Lucien continued to walk across the town, his boots striking against the cobbled streets as he observed the rhythm of daily life around him—merchants haggling, children darting between carts, the occasional clang of a blacksmith's hammer ringing through the midday air. The scent of roasted meat and smoke lingered faintly, stirring memories of simpler days. He moved steadily toward the outer perimeter, the path to his estate already forming in his mind.
But before he could leave the town's edge, a sudden blur of movement broke from the shadowed side of an inn. A hooded figure exploded from a table just outside the building—cloak billowing, dagger hidden beneath its folds.
"What the…!?"
Lucien shouted in surprise, his instincts snapping into place. In one swift motion, he unsheathed his sword, metal singing as it left the scabbard—and just in time. The assassin's dagger collided with his blade in a sharp, brutal clash that sent sparks flying into the air like fireflies struck by lightning.
The assassin recoiled instantly, springing backward with feline agility, reestablishing the distance between them. His breathing was tight, focused, dagger still poised and ready.
"Damn it, he's still standing?!"
The hooded man growled, voice edged with frustration and grit. His stance betrayed training—he wasn't a common thug.
"Who are y—?"
Lucien began to demand, but before the words left his mouth, the assassin pivoted sharply and bolted, barreling through the crowd. Startled citizens stumbled back as the cloaked figure shoved past them, weaving expertly through food stalls and cluttered alleyways.
"That bastard…"
Lucien hissed, his voice a low snarl as he began waving his arms, signaling to those nearby—citizens, adventurers, anyone who could respond.
"Chase him!"
Without hesitation, Lucien sprinted after him, mantle flaring behind him, his blade still drawn. The assassin was fast—nimble as a cat and almost theatrical in his movements. He darted around crates, hurdled barrels, slipped over uneven planks, and even used the sloped rooftops and narrow gaps of the town's architecture to throw off pursuit. It was clear this wasn't his first run through a kill zone.
But Lucien had faced worse—cutthroats in the royal courts, mercenaries in the dunes, assassins who had danced in shadows far darker than this man. His body remembered their patterns, the weight of death breathing down his neck. This was familiar terrain, even if the city had changed.
After another tight corner through a dim alleyway, Lucien surged forward, his momentum closing the gap between them. He was now only a few centimeters behind the assassin, breathing hard, sword gripped tightly, the edge gleaming in the low light.
"What kind of devil is this man?"
The assassin shouted aloud, panic flickering in his voice as he glanced behind and saw Lucien still on his heels—relentless, sword in hand, as if possessed.
Lucien shouted, voice booming through the narrow corridor, amplified by the stone walls.
"If anyone can hear me! Block up the exit of this alley!"
The assassin broke into a full sprint, nearly out of the alley, on the verge of escaping into the busy market beyond. But luck, it seemed, had finally abandoned him.
Ahead, the alley's exit darkened with figures—townsfolk Lucien had called to action. They had formed a makeshift blockade, a jagged wall of weapons hastily gathered: pitchforks, hoes, rusted halberds, and the occasional gleam of a real spear among them. Their formation wasn't elegant, but it was enough.
"Think that's enough!?"
The assassin bellowed as he charged forward. Just before hitting the blockade, he pivoted and launched himself up the wall beside it, running along the vertical surface in a graceful arc. His boots barely touched the plaster as he twisted over the spear wall mid-motion.
"Way too easy!"
But his triumph was premature.
Behind him, Lucien—without slowing—gripped his sword like a javelin. With a shout and a grunt, he hurled it through the air with a trained soldier's precision.
"Wait—!"
The assassin gasped, just as the weapon struck. The blade didn't pierce him, but hit solidly at his feet midair, tripping him. The force sent him tumbling through the air, crashing hard onto the cobblestone in a graceless heap. A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers.
The crowd parted like water as Lucien strode forward, winded but resolute. Around the fallen attacker, a ring of townsfolk now stood, weapons pointed inward, ready to strike at any sign of movement.
Lucien approached the center, chest heaving, his breath visible in short puffs. A ragged laugh escaped his lips—tired, sharp, and satisfied.
"Next time… don't miss."