Chapter 61: Testing his craft
He didn’t need a genius IQ to put the pieces together. This was a fantasy world — and the tone of those voices was unmistakable.
Slave traders.
And judging by the sound of their boots, there were a lot of them.
Oliver’s hand tightened on his sword hilt.
Even if he turned tail right now, there was no way they’d just let him walk away. Witnesses didn’t last long in places like this.
So instead of running, Oliver stepped forward, placing himself squarely between the hooded figure and the approaching thugs.
His sword hissed as it cleared its sheath — the same one bearing the rune he had carved earlier that day.
"Alright, buddy," Oliver muttered, feeling the faint hum of mana in the blade. "Time to see if you were worth all the bruises and lectures."
Behind him, the hooded figure stared in bewilderment.
What is he doing? she thought. There’s too many of them — he should be running, not standing there like an idiot. Does he have a death wish?
The first of the thugs came into view — broad-shouldered, unwashed, and sneering. Four more followed, fanning out to block the alley.
One of them let out a laugh when he saw Oliver’s stance.
"Well, look at this. Boy thinks he’s a hero."
"Step aside," another growled, hefting a spiked club. "That one’s got a price on her head. You don’t wanna get involved, trust me."
Oliver raised his sword slightly, angling it toward them. "Yeah, see, I would... except you all look like the kind of guys who stab witnesses in the back. And I’m not really in the mood to die tonight."
The lead thug’s grin widened into something nastier. "Then you are tired of living."
"Not tired," Oliver said, forcing a cocky smirk he didn’t quite feel. "Just really pissed off."
One of the slavers spat on the ground. "Fine. Break his legs and take the girl."
That was all the warning Oliver got before the first man charged.
He sidestepped, swinging his sword in a clean horizontal slash.
WHSSSH!
A pale arc of wind burst from the blade, slamming into the man’s chest and hurling him back into a pile of crates with a crash.
Everyone froze for a half-second.
"...Well, that actually worked," Oliver muttered, just a little proud — right before the rest of them roared and rushed him at once.
The silence that followed Oliver’s first Wind Slash lasted less than a breath.
Then they all came at once.
The first brute reached him swinging a rusty axe. Oliver ducked under the swing and slashed across the man’s torso.
SHHK!
Blood sprayed across the alley wall as the man went down clutching his guts, howling.
The others hesitated for half a second — then roared and charged together.
Oliver didn’t back down.
"Wind Edge!"
He swung again, sending another crescent of compressed air slicing forward. It caught two men across the chest, tearing through leather armor and leaving long, bleeding gashes.
"Bastard!" one of the others bellowed, swinging a club the size of Oliver’s torso.
Oliver pivoted sideways, feeling the rush of air as the club smashed into the wall, splintering wood and stone. He drove his boot into the man’s knee — CRACK! — and the brute collapsed screaming before Oliver buried his sword in his throat.
SSHK!
The blade came free in a spray of crimson.
Another came from behind. Oliver barely twisted in time, the thug’s dagger grazing his side, opening a shallow cut. He hissed, teeth gritted, and elbowed the man in the face before swinging low, severing the man’s hamstring.
The alley floor was already slick with blood.
And then the first fireball came.
FWOOOM!
It smashed into the ground where Oliver had been standing a second earlier, exploding in a spray of heat and sparks.
"Shit!" He rolled, coming up in a crouch.
At the far end of the alley stood the mage — a thin, rat-faced man with a staff, already chanting again.
"Oh, perfect," Oliver growled.
He was forced back on the defensive as two more brutes lunged at him, trying to keep him pinned while the mage lined up his next shot.
"Wind Edge!"
Another glowing arc shot from his blade, cleaving one man’s arm clean off at the elbow.
The second grabbed Oliver by the cloak and slammed him into the wall — only for Oliver to ram his knee into the man’s groin, then drive the point of his sword under his chin.
KRCHH!
Blood sprayed, warm and metallic, soaking Oliver’s sleeve.
"FIREBALL!"
The next spell streaked toward him. Oliver dove behind a stack of crates, barely avoiding getting roasted alive.
He could hear the mage snarling from the other end. "Stop playing around and finish him!"
Oliver peeked out and swung his sword once more, the Wind Edge cutting through a wooden beam and sending half the crate pile collapsing toward the mage’s direction.
The mage cursed and jumped back, breaking his chant.
Oliver grinned grimly.
"Got you now."
He broke into a sprint, leaping over the bleeding bodies on the ground. Another brute tried to cut him off — Oliver slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest, driving him into the wall, and plunged the sword through his heart.
Then he was on the mage.
The man raised his staff to cast again — too slow.
Oliver’s blade came down in a brutal diagonal slash.
SHHHK!
The mage’s staff split in two, followed by the man himself — his torso opening in a gory spray as he collapsed onto the wet stones.
Oliver stood panting, blood dripping from his face, his shirt sticking to him where it was soaked.
The alley was silent except for the sound of groans from the few still-alive thugs clutching their wounds.
He stepped forward, pointing his sword at them. "Pick them up and leave," he growled, voice low and dangerous. "If I ever see you again, I won’t leave anyone breathing next time."
They scrambled to obey, dragging their fallen and fleeing into the night.
When they were gone, Oliver finally lowered his sword.
His hands were shaking — not from fear, but from the adrenaline still roaring through his veins.
Behind him, the hooded figure still hadn’t moved.
"...You okay?" Oliver asked, glancing over his shoulder.
The figure nodded once, still silent.
Oliver wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his sleeve and let out a long, tired breath.
"Good. Because I’m gonna need a bath after this shit," he muttered, half to himself, half to the hooded stranger behind him.
The figure flinched at his voice but stayed silent.
"You should head off too," Oliver said, turning to her. "No one’s chasing you now."
"I... I have nowhere to go," she said softly.
Her voice was lighter than he expected — soft, almost melodic. Definitely a beautiful girl.
Oliver sighed and scratched the back of his head. Knew it was going to be something like that.
"Then where were you even running to?"
"Nowhere." Her voice trembled slightly. "Just... away from them."
Oliver paused for a moment, then gave a resigned shrug. "Well, you can come with me, then. At least until morning."
"...Will there be food?" she asked timidly.
And right on cue—
GRRRRRRROOOOOWL.
Her stomach growled loud enough to echo in the narrow alley.
Oliver blinked, then smirked. "I’ll take that as a yes."
Her head lowered even more under the hood, as if she was trying to disappear. Oliver didn’t know what kind of face she was making, but he could practically feel the embarrassment radiating off her.
He chuckled and turned toward the alley exit. "Come on, kitten. Let’s get you fed."
The girl startled slightly at the nickname, then hesitantly clutched the back of his shirt as she followed, sticking close like a frightened child.
Soon they were back under the streetlights, and Oliver realized just how late it had gotten. Most of the shops had closed, and the last few vendors were packing away their stalls.
"Tch. No luck here." He glanced back at her. "Looks like you might have to wait a little longer, little lady. If we hurry, we might still catch the inn’s kitchen before it closes."
"...Nyra," she murmured.
"Huh?"
"My name," she said more clearly. "Nyra."
"Oh." Oliver nodded. "Alright then, Nyra. Try to keep up."
He broke into a brisk pace, and to his mild surprise, the girl’s small figure kept right behind him, light on her feet despite her size.
"She’s fast," he muttered under his breath.
They soon reached the inn. Oliver pushed the door open and stepped inside, Nyra following quietly at his heels.
The diner area was mostly empty, the last of the waitresses stacking chairs and wiping tables.
"Were we late?" Oliver muttered.
"Late for what?" a teasing voice said from nearby.
Both Oliver and Nyra jumped slightly — the girl ducking behind him.
When Oliver turned, he found Serena leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face.
"Oh, it’s you," Oliver said, exhaling in relief. "Yeah, I was hoping to grab something to eat, but it looks like the fire’s already out for the night."
"Oh, I can fix that." Serena’s smirk widened. "I was about to have dinner myself. Care to join me?"
Oliver grinned, leaning an elbow casually on the counter. "How could I refuse a beautiful lady like you, Miss Serena?"
His gaze deliberately dipped lower, and for a moment he enjoyed the view before her chuckle snapped him back to reality.
"Oh ho~ You’ve gotten rather bold," Serena teased.
Then her eyes shifted to the hooded figure peeking out from behind Oliver. "And who’s this?"
Oliver sighed. "That’s... a long story."
"I have time."
"Can we talk about it over food? She looks like she’s—OUCH!"
He yelped when he felt a sharp pinch on his back.
"What was that for?!" he demanded, turning halfway toward Nyra — who was studiously looking away.
Serena laughed softly, shaking her head. "Honestly, Oliver. You can’t just go around saying a woman is ’starved’ in public. No wonder she pinched you. Poor girl’s embarrassed."
Oliver opened his mouth, then closed it again, scratching his cheek awkwardly. "Fair enough..."
Serena straightened. "Either way, no need to make the lady wait any longer." She gestured to one of the staff. "Bring some food here instead of the room. And add two extra portions — we’ve got a hungry guest tonight."
Oliver relaxed a little, watching Serena with a small smile. "Thanks."