A few streets away, the two men had already put some distance between themselves and the encounter. Their pace wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t relaxed either. It was the speed of people who didn’t want to be seen walking with purpose.

Their shoulders stayed loose, hands away from weapons, faces blank. In a crowded street, the most dangerous people were the ones who looked like they didn’t belong to danger at all.

"Who do we report this to?" the second man asked after a moment, glancing sideways.

The first didn’t answer immediately. His hand moved briefly to his shoulder, brushing over the faint outline of the sun crest hidden beneath his cloak, as if grounding his thoughts.

"We don’t ignore it," he said after a short pause. "That much I know."

The second man frowned slightly. "So we just pass it up?"

The first nodded. "Yeah. Clan’s been asking for anything unusual on this floor anyway."

That was reason enough.

The second man let out a low breath. "You think he’s worth that kind of attention?"

"You saw him," the first replied. "Bleeding like that, coughing like he was about to drop, and still not a hint of panic. That’s not normal. Either he’s hiding something, or he’s the kind of crazy that survives here."

"And either way, that’s not our problem," the second concluded.

The first gave a small nod. "Exactly. Sun Clan will definitely be interested," he said as he looked down at his own chest. Where the insignia of the sun was painted.

With that, they changed direction without another word. Not toward the inn. Not toward the main road. Toward the routes that didn’t get crowded, routes that led to people who cared about whispers more than drinks.

***

Later that day, inside a stone hall marked by a blazing sun crest, a small group had gathered. The place smelled like oil and old sweat baked into stone. Torches burned clean, bright flames that didn’t sputter, like someone paid to keep even the air disciplined.

Some faces were new, others carried the weight of experience. Among them stood Iori.

He kept slightly to the side, arms crossed, listening more than speaking. His stance was familiar, someone who didn’t want to be seen as eager, but also didn’t want to be overlooked. His eyes tracked people the way they tracked threats. It wasn’t paranoia. It was a job he’d done long enough that it had carved itself into him.

His expression was controlled, but there was a tightness to it that hadn’t faded since his arrival. He had been here long enough to understand how things worked, but not long enough to feel at ease with it.

"...you’ll be coming along," one of the seniors said, his gaze shifting briefly toward Iori. "You’ll observe how we collect tribute. Watch and learn. Don’t interfere unless told."

Iori’s jaw tightened a fraction. The words hit like a leash. He’d swallowed a lot in his life. He could swallow this too.

Iori gave a short nod. "Don’t forget, I was your boss back at the Tower of Trials. I know what to do, you don’t have to explain it to me like some retarded newbie."

The senior felt disrespected. But didn’t say much, Iori was pretty much well known in the Tower of Trials as a mean, vengeful and bitter person. He made anyone under him suffer hell, and the worst part. He was damn good at his job at being one of the Clan’s best Hounds.

There was a small shift in the room after that, eyes flicking, mouths tightening. Not fear, not respect. Calculation. People deciding how to file Iori: asset, nuisance, future problem.

The two men from earlier stepped forward then, recounting what they had seen. Their report was simple, stripped of embellishment.

They didn’t dramatize. They didn’t add bravado. That was how you survived in a room where information was currency, clean, short, valuable. The kind of report you could verify later.

After all, they all knew that yesterday was the night that a person the Sun Clan deemed worth investigating had gone missing. Any and all forms of information on strange behaviors was welcome here.

Especially a coughing man. Who almost bled to death. And acted rather... strange.

Iori only half-listened at first, his thoughts elsewhere, until a detail caught his attention.

"...white mask," one of them said. "Plain. No markings. Looked like he was about to collapse, but walked like it didn’t matter. Wearing Journyman’s Leather armor. A strange looking set that was different from the usual. Probably modified."

Something about that description lingered.

Not the mask. 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

Not the blood.

The set, the Journeyman’s set.

A faint memory stirred, of a presence that didn’t match its appearance. Of someone who didn’t move like the situation demanded. And wore that same set, although Iori only saw parts of it as the rest was covered in torn newbie tracksuit.

Iori’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"...Where?" he asked.

The shift in his tone drew a brief silence from the room. It wasn’t curiosity that drove the question. It was focus. The kind that made people straighten without realizing.

The senior glanced at him, then back at the two men. He didn’t Like Iori, but the Hound had a really good nose when it came to finding trouble

"You remember where you saw him?"

"Near the Information Guild," the first replied.

Iori didn’t say anything else after that.

But something in his expression had changed.

If it were the same person, then revenge was pretty much guaranteed. The only issue was that he needed to take care of Kael before the guild acts. If it is confirmed that it was him, killing him will be far more trouble. Lucas wasn’t here, either, so he had a shot; now, all he needed was for the information to truly be about the one he was looking for.

****

Back in the streets, Kael’s pace had slowed, though not by choice. He didn’t limp, but the stiffness in his steps was there, tiny delays like his body had begun arguing with each command. His breathing had grown uneven, each inhale sharper, more painful than the last. The burning in his chest hadn’t faded; it had spread, deepened, turning every movement into a grinding strain.

And the worst part was that it wasn’t easing.

It was getting worse.

Kael pressed a hand briefly against his chest as he walked, his eyes scanning the street ahead through the mask.

The mask was supposed to hide him, but right now it felt like it was making him suffocate in his own blood. The damp paper stuck and peeled with each breath. The air he inhaled was warmer than it should’ve been, like his lungs had turned into a furnace he didn’t control.

’This isn’t normal... Poison? Nah. I didn’t eat or drink anything that bad... Well, maybe the drink from yesterday."

Kael remembered the bartender handing him that expensive whisky. The way the man smiled. The way he spoke like he’d seen too much to care about small betrayals. That memory didn’t fit with poison. Poison was lazy. The bartender didn’t feel lazy.

But he shook his head, ’No reason for him to do that, or spend that much just to kill me. Must be what that damn old man was talking about. Fucking Nine Destruction yang whatever bullshit,"

The thought made his stomach twist. Not because it sounded mystical. Because mystical meant unpredictable. And unpredictable meant no clean solution. Kael could build tools. He could solve systems. He couldn’t wrench fate into a vice and hammer it straight.

Another cough rose up, threatening to break through.

He forced it down this time, barely managing to keep it contained. His ribs ached with the effort, like he’d just taken a punch without the courtesy of an enemy.

"...not here," he muttered under his breath.

But the tower didn’t care about where or when things happened.

And whatever warning had been given to him,

Whatever he had ignored,

It had already begun.

He couldn’t do much but struggle and move, "For now, let’s head to a healer."

Kael opened his mini map and muttered, "Healer. Or Potion merchant."

An itinerary showed up in front of him, leading him to the nearest shop that sold potions.

He followed it without hesitation, not because he trusted the tower, but because he trusted his own ability to die if he didn’t. His steps kept steady, mask forward, posture controlled. He looked like a man who belonged. He felt like a man being hollowed out from the inside.

****

Not far from where Kael was moving, a man wearing his martial artist garb and a torn cape rested against a chimney from the top of one of the roofs.

The roof tiles were cracked, dust-coated, and the wind up there carried the dry smell of stone and old smoke. The man looked like he belonged to none of it and all of it at once, casual as a spectator, still as a blade waiting to be drawn.

In his mouth was a straw of wheat in his mouth as he leaned the back of his head against his hands. Watching the whole situation unfold.

His eyes followed Kael not like a hunter tracking prey, but like a craftsman watching a flawed tool being forced to work past its limit.

He smiled as he saw Kael moving. Especially how he had managed to chase away two other climbers who were far stronger than him with mere intimidation.

"Looks like the first condition is met," he smiled, "The bastard got guts... now, let’s see if the second condition can also be met..."

He leaned a bit forward to check on Kael, "I hope you have what it takes for what’s to come. It broke many others before you," he smiled as he leaned back against the chimney.