I forced my legs to slow, tempering my pace to a degree that wouldn't immediately scream "fugitive" to the soldiers stationed at the threshold. I needed to move fast enough to beat any alarm that the noble scumbag might raise, yet stay inconspicuous enough to reach the gate without being intercepted.

  When the distance between me and the heavy iron-bound gates closed to roughly twenty meters, one of the guards finally locked eyes with me. His posture stiffened, his hand moving toward the hilt of his sword. I was already within striking distance of a breakthrough, but I wanted to buy a few more seconds of confusion to guarantee a clean escape. As he looked at me with mounting suspicion, I raised my hand and waved frantically, as if I were a panicked messenger sprinting toward him with urgent news.

  The trick worked. I saw the guard’s shoulders relax just a fraction, the sharp edge of his wariness dulled by curiosity. That was the opening I needed.

  “Hold it!” he barked as I reached the archway. He was still cautious, blocking my path and waiting to hear whatever urgent report I was supposedly carrying. I bent over, hands on my knees, pretending to be utterly out of breath while my eyes darted across the stone passage, identifying the fastest route into the open air.

  “Stop him! Don’t let him get away!”

  A frantic shout tore through the air from somewhere deep within the street behind me. I didn't need to turn my head to know who it was. The guard’s head snapped toward the sound, his confusion instantly sharpening into a lethal realization. In that split second of divided attention, I acted.

  I didn't reach for my sword. I lunged forward, throwing my shoulder into the guard’s chest and shoving him toward the right. Caught entirely off-balance by the sudden burst of momentum, he went sprawling onto the cobblestones. By the time his armor clattered against the ground, I was already through the gate and into the sunlight.

  “Get him!” “Don’t let him leave! He attacked the Young Lord!” “Archers, fire! Bring him down!”

  The yells followed me into the open fields outside the city. I was running with a speed that felt supernatural, my boots barely touching the dirt as I moved as fast as a galloping horse. Under normal circumstances, no foot soldier could hope to match my pace. The real danger lay above. I looked up and saw the silhouettes of archers moving along the battlements. Even at my current speed, I felt a prickle of genuine concern.

  I cast a quick glance over my shoulder and saw a group of guards rushing out of the gates, led by the black-clad shadow guardian. So, that ninja-like bodyguard was the one who had caught up and raised the alarm. It confirmed my suspicion: the spoiled brat I had kicked was almost certainly the son of the City Lord.

  I snapped my gaze back to the front and focused entirely on the path ahead. An arrow thudded into the dirt just inches from my right foot, the impact sending a jolt of adrenaline through me. I didn't wait for the next one; I began to move in a jagged, erratic zigzag, forcing the archers to lead their shots.

  Several more arrows hissed past, but the skill gap between a common soldier and a dedicated archer job was evident. In this world, jobs didn't just provide stats; they provided supernatural assistance to the actions they governed. I was moving fast, but their "Archer" traits allowed them to track my trajectory with terrifying accuracy. One arrow finally found its mark, slamming into my left shoulder with a dull, sickening thud.

  The pain was sharp, but I didn't slow down. The guards on the ground were already falling behind, the distance between us widening as I pushed toward my objective: the thick, dark treeline of the southern forest.

  The moment the shadows of the trees swallowed me, I allowed myself to slow. I reached up with a grimace, gripped the shaft of the arrow, and wrenched it from the meat of my shoulder in one smooth, agonizing motion. I funneled my mana into two quick casts of Healing Touch, watching the golden light knit the skin together and staunch the bleeding. Only when the wound was sealed did I delve deeper into the forest.

  I ran for another ten minutes, weaving through the undergrowth and over moss-covered logs until I was certain I had broken any immediate line of sight. Finally, I found a massive tree with thick, protruding roots. I collapsed against the trunk, gasping for air as I tried to process the sheer absurdity of the last hour.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  It was a ridiculous situation. Caldus, the son of the Count, had tried to play the part of a high-school bully, and my reflexes had simply taken over. I had restrained myself—I hadn't killed him. If I had, they would have branded me a murderer and sent a legion of scout dogs to tear me apart. By leaving him alive—if only slightly bruised and humiliated—I hoped their pursuit would be more of a matter of wounded pride than a blood feud.

  Still, the reality of the class divide was a bitter pill. Goodwill and logic didn't mean anything when you offended a noble. I sighed, leaning my head back against the rough bark.

  “Huh. I still had three days' worth of stay at that inn. What a waste of silver,” I muttered.

  I needed a new plan. I had enough provisions for three meals tucked away in my inventory from my last dungeon run, so I wasn't in immediate danger of starving, but the forest was no place to linger. I rested for half an hour, letting my stamina recover, before standing up. I needed to put as much distance between myself and Velshara as possible before nightfall.

  “Can I start the briefing, my Lord?”

  I stood in the center of the plush, candle-lit study and waited for my Lord to acknowledge me.

  “Yes, you may,” came the reply.

  Count Thedran Alveric sat behind a heavy oak desk littered with ledgers and official seals. He was the picture of an authoritarian ruler—a busy, middle-aged man whose shoulders were perpetually bowed by the administrative weight of managing a city and its surrounding territories. I had served him long enough to know that his primary concern was the stability and financial health of his domain.

  “The Ottovard Empire has officially filed a claim against Marquis Maeron Duskvale of Dravenhold,” I began, referencing the city to our north, near the Forest of Dungeons. “They allege that the Marquis is holding Empire merchants and citizens without cause. Marquis Duskvale, however, has countered that they were spies and refuses to release them.”

  The Forest of Dungeons was a vast, monster-infested expanse that separated our kingdom from the Empire. While the distance provided a buffer, the Empire was notorious for using any excuse to exert pressure on our northern borders.

  “They are still at it,” the Count muttered, not looking up from his parchment. “They should find a way to cross that cursed forest before they waste my time with their posturing.”

  “Indeed, my Lord. On a more positive note, the caravans we dispatched to the Hazaroth Union are performing exceptionally well. By purchasing in bulk, they have secured significant discounts and are expected to depart for their return journey in less than a month.”

  The Count had funded these trade routes using his own family’s coffers, a strategic move to bypass traditional merchant guilds and bolster the city’s treasury.

  “Good,” Thedran said, a small flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. “Our military is stable, but with the revenue from this route, we can begin to recruit and equip new regiments within the next few years. Financial power is the only true foundation for military strength.”

  “I will ensure the logistics remain flawless, my Lord.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  I hesitated for a moment. “There are a few minor administrative issues, my Lord... but something happened in the city at noon that I believe requires your personal attention.”

  “Hmm? What is it?” The Count tilted his head, his interest finally piqued.

  “It concerns the Young Lord Caldus. He was attacked in the southern district today.”

  “WHAT!?” The Count slammed his hand onto the desk, standing up so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor. “Who dares to attack my son within my own walls? Is the useless boy still alive?”

  It was a telling reaction. The Count didn't ask out of paternal love—Caldus was widely regarded as a disappointment by everyone in the manor—but an attack on the heir was an attack on the Alveric name itself. It smelled of rebellion.

  “He is alive, my Lord,” I clarified quickly. “The assailant killed two of his attendants and incapacitated his shadow guardian, but he pointedly chose not to kill the Young Lord. Instead, he... kicked him in the face. Caldus has received treatment and is currently fine, though his pride is understandably wounded.”

  The Count’s eyes narrowed. “And what of the shadow guardian I assigned to him? The one who was supposed to be a master of stealth?”

  “He is unharmed, though he failed to prevent the assault fully.”

  “Release him from my service immediately,” the Count barked. “Find a replacement who can actually do the job. As for this assailant... I cannot let such a public insult pass. Put a moderate bounty on his head. Distribute his likeness to the surrounding villages and towns. And send Nareth Valmorin with a scouting team to track him. If he hasn't left the territory, I want him found.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “If that is all, leave me. I have work to do.”

  I bowed low and exited the study. My task was clear. I had to inform Sir Nareth of his new duty and ensure the bounty posters were drafted. The "Fugitive" of the southern gate was about to find out that the reach of a Count was very long indeed.

  [Edited]