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Vol. 2 Ch. 36: Books inviting disaster
🕑 Added 2025-08-07 08:24:18 +0000 UTCAuthor's Note:
Recap:
“Thank you,” Peter said, slipping the mask under his arm.
…End of Author Note...
...
A short walk later, he spotted a woman near a half-empty crate. She was handing out folded clothes to passersby with a soft smile.
Peter hesitated for a moment before approaching her.
“Can I get a set too?” he asked, acting polite and shy.
The woman turned to him, her eyes studying his appearance. “You don’t look like you need one, child.”
“I do,” Peter said, standing on his toes, face turned up to look into her eyes. “We’re playing hide and seek, and a new pair of clothing will be a perfect disguise along with this mask.”
She chuckled. “I see. Well, in that case, which one do you want?” she said.
“Something plain,” Peter said. “As long as it fits well.”
“I’ve some trousers and tunics of your size,” She said before pulling out a folded bundle and handing it over. “Light colours, if that helps. But I’d caution against walking in alleys. Hide among the crowd.”
Peter accepted it and nodded gratefully at the woman. “Thanks.” He said, pulling out some coins from his pocket and offering them to her.
She shook her head, pushing his hand away. “Use it to buy snacks. I don’t need it. Just remember to be careful.”
Peter nodded again before turning around and walking away, the mask and bundle in hand, blending once again into the crowd. Behind him, the temple bells rang again.
When he was sure that no one looked, he slipped into a narrow side street, out of view from the main road. The sounds of the festival—laughter, prayers, drums, bells—still echoed faintly in the background, but here, it was quieter. The buildings were packed closely together, their walls casting long shadows under the late morning sun.
He ducked behind a stack of crates and changed clothes quickly, folding his old outfit and tucking it under his arm. The tunic and trousers he’d received were a little loose, but clean and unremarkable, just what he needed. With a quick motion, he pulled the mask over his face, adjusting the straps until it sat snugly against his face.
He checked his reflection in a puddle and gave a small nod. It was unrecognisable to the naked eye. He opened his IDE and pulled up a file named Rosefall_map.md. It contained all the notable locations in the city’s lower districts that he was able to gather after coming here.
Peter hadn’t forgotten his most prominent weakness—lack of magical arts. He had been looking for an opportunity to access knowledge about the various methods for performing magic. When he heard gossip about a second-tier mage among the gang that he had recently encountered with Tessa, he realised that opportunity had come knocking on his door by itself.
The mage, like that, would have books containing answers to all his questions. Finding the gang’s hideout wasn’t difficult either. All it took was a bit of subtle digging. He had asked the right questions at the diner, kept his tone casual, and let others do the talking. Before long, he had the location.
The Thorns had grown careless. Perhaps it was the rumoured protection they received from certain nobles. Whatever the reason, they no longer bothered to keep their operations in the shadows. These days, most people in the lower districts knew where to find them.
They operated out of the slums.
And that was where Peter was headed.
He moved toward his destination with a firm resolve, trying to keep himself to the alleys as much as possible as he made his way toward the outskirts of the city’s lower districts.
As he neared the slums, the atmosphere changed. The streets were narrow, and not a single stall was present in the vicinity. On a regular day, it would have been filled with malnourished kids and crippled adults, but due to the festival, the streets were mostly empty. Most people had moved toward the cathedral, either to receive free healing offered by the clergy after the event or to get free food and clothing given in charity by the wealthy.
Peter walked in silence, his footsteps soft against the uneven ground. The silence of the slums rang hollow compared to the peaceful quiet of the city he just left behind. The walls were marked with grime, and the door hung slightly ajar; the roofs were broken more times than not.
He passed a broken water pump and a pile of old crates stacked in a corner. A lone dog sniffed through them before retreating into the shadows. Peter kept going, eyes scanning every intersection, every doorway.
At one corner, he paused, hiding behind a leaning wall to observe a low building ahead. Its windows were blacked out with cloth, and a man leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. The Thorns’ symbol—a crude carving of a vine with a single thorn—was scratched above the entrance.
Peter watched the man for a while. He was alert but looked bored, glancing occasionally down the street. The gang wasn’t expecting trouble. That worked in Peter’s favour.
He stepped back, slipping into an alley nearby. Even without Deathknell, Peter was a menace to fight against. At level 48, he had more stats than a person at the peak of tier one if they only had a common class. On top of that, his healing and defence capabilities, along with his massive mana pool, made him even more terrifying as an opponent. He didn’t need to protect anyone today, allowing him the freedom to fight with abandonment.
He drew in a slow breath, hardening his heart, calming his nerve. His mana stirred beneath the surface, like a vast reservoir waiting to be unleashed. Peter allowed weapons mastery to guide his mana into every cell of his body, reinforcing it.
A familiar warmth spread through his limbs as muscles tightened and senses sharpened. The world seemed to slow around him. Every creak of wood, every whisper of wind brushing through the broken slats above reached his ears with startling clarity.
Peter crouched low on the ground, leaning to the side just enough to watch the guard standing outside the building. He got into position and pushed himself forward, moving at the fastest speed he could run, to close in on the guard as soon as he looked away from his direction. His feet barely made a sound as they struck the ground. Mana pulsed through his limbs, increasing the gap between each time his feet touched the ground.
Five steps.
The guard began to turn back.
Three steps.
Peter threw the stone in his hand with full force at the guard's face before he could scream. The man staggered, his nose broken. As his mouth opened to either scream or curse, Peter was upon him, one arm wrapping around the neck, the other muffling any noise.
A sharp hit to the back of his skull, and the man went limp, losing consciousness.
Peter caught the body before it fell, dragging it behind a stack of cracked crates and half-rotted sacks. He checked for breath and found the man to be still alive. Killing him would have been easier, but the man lacked enough negative karma and bad titles to die at his hands.
Peter returned to the door, his hand gripping the sword he had taken from the unconscious guard. He placed his palm against the rough wood. It was locked from the inside.
He let out a quiet sigh, stepped back, drew in a sharp breath, and kicked.
The door cracked open with a heavy slam, wood splintering as it slammed into the inner wall. The noise echoed through the building like a war drum.
Shouts rang out from within.
Peter walked in without hesitation, letting go of any hope of keeping things quiet. He lacked the skills to infiltrate and acquire the books without alerting anyone.
Figures rushed toward the entrance, some armed, others still scrambling to make sense of what was happening.
Peter charged forward to meet them head-on.
The first to appear was a man armed with a short axe, half-dressed and still fastening the buckles on his belt. He stumbled into the hallway with a scowl, only to find Peter already closing the distance.
Peter lunged forward, feinting low, then twisted at the last second, using the flat of the sword to slam the man's wrist. The axe clattered to the floor.
A grunt escaped the thug’s throat, but Peter gave him no time to recover. He stepped in, planted his foot, and drove his elbow into the man’s chin with brutal force. The body fell limp against the wall, sliding down into a heap.
The second attacker wasn’t so unprepared.
He came in from Peter’s left, swiping a dagger sideways. Peter leaned away from the first arc, letting the blow miss him by a few inches. The dagger came back around for a second strike, faster, more controlled.
Peter blocked it with the guard’s sword, both weapons glowing with mana as they clashed.
The man’s eyes widened in surprise, his grin becoming twisted as Peter easily overpowered him in strength. Peter stepped forward as the man stumbled back from the push, closing the distance between them. His sword squatted the dagger to the side before cutting the man’s abdomen open and letting his internal organs spill outside.
Peter grabbed the man’s collar and slammed his forehead into the bridge of the thug’s nose before kicking him hard toward the wall. With warm blood splashed across his mask, he turned, breath controlled, eyes scanning for the next target.
Another came running from the far door, a dagger raised, screaming as if to gather courage. Peter waited a half-second longer than expected—then moved. He sidestepped the lunge, twisting his body and letting the dagger pass by his ribs. Before the attacker could recover, Peter brought the pommel of the sword down on the back of the man’s neck.
A sharp exhale left his lungs as the body crumpled.
The air inside the building was hot, already beginning to reek of sweat and blood. Peter’s heart pounded hard, filled with adrenaline.
A crash sounded out from ahead, as if a table had been knocked over.
“Block the Hallway! Circle him if you can! He mustn’t escape!”
Two more fighters emerged, both far better equipped than the earlier ones. One had a spear and the other carried a curved blade. They didn’t charge blindly like the others. The one with the spear stepped forward cautiously, using the narrow corridor to his advantage.
Peter wasn’t afraid. He marched across the hallway fearlessly, heading straight toward the tip of the spear.
The man holding it blinked in surprise, but acted on instinct by jabbing his spear forward, but he was far too slow.
Peter slapped the spear aside with ease, his blade catching the shaft and redirecting it. He stepped in, aiming to counter. But the second man moved fast, trying to protect his comrade with a low slash from the side. Peter let the attack land, trusting in Eternal Ward.
He felt the blade hitting the protective layer covering his body, biting into it, but failing to pierce it. In the same motion, Peter drove his sword into the spearman’s neck.
The man’s hands flew to his throat, gurgling as blood filled his mouth. His weapon slipped from his grasp.
Peter caught the falling spear mid-air and released his grip on the sword, now lodged too deep to retrieve cleanly. He twisted his body and turned on the swordsman, unleashing a savage kick into the man’s knee.
A crack followed by the bone giving way. The man collapsed with a cry, falling to one knee.
Peter didn’t wait a second and drove the spear tip clean through the man’s forehead. The body slumped, twitching once before going still.
Peter moved to retrieve the sword embedded in the spearman’s neck when a glowing bolt of fire flew through the hallway, hitting him squarely in the chest.
…End of chapter…
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