A thin pall of evening light washed the slums in muted orange as Alaric quietly slipped down a side street. Flickers of neon signs cast dancing shadows against the crooked walls, and every so often he caught the murmur of hushed voices drifting from shuttered windows. It had been only a day since his tense encounter with Marcus, yet Alaric could already sense a shift in the atmosphere, as though the city itself had become a coiled spring, ready to snap.
He paused near Murdock's storefront. From his vantage, hidden behind a rusted dumpster, Alaric watched the overseer. Through the grimy window, Murdock was hunched over a small, battered desk, phone clutched in one hand, eyes darting restlessly. Though Alaric strained his hearing, he couldn't make out distinct words. Still, he could sense the agitation—the unease in Murdock's posture.
Alaric's suspicions had only grown since noticing Murdock's odd behavior and covert calls. What role had he played in sending Alaric to Cassian's estate that night? And how deep might his ties run to Marcus or other underworld figures? If Murdock was tipping off dangerous people—people like Marcus—Alaric needed proof. Confrontation now would be reckless.
As Murdock finally locked up and shuffled off, Alaric melted back into the warren of alleyways. He couldn't risk trailing the overseer too openly. Instead, he tucked away the knowledge that Murdock was clearly anxious, as though awaiting a call—or a confrontation.
That night, Lia glanced up from patching a shirt as Alaric slipped inside.
"Everything alright?"
"Yeah," he lied. In truth, he'd bought diluted poisons from a back‑alley chemist to verify his immunity. Even mild toxins—enough to nauseate most people—barely fazed him. A sip of cheap rot‑gut liquor also dissolved harmlessly in his bloodstream. His gifts were real… and unsettling.
Yet his base stats were still abysmal. "F‑rank" strength and agility haunted him. Technique alone would not stop Marcus—or the phantom who killed Cassian.
Police raids, gang turf shows, and rumor storms churned through the Grey Quarter. Alaric kept to the margins, overhearing whispers:
"Marcus answers to someone bigger than Cassian ever was… bad news for all of us."
Even Axel noticed Alaric's tension.
"If you're in trouble, say so."
"I'm fine," was all Alaric offered. Trust was a rare luxury.
Hunting information in a black‑market district, Alaric felt that prickling gaze. Spinning, dagger in hand, he spotted the emerald‑eyed woman perched on a rusted fire escape.
"You're getting better at noticing me," she purred.
"Who are you?"
"Just an observer… for now."
When he demanded her purpose, she dropped a bomb:
"Your boss sold you to Cassian—and planned to sell your sister as well. Watch your back, Alaric Vale. Your growth is… intriguing."
Alaric's face darkened, murderous intent gathering in his eyes. Before he could react, she slipped away, leaving only questions—and rage.
Back home, Alaric shared a meagre loaf with Lia, masking his turmoil. When she finally slept, he checked his status screen:
Name: Alaric Vale
[Stats]
Strength: F Agility: F Vitality: F
[Traits]
Poison Immunity (Passive) Slight Vitality Boost (Passive) Eidetic Memory (Passive)
[Equipment]
Scrap Dagger (Bound)
Frustrating—but changeable.
Determined to mimic the emerald‑eyed woman's silent grace, he practised footwork until a cyan prompt flashed:
Skill Acquired: Stealth – Proficiency 0.7 %
Progress—tiny but tangible.
Elsewhere, Marcus dug into Alaric's past, mapping every vulnerability.
In the shack's gloom, Alaric's fury toward Murdock crystallised. The interface pulsed again:
Quest: Eliminate Murdock Green
Reward: +2 Stat Points
A cold finality settled in his gaze. If betrayal was real, only one answer remained.