Five minutes later, Grant dropped softly into a gloomy alley, the only other occupants shuttered windows, empty wooden crates, and a few rats. A dark, tattered cloak hung from his shoulders, flapping and billowing behind him with every step, and he kept his hood covering most of his head. His hair among the Airet of northern Celand was an onyx gemstone in a bed of pearls, nothing to be done about that. Fitting in wouldn’t happen until he could change his height and hair color, and the guards didn’t seem eager to have a conversation about it. But perhaps a mysterious wanderer would draw less attention, or at least scare the attention he did draw off.

  If someone screamed, Perfect Invisibility would be enough to get him away and start his search in another district, at least until the guard started looking for him. It wasn’t like he wanted to terrify the townsfolk, but he didn’t care to make friends with them, either. He’d be more than happy to just learn where he was and leave them be. Wouldn’t even be against overpaying for a map and some directions.

  He left the alley and slid to a stop. In the early afternoon, Iori would have been crowded and noisy enough to leave a visitor slack-faced and dumbstruck, every merchant, innkeeper, thief and guardsman trying to get at their coin purse. Here, the few Airet seldom looked up from the dirt and dust at their feet, let alone made any attempt at eye contact.

  There were all the qualities of any big city. Stone roads, shops, warehouses and homes, merchants and porters and couriers. Smoke spewed from chimneys, men and women went about their business with all the bustle as any market he’d ever seen. But he felt a twisting in his gut, screaming something was wrong about everything there, telling him his chances were better climbing back up that wall and leaving.

  Nobody spoke, and nobody laughed. Every exchange of coin was accompanied by a nervous glance around, every satchel clutched closely, as though someone might rip it from their hands. The Airet he had met in Estreia seemed like kind, honest people, with strong senses of community and integrity, despite wanting to eject him from their town.

  A sense of dread pressed down on him. What happened here?

  With a deep breath, he risked an Identify Spell on a nearby shopkeeper, but the man had no Debuffs. He did not look injured or ill. Yet after every transaction, customers scampered for the nearest alley, and the merchant hid his coin in a small compartment on his cart.

  A suspicious number of townsfolk carried injuries. In light cases, bruises on their faces. In severe ones, broken bones. One Airet man far too young to be using a cane hobbled past, tapping it on the ground with every unsteady step, a fresh burn on his face like a brand on a bull.

  Someone gasped. Feet scraped on the stone path, baskets dropped, parents yanked children away by their wrists.

  A towering man with long blonde hair strode onto the street, appraising the contents of every stand. He wore a white cloak tied over one shoulder, exposing his lean, bony chest. His cheekbones jutted out like the ribs of a starved dog, his sunken, blue eyes glinted with the sharpness of a predatory bird.

  An Elf.

  Grant’s mouth went dry, and he stumbled back behind a corner. The townsfolk had already bowed and scraped away, hips bent and eyes to the ground, never turning their backs to him, the street emptied faster than a torn waterskin. In seconds, only the merchants remained, eyes mostly locked forward, occasionally swiveling nervously towards the Elf.

  His mind reeled. An Elf. A high race. They lived for thousands of years, had more Mana as schoolchildren than Human Mages at level 20. The Elf moved with the natural grace of a mountain lion, and his eyes bore down on the Airet as one would a rodent. The sunlight gleamed off his hair, and his thin lips tilted downward in a constant scowl. He lifted a knife from a cart, scoffed with displeasure, and dropped it onto the ground before ambling to the next.

  An expression of pure relief flickered across the keeper’s face.

  Grant finally understood what was happening. The Airet’s grave expressions. Their bruises, breaks, burns. Their terror. It made perfect sense, yet none at all. An Elf could conquer a city of Airet with no more effort than a wolf a flock of clipped geese. “But why?” Grant whispered. A wolf would have little use for a whole flock, would it not?

  The Elf stopped in front of the next cart. He eyed the keeper, not interested in any of the wares on display. The Airet was taller than the others, with light brown hair, but the Elf still towered over him by two full heads. Other Airet in the area stared at their feet, but he looked into the Elf’s face.

  “A good afternoon to you, Master,” the Airet man said, gesturing toward his goods. Grant caught a tremor in his hand, but he shoved it to his side and gave a tight smile. “Would you like to see some foreign culinary tools?”

  The Elf’s lip curled. “My most ancient ancestors made goods superior to these,” he snarled, directing his gaze to the shelf. To demonstrate his point, he lifted a frying pan and cracked it in half with his hands. With a look of disgust, he threw the halves to the street and scoffed.

  ‘Narcissistic’ was the word Caitlyn had used to describe Elven culture. They considered themselves superior beings to others—the chosen of the Gods. Some tribes of other races would attack an Elf on sight, but it almost never turned out how they wanted. Her advice was to exercise the same respect and caution a man holding a nail would afford one holding the hammer.

  “Yes, of course,” the shopkeeper continued. “I apologize it is not to your impeccable taste. May I help you with anything else today?”

  The Elf adjusted his shoulder strap and lifted his chin, his hair waving behind him. “I would know the location of your daughter.”

  “Ah, yes Master. She is out today—”

  “Out is not a location,” the Elf interrupted, acid in his voice. “I would know her location, not her status.” He waited impatiently, tapping a spindly finger on his forearm.

  The keeper swallowed. “Apologies. She is picking berries—”

  A sharp crack echoed through the street. The Airet reeled and fell to a knee, trembling as blood poured from his nose and down his brown tunic. Townsfolk who witnessed the assault pressed deeper into their corners. Some ducked away, abandoning their carts and other belongings in their flight.

  Grant blinked. He’d heard the sound before he saw his hand move. The Elf’s palm had connected with the man’s cheek.

  “Picking berries is not a location either.” His hands were clasped behind his back, another shift Grant had not seen. “You should be aware that the fondness my wife and I hold for your daughter is the only reason I asked twice.”

  Grant looked down. Siphoning Fang rested in his hand. He did not remember Resummoning it. The few remaining Airet kept their chins to their chests as the man clambered to his feet.

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  “Apologies, Master.” Blood seeped from his mouth, dribbling off his chin. His knees shook, threatening to collapse under his weight. He wiped his face with a sleeve. “She should be by the river. I do not know when she will be home.”

  “Yes, yes, very well.” The Elf shook his head slowly. “I do not intend to search for her, but I would have her at my estate tonight.” He paused, staring off into the distance for a moment, and then glared down at the shopkeeper. “Feed her before she comes.”

  The shopkeeper clenched his jaw almost imperceptibly and leaned forward.

  “May I ask why—”

  Another sound like lightning splitting a tree rang through the street. The shopkeeper rolled across the ground, writhing in pain and whimpering. The Elf scowled, his right arm crossed across his body and hand open. “You may not.”

  The man curled on the ground. It wouldn’t surprise Grant if the Elf had broken his jaw. The street had gone even more silent than before, the few remaining vendors fearing to even breathe in his presence.

  “No,” mumbled the man through split lips. He said something else, but it came out an incomprehensible murmur.

  A long rapier materialized in the Elf’s hand. It was a bright shade of polished silver, and its guard fully enveloped his hand. The edge seemed to blur, like a hummingbird’s wings. A Bound weapon?

  “I believe I have made abundantly clear that you were to do as I said. Shall I carve a reminder into your skin?” he shrieked, spittle flying.

  The Elf took a step forward, but Grant had seen enough. He activated Perfect Invisibility, adjusted his grip on his weapon, and dug his feet into the ground. Caitlyn said in their first lesson that the easiest way to kill an Elf was to call a meteor down on its forest.

  For Grant, a knife to the throat would have to do.

  He hesitated. The Elf was far faster and stronger than him, more violent, and obviously, much more experienced. His eyes darted toward the city gates. He could climb over them and escape to continue his journey south, pretending he had never seen a single Elf or Airet. He could keep heading south, away from the cult, Cursed animals and maniacal Elves. There was no need for him to blindly attack, and running would be the smart thing to do.

  He remembered the face of the girl in the forest. The Elf must have wanted her. Grant was not confident at judging Airet ages, but she must have still been a child.

  Running would not be the smart thing to do. Not the right thing.

  From twenty yards away, Grant set his jaw and pushed off the dirt, gliding low across the ground. He shoved the heel of his left palm into the hilt of the dagger, using all the might he could muster and his momentum, then roared, thrusting it into the side of the Elf’s neck.

  The dagger pierced the skin, severing fat, muscle, and connective tissue beneath, but met something hard and clanged off, as if it had struck solid steel. Grant tore it free and jumped away.

  [Critical Strike! 400% Increased Damage]

  [You have inflicted Bleeding (Stage II)]

  [Perfect Invisibility has been removed.]

  The Elf shrieked hoarsely, clutching his neck and spinning, searching for his assailant. Blood gushed down his chest and stained his cloak crimson. Not as much as Grant had wanted, but a good first strike. The Elf, despite fancying himself a greater race, bled all the same and howled like any other stuck animal. All the Airet but the barely conscious vendor had fled into surrounding alleys and buildings. Grant silently thanked them.

  The Elf’s eyes went wide as he found a Human standing before him, a dripping weapon in his hand. “You,” he snarled.

  “Yes, it is I,” Grant said.

  A gust of wind blew down the alley. The two men glared at each other.

  The Elf took a step forward. “I will impale you upon my blade!”

  Grant gave his best evil cackle. “Yes, yes, they said you would make such threats! Always so predictable.” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment.

  Just a bit more…

  A long pause followed. “Who are you?” the Elf roared.

  “Me?” asked Grant, counting down the timer. He raised his blade slowly. “You know who I am.” He turned Invisible. “And thanks for the fifteen seconds, idiot.”

  The Elf gave a throaty growl, thrusting his rapier toward Grant. Its tip glowed just before a wave of force burst forward, and Grant dove to the ground, narrowly dodging it and landing hard on his belly. He rolled over to see only splinters left of the merchant’s cart behind him.

  With another scream, the Elf started jabbing in every direction. Each strike propelled an invisible wave into surrounding stalls and buildings, tearing gaping holes, splinters and wood chips flying. Grant crawled forward on his hands and knees, whimpering with every explosion.

  The Elf’s frenzy continued as he shrieked and cursed, sending more bolts of force without aim. The effort made his wound bleed more, and soon his breaths came with great labor, every jab growing weaker than the last. Grant hid behind a wall, making sure not to corner himself as he had with the elk in the forest.

  “Coward!” the Elf roared, kicking the remnants of a stall and shattering its boards. “C-come out and face me in combat!”

  “Sure,” Grant whispered.

  He picked up a fist-sized rock and rushed forward, throwing it into a pallet leaning against a wall. It toppled over and slapped down on the ground, knocking up a pall of dust.

  The Elf’s eyes darted toward the sound, and he lunged in the pallet’s direction, a gormless grin on his face. With his opponent distracted, Grant slid across the ground and jammed Siphoning Fang into his hamstring, dragging it across. The Elf fell to a knee, his rapier clattering to the ground, letting out an airy howl.

  [You have inflicted bleeding! (Stage III)]

  Grant used the Elf’s lull in concentration to flee, ducking behind a corner. The Elf was exhausted, and probably dizzy from blood loss. He wanted to just allow him to bleed out, but there was always the possibility of his tantrum attracting others who could rush to his aid.

  The Elf’s eyelids grew heavy and gaze distant. He panted every threat, repeating them between gasps. “We will have your head. We will have your children’s heads. We will have their children’s heads.”

  Grant’s ears were throbbing. He had not suffered a single attack, but this was the second most powerful opponent he had faced on this world, only behind Bay’kol, whom he didn’t really face as much as ran from. He took a knee to allow the wave of dizziness to pass, breathing almost as heavily as his opponent, fear and nerves rushing to his head.

  But he was winning. There was no way he was going to die here.

  The Elf had lost a significant amount of blood. His eyes closed.

  Siphoning Fang seemed to hum in his grip. It was time. Grant turned Invisible and approached slowly, footsteps tapping quietly on the ground. He pulled the dagger back for one final stab.

  The Elf’s eyes snapped open and he lurched forward, a white blur to Grant’s eyes. With a snarl, his rapier materialized from nothing, and he thrust it directly toward Grant’s face.

  Grant shrieked, caught flat-footed, but his reflexes and the Elf’s sluggishness saved him. With a wild slash of Siphoning Fang, his blade clashed into the Elf’s with a high scrape, deflecting a killing blow mere inches and removing Perfect Invisibility. Instead of impaling his skull, its tip tore across his cheek, and the next second, the Elf’s body slammed into his, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

  The Elf’s fangs sank into his shoulder, cutting his cry short. He gasped in pain and arched his back, a spasm shooting through his torso. With both hands pinned down, he kicked wildly with his legs, trying to find a target, but only struck the air.

  “You fucking bit me,” he tried to scream. The words came out a meaningless rasp.

  It was no longer a fight of blades, but a street brawl. Grant clawed desperately at the Elf, using whatever he could to fight him off. It was all in vain. His Strength was too far ahead of Grant’s, his leverage too great. Struggling harder was only exhausting his little remaining energy, but he fought anyway.

  The Elf grunted, locking Grant’s legs below him and getting a better grip on his wrists. His fangs sank deeper. He had missed arteries, but blood poured freely from the wound, mixing with the Elf’s on the street below them.

  The corners of Grant’s vision began to go dark.

  There was a sharp gasp, and the Elf arched his back, loosening his grip on Grant’s wrist. Grant wrestled his hand free, and in the next motion, Resummoned Siphoning Fang and jammed it into the Elf’s left eye.

  The creature’s other eye bulged in shock and hazed over. His face went slack as his body collapsed atop Grant’s, and warm blood gushed from the wound onto Grant’s face.

  [You have gained 31 Health! (Life Leech)]

  [You have slain Varireth Matrias! (96% Contribution)]

  [You have gained 8,723 Experience and 27,618 Points!]

  [You have reached level 5!]

  [You have reached level 6!]

  Notifications flashed in front of his eyes. He dismissed them.

  The shopkeeper stood above Grant, holding a dripping knife. His chest heaved and his wet eyes bulged. He let out a shuddering cry and threw his weapon to the ground as though it’d burned him, then raised his palms, staring at them in horror.

  A young woman rushed from around the corner, pulling the Airet man into a tight hug as his blank gaze shifted to the Elf’s lifeless body. Grant, still pinned under the Elf, looked into her face. She glared back, squeezing the Airet man tighter.

  “You’re… from the forest,” he mumbled.

  “You fool.” She swallowed, then looked at the Elf again. “You’ve killed us all.”