The morning air was crisp, smelling of fresh yeast from the bakeries and the metallic tang of the nearby forges. As we headed toward the Great Smithy, Elsa was practically vibrating beside me. She kept stealing glances at my new leather jacket, her emerald eyes reflecting a mix of "Is he a god?" and "Is he just really well-dressed?"
I didn't see Herbert—likely off on the "recon" mission I'd given him—but Barnaby was out front, sweeping the shop entrance with a frayed broom. He stopped when he saw me, his one good eye tracking my every move. He looked like a man holding back a tidal wave of questions, probably about his kids or his future. I made a mental note to handle that later. I might look like a sickly twenty-year-old, but I've got the soul of a seventy-year-old who's seen every trick in the book. I know when someone is hurting.
But right now, I had a more pressing problem: The Worst Spy in the History of Espionage.
He was dressed as a "clumsy potion seller," trailing us with a tray of vials that rattled louder than a skeleton in a dryer. He kept "accidentally" stumbling toward us, shouting about the "Divine Orange Relic" at Helga's.
Seriously? I thought, adjusting my high collar. I've seen better acting in low-budget detergent commercials. You're practically wearing a sign that says 'I Work for the Queen.'
We turned into a narrow alley—a shortcut Elsa insisted on—and that's when the "clumsy seller" dropped the act. He didn't drop his tray, though; he placed it down with military precision. From the shadows, three more figures materialized, blocking our path. Then, three more stepped out behind us.
Seven against two. Great.
"Hand over the source of the Orange Mana, boy," the 'Potion Seller' hissed, his voice dropping three octaves into a cold, professional rasp.
One guy started tossing a ball of fire from hand to hand like a bored pitcher. Another conjured a floating sphere of water—a 'water bullet'—that looked like it could punch through a brick wall.
Elsa immediately dropped into a combat stance, her rainbow hair turning a fierce, glowing red. She started chanting, a melodic, high-speed Elven incantation that made the air hum. But before she could finish, a lead-weighted net flew from the rooftops, snagging her arms and breaking her focus.
"Elsa!" I yelled.
"Focus on yourself, Arthur!" she screamed, struggling against the enchanted fibers.
Two goons lunged at me. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I'm not a warrior. I'm a guy who knows how to fix an old printer. But I had fifty million volts of "I-don't-think-so" strapped to my hip.
"Okay, guys," I said, my voice cracking slightly but my sass remaining intact. "I should warn you, I have a very low tolerance for being touched. It's a medical condition. It's called 'Get-The-Hell-Away-From-Me..'"
The first guy, a burly dude with a scar across his nose, laughed. He reached out to grab my throat. I didn't wait for him to finish the thought. I whipped out the Viper-X.
CRACK-ZAP!
I jammed the prongs into his stomach. The blue arc of electricity didn't just shock him; it lit up the entire alley like a disco. The guy didn't even scream; he just made a sound like a deflating bagpipe and hit the cobbles, his limbs doing a frantic breakdance.
"What was that?!" the Fire-Guy yelled, his flame flickering out in surprise.
"That," I gasped, my knees shaking as I pivoted toward the next attacker, "is called a 21st-century 'No-No' Stick!"
The second guy tried to hit me with a water bullet. I dived—clumsily, mind you—rolling over a pile of trash bags and coming up with orange peel in my hair. I looked like a disaster, but I was a disaster with a weapon. I lunged at the Water-Guy, pressing the trigger.
ZAP! ZAP-CRACKLE!
He shrieked as the electricity traveled through his own wet spell, turning him into a human glow-plug. He collapsed into a twitching heap.
I stood there, panting, the Taser humming in my hand. I was terrified I'd run out of battery—the phone said 'Infinite solar-sync,' but China-made usually means 'Good luck.'
"Who's next?" I bluffed, trying to stand tall in my leather jacket despite the fact that I was sweating through my old tunic. "I've got enough 'divine lightning' for everyone, and I'm feeling very generous today!"
The Royal Spy stared at his two fallen men, then at the small black device in my hand. For a second, he looked like he was going to faint—just like Elsa.
And the alley reeked of ozone, fear, and whatever stale mystery meat was fermenting in the overflowing trash bins. I stood there, panting, my heart threatening to audition for a heavy metal band. My hands trembled, but the Viper-X felt surprisingly secure. My new boots were scuffed from the clumsy dive, and I was pretty sure I had a banana peel stuck to the back of my sleek, tactical leather jacket. So much for looking "streamlined."
The 'Potion Seller,' was staring at his two twitching goons, his face a mask of furious disbelief. The Fire-Guy, still clutching his flickering fireball, looked like he'd just seen his grandmother ride a dragon. The Water-Guy, whose water bullet had evaporated into a sizzle, looked equally stunned.
"What in the blazes was that?!" the Spy finally roared, his composure cracking like cheap porcelain. "That wasn't mana! That was... blasphemy!"
"Relax, grandad," I retorted, trying to sound cool despite the adrenaline making my voice a shaky tenor. "It's called 'advanced self-defense.' You try to abduct me, you get a free electrical massage. Standard procedure."
Elsa, still tangled in the net, finally managed to gain her footing, her rainbow hair sparking with pure indignation. "Arthur, be careful! Their vials! They could be unstable!"
Vials?
My gaze darted to the Spy's "potion" tray, which he had so meticulously placed on a discarded crate. There were dozens of them: bubbling concoctions in every color imaginable—glowing blues, shimmering greens, ominous purples. I remembered reading in one of Helga's ledgers that royal alchemists often carried volatile reagents for... well, for making people explode, usually.
An idea, as brilliant and dangerous as a Cheeto-fueled dwarf, sparked in my brain.
"Oh, unstable, you say?" I mused aloud, a wide, mischievous grin spreading across my face. "Well, that's just poor potion-making, isn't it?"
I took a step forward, raising the Taser. The Royal Spy's eyes widened. "Don't you dare! These are highly volatile Royal Alchemical formulations! You'll vaporize us all!"
"Relax, it's just a little bit of 'internal logic resonance,' remember?" I said, channeling my best villain impression. "A little spark to spice things up."