere with better security. This conversation never happened."
"But it did happen. And I have questions."
"Lots of people have questions. Most are smart enough not to ask them."
She actually laughed. "My tutors say the same thing. But grandfather says the best rulers ask uncomfortable questions. Says that's how you find uncomfortable truths."
"Your grandfather sounds like he enjoys executions."
"Only boring ones. He prefers conversation to violence." Her smile widened. "Usually."
The lead knight cleared his throat. "Your Highness, we really should—"
"In a moment, Marcus." She hadn't looked away from Avian's hooded face. "One question. That's all. Then I'll go."
Every instinct screamed at him to leave. To disappear into the shadows and pretend this never happened. Instead, he heard himself say, "One question."
She nodded, gathering her thoughts. Around them, corpses cooled in their own blood, testament to the violence she'd witnessed. When she spoke, her voice was steady.
"Those techniques — the ones history calls evil, demonic, wrong — they saved us. Saved me. So I need to know..." She paused, then met his hidden gaze directly. "Will you teach them to me?"
The alley went silent except for the drip of blood finding its way to the gutters.
This fucking child. This too-clever, too-brave, too-stupid child.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"I know exactly what I'm asking." No hesitation. No doubt. "I'm asking to learn what works instead of what's proper. I'm asking for truth instead of comfortable lies."
"Truth," Avian said slowly, "has a price. Usually paid in blood."
"Then I'll pay it."
"Easy to say when the blood is still warm on the ground. Harder when it's yours leaking out."
"Is that a no?"