Chapter 39: The Old Thief

  More than ten days passed.

  Rumors about the orc fortress deep in the Barbarian Highlands had spread wider and grown more fantastical. Some claimed to have seen orcs dressed more grandly than the capital’s royal guards, and even talked to them. Merchants returning from the west said Western kingdoms had long been trading with the orc fortress.

  Whatever the rumors, real-life conditions were gradually improving—goblin robberies had vanished entirely. This was partly due to the deterrent effect of Bracada’s suppression of a goblin camp, and partly because word had spread that imperial troops from the south would soon march in.

  This was bad news for the city’s thieves. They had profited handsomely from the chaos caused by goblin raids, but with their good days coming to an end, some had already left town.

  Yet one gang of thieves remained—staying to make a fortune. Composed of wanted murderers and desperate outlaws with nowhere else to run, they were the "elite" of bandits, the worst of the worst.

  The gang was now holding a meeting in a room at the city’s largest inn. The agenda: buying stolen goods from the orc fortress, and accepting a new member.

  Adding a new member in such tense times was ill-timed, and many gang members opposed it. Two of their men had been arrested by the city guard a few days earlier, but had returned unexpectedly, bringing a young man with them. The young man had shared their cell; he’d escaped by overpowering the jailers, freeing all the prisoners in the process. He’d told the two thieves he wanted to sell stolen goods at the fabled orc fortress, and asked if they wanted to partner with him. Impressed by his skills and seeing him as one of their own, the two had invited him to join the gang.

  Leading the meeting was Fodolen, the oldest member and the gang’s leader. A man in his late fifties, nearly sixty, every wrinkle on his face exuded not age, but the shrewd vitality of a lifelong rogue. The age spots scattered across his skin were a testament to his experience.

  Mastery of any trade required wits. When the old thief heard about the orc fortress and saw the goblins launching raids, he’d immediately planned to profit wildly from reselling their loot. He’d contacted the goblins, then rounded up a group of fellow outlaws—all risking their necks—to pull off the heist.

  Ethan stood among the thieves. Though many still resented him, he was now an official member. Things were going smoother than expected; in a few days, he’d reach the orc fortress—not just to retrieve the book, but to see the fortress with his own eyes.

  "Now, let’s hear your thoughts," the old thief said after outlining his plan, glancing around at his men. Setting aside his profession, he was a man who understood people; even though he knew the most and had the most thorough plan, he still made a show of asking for input.

  "No objections." "Do it your way." "Will the money we bring actually work there?" A few had doubts, but most agreed to the plan.

  The old thief made his final decision: "It’s settled, then. We leave at dawn in three days. Remember—if word of this reaches the authorities, it’s treason. The army will hunt us down. So I’ll remind you again: not a word to anyone." He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on Ethan. He didn’t trust this newcomer; he’d never have let him join if the two members hadn’t brought him directly. This was a dangerous plan, and he couldn’t afford mistakes—just days earlier, he’d killed a gang member who’d had private ties to the city guard captain.

  Tap, tap, tap. Three slow, rhythmic knocks sounded at the door. Everyone in the room jumped to their feet, grabbing their weapons. The air went silent, broken only by the heavy, menacing sound of breathing.

  Three more knocks came—same rhythm, neither too hard nor too soft—as if asking permission to enter. This was no inn servant’s courtesy. Ethan felt a strange sense of familiarity; he’d heard knocks like this somewhere before.

  "Who is it?" the old thief drawled, his voice thin and weak, like a man on his deathbed. At the same time, his hand moved nimbly to his waist, drawing a dagger. It was long and thin; he flipped it deftly in his palm, then gripped it reverse-handled—perfect for slitting throats as easily as cutting lard.

  "Looking for someone. Open up," came a clear, crisp female voice, like a ripe pear. The old thief turned to glance at Ethan—this was Ethan’s rented room.

  The voice also felt familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Ethan shook his head.

  The old thief gestured to the man by the door: pull whoever it was in, then close the door.

  The thief wrenched the door open and reached out—but instead of pulling someone in, he was pulled out. Not just out—he seemed to be thrown over the railing. A scream echoed up from below as he hit the ground.

  Nearly everyone lunged for the door—only to freeze when a slender sword poked through the opening. A few feinted thrusts stopped the first men in their tracks.

  "What’s your problem? I’m here to find someone," the visitor repeated, then walked in on her own. Just one person.

  She was small, wielding a sword as slender as herself—long and thin. But no one dared underestimate this dangerous weapon; its strange, serrated edge meant any wound it inflicted couldn’t be stitched closed.

  Ethan had seen a sword like this before. He looked up at the wielder’s face, startled: "It’s you? What are you doing here?"

  "Looking for you, of course," the visitor replied, her eyes narrowing into faint, misty slits that radiated amusement. This smile had nearly cost him his life in the Lizard Marsh—and his situation now was scarcely better.

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  The World Tree Leaf had worked wonders. She was nothing like the bedridden woman he’d seen over a month ago; she’d regained the energetic demeanor she’d had in the Lizard Marsh, even dressing the same way—adventurer’s clothes, a blanket draped over her shoulders, and a large backpack slung behind her.

  "Oh, a friend of Ethan’s friend! Do come in, miss," the old thief said, glancing at Ethan. He stepped aside, making a gesture of invitation—surprisingly aristocratic. But once Sophia stood beside Ethan, he turned casually, positioning himself by the door. His hands were behind his back; the dagger was out of sight, but he still held it.

  Ethan’s head throbbed. He shot Sophia a look, but she only smiled and said, "The air in here is so stuffy. Why haven’t you opened the windows with all these people?"

  "We’ll open them soon—wouldn’t want the smell of blood to choke us," the old thief chuckled, his age spots jiggling. The thieves shifted their seats subtly, surrounding Ethan. Many still held their weapons, and the two who’d recommended Ethan fell silent.

  "Boy, I don’t have anything against you—I trust you, truly," the old thief said, his voice sincere. "But we’re all walking a tightrope here. You owe us an explanation. What kind of man are you, to have a refined noble lady like this as a friend?"

  The dim room lights cast shadowy hues over everyone’s faces, where hostility and wariness simmered. These men were sharp—they’d noticed Sophia’s poise and mannerisms immediately. She was no outlaw; her aristocratic upbringing was obvious. Why would a noblewoman seek out a foreign thief? They needed answers. The slightest whiff of danger would trigger their already heightened suspicion.

  Ethan was confident he could fight his way out—but that would ruin a month of effort. He’d have no idea when he’d get the book back. And if someone else got their hands on the stolen goods in the meantime, it would be a disaster.

  "You said you fled here after killing someone. We never pressed you for details," the old thief said, pushing for Ethan to slip up. He was certain Ethan was an infiltrator—probably a noble’s lackey. "Now tell us your story. Where are you from? What did you do? The men here are from all over—we’ll know if you’re lying."

  Ethan shook his head. "I’m afraid you’d turn my head in for the reward."

  "No need to worry—it’s just a few murders. Every man here has blood on his hands," the old thief grinned, revealing sharp, canine-like teeth.

  Ethan spoke flatly: "Over two months ago, I killed the Imperial Envoy and the magistrate in Aery."

  The trick to lying, Lord Bolgan had told him when he’d prepared to infiltrate the gang, was to mix ninety percent truth with a shocking lie. Overwhelm people with audacity, and they’d be more likely to believe you.

  The thieves erupted in a stir. The incident had shocked the entire empire. The capital’s investigators had turned Aery City upside down, and rumors only spoke of a wanted young man. It was one of the biggest cases in recent years, with a reward over a hundred gold coins—a sky-high sum that had made the culprit a legend among thieves. They’d never dreamed the man before them was that "big shot."

  "Is that true?" the old thief asked, clearly unconvinced. His eyes flickered. "But I heard over a dozen cavalrymen went missing too. Did you do that, too?"

  Two thieves behind Ethan suddenly reached for his and Sophia’s necks, their other hands drawing daggers.

  Ethan didn’t look back. He drove his elbow into the thief’s solar plexus— the man crumpled without a sound. He’d meant to stop the other thief too, but saw Sophia grab the man’s wrist and twist it expertly, slamming him to the ground. It was the first time Ethan had seen her fight—her moves were clean and sharp, surprisingly skilled.

  The thieves bared their fangs. Tensions hit a breaking point; violence was seconds away.

  Ethan pulled something from his pocket and tossed it to the old thief. It was what Rodhart had returned to him.

  The old thief held it up to the light: a seal carved from a single piece of agate, etched with an official title and imperial insignia.

  This was no fake. The royal craftsmanship was beyond any ordinary artisan’s skill, and the old thief trusted his eye. No one would waste a piece of agate on a forgery.

  He’d also heard the rumors: the wanted young man had become the sole clue to the case after using the Imperial Envoy’s seal to swindle money.

  "This is…" The old thief coughed, his wrinkles twisting awkwardly. By his expression, the other thieves guessed the truth—their suspicious stares turned to awe and surprise.

  "It wasn’t a dozen cavalrymen," Ethan said, still flatly. "It was over fifty. I killed them all." His tone, paired with his "infamous" reputation, exuded a natural aura of authority. "If you want, the two of us could demonstrate right here. But there’s no need—I’m just here to find partners and make some money." His gaze swept the room. Dealing with men who risked their necks for a living had its perks: like animals sensing strength through scent, a single clash of their battle-hardened eyes was enough to gauge each other’s mettle. The feral aura he’d developed surviving in the wilderness as a child, honed by countless near-death experiences, was enough to unnerve ordinary criminals.

  Sophia even played along, drawing her sword and swinging it a few times. She lacked his menace, but her stance was convincing.

  The old thief nodded—he could see the young man’s strength. He handed the seal back, then looked at Sophia. "And who is she?"

  "This is a duke’s daughter—my lover," Ethan introduced her. "I can’t tell you her father’s name, though. She ran away from her family to be with me."

  The thieves stirred again—but such a outrageous story seemed only fitting for a man this dangerous. No more suspicion lingered.

  By dusk, Ethan had finally dealt with the gang. Only he and Sophia remained in the room. Making sure no one was listening, Ethan let out a sigh of relief and glared at her. "Do you have any idea how close you came to ruining everything?"

  "No idea. But I do know you’d be great at acting… or lying to girls. Big lover," Sophia said, her tone teasing.

  Ethan blushed. He coughed. "I had to say that—they’d never have believed anything else. The local magistrate taught me." He changed the subject. "Is your health better now?"

  "Thank you for finding that medicine. You saved my life again," she said, stepping closer and studying his face intently. "Really—thank you." This was the first time Ethan had looked at her in a normal setting, with a clear mind. Up close, her misty eyes seemed to emit a strange allure, stirring an unfamiliar feeling in him.

  "Did you really kill the Imperial Envoy in Aery?" Sophia had seen the seal too.

  "No—I lied to them," Ethan admitted.

  "Then where did you get that seal?"

  "I… found it," Ethan said quickly, changing the subject again. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

  "I came to rescue my sister, but I ran into her and your friend on the road. They said you were still here. I went to the town hall to find you, and the magistrate told me you were with a gang of thieves. He said you were staying at this inn—so I came. I didn’t expect this mess. Actually, I wanted to ask you to help me get my backpack back from the Lizard Marsh."

  Ethan frowned. He couldn’t understand why Lord Bolgan had told her everything. "Your backpack? It’s been half a year—sun, rain… it’s probably rotted by now. And who even remembers where exactly you left it?"

  "Is that so?" She paused, then smiled brightly. "Well, I’ll just go with you to the orc fortress instead. You already introduced me as your lover—can’t run off now, can you?"

  Having a companion might not be bad. She was skilled, and… something about it felt right. "Where are you staying, then?" Ethan wondered why he’d asked.

  "Right here," Sophia said. "You said I was your lover—where else would I stay?"

  "Oh…" Ethan hurried to change the subject. "I’ll go take a bath first." He hesitated. "Do you… want to go next?"

  Sophia looked at him. Her narrow, charming eyes were just as captivating when wide. She drew her sword, twirled it in front of him, then tapped the tip lightly in front of his face—each tap a word: "Don’t get any ideas. You sleep on the floor."