And here he thought he was playing it safe.
"Thief," Konrad yelled, but his voice was too thin for the bustling crowd around him. Too many stalls, even more people. Merchants hawked their wares as if nothing had happened at all.
Not a single soul cared about him. The town guards? They flat-out refused to look his way.
A single stab of their long spears could have ended this nightmare before it started. But their fancy armor turned out to be a statement, rather than actual protection.
To scare away bandits, not to serve the townsfolk.
At least not him, a traveler without a name.
This wasn't Haiten or Halaima. Nobody knew Konrad Ostfeld here.
And the scammer not only got a hefty head start, but a clear home-turf advantage, too. The crowd seemed to be even parting for that bastard, while he had to slalom his way through.
So many faces, everyone in simple cloaks—he had no idea who he was following.
After a wrong turn, the boy ran into a dead end in a narrow alley.
The faint vinegar stench was his only lead, but even that was slipping away.
He turned to dash as fast as he could—but Konrad trained to fight, not to sprint.
Plus, he had to carry what little he had.
His bedroll, waterskin, travel rations, and his reforged blade all weighed him down.
In hindsight, he could've stabbed that bastard, too, if his reflexes were a little better. Would the guards have intervened then? It was pointless to think about that now.
And to throw away his only possessions?
He already lost a crystal. There was no guarantee he could find his stuff later. The thief never seemed to consider such things. He abandoned his 'expensive' wares in a heartbeat.
This spoke volumes of their value—or was the Griphlet's loot worth so much?
The more he thought about it, the more Konrad wanted to scream.
But he could do that later. Now, he had to run.
This must have been the guy Lu warned him about in his dream.
Gabrielle should have been a girl's name, but he couldn't imagine a greater disaster than this.
The boy was about to spit his lungs out, and when he reached the next fork in an alley—
A discarded cloak lay in the dirt, heavy with the stench of vinegar.
The trace he had followed until now.
That merchant was either long gone or he'd become invisible.
"Damn it," he cursed, slamming his feet against the ground before wiping the sweat away.
He checked the rag's every pocket, but all he found was more of the terrible smell.
Konrad smashed his fist into the nearest wall and let that scream out at last.
Blood dripped down on the back of his hand, his useless birthmarks painted red.
Noble heritage? This theft might have even hurt a duke's valet.
"I lost more gold than I've made in three years," he moaned, rubbing his temples.
And the only clue to his potential mentor disappeared as well.
Taking the cloak without thinking, he dragged himself back to the starting point. In five minutes, he found the scamster's cart, too. Nobody bothered to touch the 'magical items'.
Were they not even worth stealing?
The runes on them were bright, but they didn't radiate the same heat as the crystal did. With no better plan, he stuck around to see if the thief would return for his stuff anyway.
But that became his worst idea yet.
"Now you've done it, Zoltan," a raspy voice cut through the merchant's hawking.
Someone grabbed his shoulder, and Konrad's heart almost stopped.
"Who?"
He turned to find the same town guards who ignored him earlier. They surrounded him now.
"Told ya to clear out of da streets," the biggest one grunted.
"Lord Schwertburg has had enough of this glowing ink scam."
So that was it? Glowing ink?
Paint it on random junk, and sell them as magic items. Simple, yet it could—
"Hold on, why're you arresting me?"
Konrad couldn't shake that firm hand off his shoulder, and the grip was only getting stronger.
"We've a warrant, Zoltan Sudberg," the big one snickered, his voice dripping with malice.
Sudberg? That was the name of every orphan in the southern duchy, like Ostfeld in the east.
So that bastard was—well, a bastard. And Zoltan didn't sound like Gabrielle at all.
But why wouldn't the spearmen let him go?
"My name is Konrad," he claimed, thrashing to no avail. "I shouted 'thief', chasing that—"
SMACK.
The coppery taste in her mouth told him that they didn't care.
"Why'd you have this cloak, then?" A guard pried it from his hand, waiting for no answer.
Even with all the adrenaline rushing through his body, he could only blink.
"I know yer smell and dirty tricks, cunt," the biggest one sneered. "Next time, you'll be Maou Midori and expect us to believe it. Illusion magic won't trick us anymore."
He opened his mouth to protest, but that one word stuck in his head.
Magic. So this Zoltan guy was more than a simple scammer?!
With that pause, he missed his last chance to do or say anything.
A spearshaft knocked the air out of his lungs, and he keeled over in the dirt.
The guards' holler felt distant, muffled. His pain was much sharper. Real.
"Think yer smart to hold onto that illusion?!"
Kicks rained down on his sides. Each one felt like an electric shock.
"The Captain'll dispel that mask in no time."
From the searing pain, they might've cracked a rib or two.
It was almost as bad as the Griphlets' talons, but the fact that he couldn't even fight back—
"Stop," he choked out, a mere whisper. A heavy boot almost crushed his spine. "Help!"
People looked the other way.
Someone kicked around in broad daylight must've been the norm.
And he thought he had a rough childhood, or a terrible previous life.
They stomped on his hand, right on the triad.
This is how little the proof of his noble heritage mattered. If he could have drawn his sword—
But he couldn't move at all. No going out fighting. His years of training felt wasted. Once all his strength left him and he almost passed out, they dragged his body around like a trophy.
Their barracks were at the northern gate, and they took him there on a scenic route.
His only hope was that the guard captain could indeed dispel illusion magic.
Then he would realise there was none, and—
"Absolute morons," a man groaned as he expected.
He was in his forties, wiping the blood and grime off Konrad's face. When he reached the boy's hand, he noticed the birthmark triad, too. His eyes widened, giving him a pause—
"Do you have any idea what you did?"
His fingers made a peculiar motion across his chest, eyes raised at the ceiling.
"The spirits may forgive your sins. Dragging a noble across town like this—"
Konrad's ears were still ringing from that brutal beating, but did he say noble?
The captain fell to his knees, bowing his head.
That wasn't right.
"My deepest apologies, Lord Halstadt." Who? "I'll see to their execution myself."
What?!