Chapter 31

The next morning, I found myself standing at the inn counter, staring at the bill that Valeria had so generously left me to pay. I couldn't help but wonder how one woman, staying in a place this simple, could rack up such an absurd amount. Valeria wasn't exactly the kind of woman to scrimp on anything, but still, she had managed to live quite luxuriously in a place that boasted nothing more than threadbare linens and watered-down wine. The innkeeper gave me a look that was halfway between pity and expectation as I handed over the coins.

"Women," I muttered under my breath, though not quietly enough to stop the innkeeper from smirking. He clearly had seen this scenario play out a few too many times. But this wasn't just about the money; it was about the principle. I wasn't keen on spending more than I needed until I had the cash flow from selling my items—assuming that particular back-alley deal didn't blow up in my face.

One thing was certain, though. I wasn't going to live in this inn for long. It was too risky, too exposed, and the constant comings and goings of people I didn't trust were grating on my nerves. No, I needed a proper place—something more permanent and secure. Ideally, a workshop that would give me the space to create, to work on my rune projects without prying eyes. But first, I had another idea, a small project to kick-start my day. It would also get me out and about, giving me the opportunity to observe the city in daylight and get a better feel for the place. So far, I'd only seen it through the narrow lens of shadows and clandestine deals.

I returned to my room, where I dressed in the light armor I had worn the previous night—nothing flashy, just enough protection to keep me alive if something went south. It was easy to conceal beneath the loose, non-descript clothing I'd chosen. I wasn't planning on getting into trouble, but this city seemed like the kind of place where trouble didn't ask for permission before it arrived.

As I stepped out onto the street, early morning sunlight spilling over the rooftops, there was a certain sense of possibility in the air. The world was waking up, merchants setting up their stalls, street vendors hawking their morning wares. It was like an intricate web of human life, all connected yet entirely separate. I could feel the hum of the city as it stirred, a quiet energy that was at once intoxicating and overwhelming.

I let my feet carry me wherever they pleased, ambling along the winding streets as the morning's promise unfolded. The city was larger than any I had experienced, and in daylight, its scale was almost disorienting. Narrow alleyways twisted into bustling thoroughfares, while grand arches loomed above with an air of ancient authority, covered in intricate carvings that hinted at the city's long history. It was like walking through a Roman metropolis, but with a layer of magic humming beneath the surface, as if the entire city itself was part of a spell I had yet to decipher.

My observations carried me deeper into the heart of the city, where the divide between the rich and poor became all the more apparent. The wealthy promenaded down wide boulevards in elegant robes, their slaves or servants trailing behind, carrying bundles of goods. They walked with a kind of purposeful indifference, as if the world around them existed only to serve their whims. Their homes were grand structures, townhouses surrounded by high walls and guarded gates, with carved pillars and ornate decorations that flaunted their wealth. They spoke in hushed tones about matters that probably seemed critical to them but were mundane to everyone else.

And then there were the others—the common folk. The ones who lived on the edges of opulence, surviving in the city's underbelly. I passed by cramped apartments, where entire families seemed to live in spaces not much bigger than my inn room. They worked tirelessly, sweating under the weight of their burdens, moving crates, goods, and carts through narrow streets, some with the faded look of despair etched into their faces. It was a stark contrast, the opulence and the squalor, but neither seemed out of place here. This city thrived on imbalance.

I paused at a small market square, watching as a merchant bargained loudly with a woman over a basket of overripe fruit. The merchant's face was red with frustration, but the woman held her ground, her hands on her hips, glaring up at him as if daring him to challenge her. It was the kind of confrontation that played out a thousand times a day in this city—small skirmishes over survival and pride.

The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, mixing with the less pleasant scent of animal dung and unwashed bodies. Children darted between stalls, their laughter sharp and quick, while an old man hobbled by, muttering to himself about the price of grain. Everything seemed to move in a choreographed chaos, like a hive of activity with no clear queen in charge.

As I wandered further, I found myself in the artisan district. Here, the noise was less chaotic, more purposeful. Blacksmiths hammered away at their forges, the ring of metal on metal echoing through the streets. Craftsmen worked with leather and wood, their hands swift and practiced as they shaped their materials into something valuable. Here, the poor were less destitute and more skilled, their work a testament to the pride they took in their craft. These were people who might not have wealth, but they had purpose, and in some ways, that seemed far more valuable.

I watched for a while, considering my next move. I needed to find a workshop. Not here, of course—too exposed, too many eyes—but I could feel the potential. Somewhere in this city, there was a place that would fit my needs. A place where I could work quietly, without the constant looming threat of guild interference. But first, I needed to see more, learn more.

I continued my aimless wandering, absorbing everything around me. The city was a maze, not just of streets, but of power and influence. Everywhere I turned, I could feel the invisible lines of hierarchy at work—the nobles, the guilds, the merchants, and those who simply struggled to survive. It reminded me of something I'd read once, about the layers of a mind. This city was no different. The surface was all grand architecture and polite society, but underneath, the real power churned, hidden away but ever-present.

Eventually, my wandering led me to a small park, tucked away behind a row of grand townhouses. It was a quiet oasis, a place where the wealthy came to escape the bustle of the city. A few couples strolled leisurely down the pathways, and a fountain gurgled quietly in the center, its waters shimmering in the mid-morning light. I found a bench and sat, watching the world go by for a while.

I pulled a small notebook from my pocket and began sketching. The designs for a new project had been swirling in my head all morning, and now seemed as good a time as any to get them down on paper. It was a simple idea, really—combining runes of protection with a more complex lattice of mana absorption. A device that could not only defend but gather energy from any attacks it repelled. It was the kind of thing that could sell for a small fortune if I could pull it off.

As I worked, I couldn't help but smile. The challenges ahead were significant, but they weren't insurmountable. I had always thrived in situations like this—where others might see roadblocks, I saw opportunities. This city, with all its complexity and corruption, was just another puzzle to solve.

A group of children ran by, their laughter breaking my concentration for a moment. I watched them for a while, remembering a time when things had been simpler. But simplicity was overrated. Complexity—well, that's where the real magic happened.

As I closed the notebook and stood, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The day was still young, and there was plenty more to see. I would find what I needed in this city. I always did.

I found myself walking the streets with a clearer sense of purpose now, a plan starting to take shape in the back of my mind. For the past hour, I'd been wandering through the city like a spectator, taking in the sights without any real aim. But now, I needed something—something specific. Or rather, someone. What I was looking for didn't fit neatly into any category. A shop? A parlor? Maybe some shady underground operation? The details remained hazy, but I knew such a place had to exist somewhere in this sprawling stone labyrinth.

I turned a corner, and the chaotic noise of the city faded ever so slightly. Ahead of me loomed the massive stone arches of the Colosseum, casting long shadows across the narrow streets. It dominated the landscape, its ancient walls scarred by centuries of blood and spectacle. The distant roar of the crowd inside reminded me that here, entertainment was built on violence.

But the Colosseum itself wasn't what had drawn my attention today. No, it was the small cluster of gladiators lingering outside, taking a break near a food stall. Both were fully armored, eating as though this might be their last meal. Given the profession, I couldn't exactly blame them for taking their time. I paused for a moment, observing. These men were a walking contradiction—a perfect blend of brute force and carefully curated danger. They weren't just fighters; they were performers in the city's grand theater of blood.

And then I saw it—the thing I had been looking for.

Tattoos. Intricate swirls of ink decorated their arms and necks, even peeking from beneath their armor. Elaborate designs—bold, deliberate, but distinctly non-magical. They weren't runes, not the kind that enhanced strength or resilience. They were decorative, purely for show. But they served a purpose, nonetheless. Gladiators marked themselves with these symbols, flaunting them in front of an audience that both feared and idolized them. It was a statement: "Look at me. I'm untouchable." These weren't just men; they were mythic figures, the embodiment of danger.

It wasn't hard to understand the psychology behind it. The more society condemned something, the more power it held as a symbol of rebellion. What could be more defiant than embracing the very thing people found distasteful? Tattoos weren't just marks on their skin—they were badges of pride, of defiance. A part of the act. These men wanted to stand out, to be feared and adored in equal measure.

I couldn't help but smirk. I could imagine how these gladiators lived—women probably flung themselves at their feet, seduced by the promise of danger. And the gladiators? They likely enjoyed every second of it. Power, fame, and a healthy dose of fear—those are intoxicating things.

As I watched, one of the gladiators noticed me standing there. He glanced over, sizing me up with the same casual arrogance I'd come to expect from men in his line of work. His eyes flickered to the light armor I was wearing. Clearly, I wasn't just another merchant strolling by. But the tattoos on his arms weren't just for show. They were part of his performance, a visual cue for the audience. And I wondered about the psychology that drove men like him. Did they believe in their own legend, or was it just another layer of the mask?

I turned away before he could say anything, deciding that confronting them wasn't the best route to take. If these tattoos were decorative, not magical, then I needed to find the artist behind them. Gladiators were just the canvas—what I needed was the person holding the brush. The one willing to break societal norms and etch those symbols into skin, regardless of what people thought. They might be the key to a project I had in mind, a way to gain the edge I needed in a city determined to thwart me at every turn.

I left the Colosseum behind, but my course was now set. The pieces were coming together.

As I walked further away from the Colosseum, the city's atmosphere shifted. The streets became quieter, and the crowds thinned as I made my way toward the artisan district. This was the heart of the city's craftsmanship—the place where those who worked with their hands were valued, albeit quietly. This was where I needed to be. The real work happened here, behind closed doors, and involved not just skill but discretion.

I moved through the narrow streets, scanning the signs of various shops. Most advertised mundane services: leather goods, metalwork, pottery. But I was looking for something more subtle. And then I saw it—tucked between two larger buildings, almost hidden from view. A faded sign hung above the door, the letters barely legible. But carved into the frame was something unmistakable—a small, faint rune. Not the kind you'd see in a typical protection ward, but an old one. A marker, almost as if it was meant for someone like me to notice.

This had to be the place.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of ink and dust, the dim lighting casting strange shadows across the room. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of peculiar liquids, ancient scrolls, and fragments of stone carvings. Behind a low desk, a man sat hunched over some kind of tool, his face obscured by wild, unkempt hair. He didn't bother looking up as I entered.

"Looking for something?" His voice was low, almost indifferent, as though he hadn't spoken in weeks.

"I need someone who can apply tattoos," I replied, keeping my tone even. No point in dancing around it. If this was the right place, he'd know exactly what I was after.

The man glanced up, his sharp eyes studying me beneath the mess of hair. For a moment, he said nothing, just stared. Then he stood, moving with a grace that surprised me for someone who looked like they hadn't left their shop in years.

"You're not from here," he said flatly.

"No," I replied. "I'm not."

"And what exactly are you looking for?"

"An artist. Someone who can apply the tattoos I've seen on the gladiators."

The tattooist's thin smile tugged at his lips, but the coldness in his eyes made it clear it wasn't a friendly gesture. "You don't look like a gladiator, my friend. It would be unwise to mark yourself like one," he said, his tone laced with the sort of warning that only years of experience could impart.

I gave a slow nod, already anticipating his objection. "I suppose they're rather protective of their marks?"

He leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. "Oh, they're more than protective. They tend to get… territorial. Not the sort who take kindly to outsiders wearing their symbols." He chuckled darkly. "They'll fight anyone who's not from their caste who dares to brand themselves like one of them. And trust me, that kind of fight doesn't end in handshakes."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm guessing they fight each other as well? For money, of course."

His grin widened, showing a glimpse of yellowed teeth. "Naturally. But that's their business. You, on the other hand, are playing with fire if you want those marks. They'll come looking for you."

I waved a hand dismissively. "Let me worry about the gladiators. By the time I'm done, they won't even see my marks. And besides," I added, meeting his gaze, "I have money."

The tattooist's eyes sparked with interest at that word—money. If there was one universal truth, it was that money had a way of greasing the wheels of any operation, no matter how shady. He shrugged, his tone casual but calculating. "Ah, well, money tends to do the trick, doesn't it? So, what do you have in mind?"

I reached into my inventory stone and pulled out a large piece of parchment, unfurling it across the counter. The design sketched out was intricate—an almost invisible network of fine, thin lines, each one a carefully constructed rune. Together, they formed a complex mesh that, while appearing subtle, held the potential for something far greater than any gaudy gladiator tattoo. The man's eyebrows shot up as he studied the design.

He leaned in closer, tracing the lines with his eyes, squinting in disbelief. "The lines are thin," he muttered. "It's not going to be flashy at all. Hell, most people won't even notice it unless they're right on top of you."

I smirked. "That's the point. I'm not interested in flashy."

He ran a hand through his tangled hair, eyes still on the parchment. "Whatever floats your boat. I can do this, but it'll take time. You might not be getting a lot of ink on your skin, but you're covering most of your body with this… mesh of yours."

"How long?" I asked, though I had a feeling the answer wouldn't be brief.

"Well into the night, if you want it done right." He didn't sound particularly enthusiastic, but his greed overruled his reluctance as his eyes flicked to the pouch of coins I set down.

I nodded, dropping a hefty sum of gold on the counter as a down payment. His hand moved faster than I thought possible, snatching the coins before I could blink. "All right," he said, clinking the coins together as if testing their weight. "We'll get started. First, let's close up shop."

He moved to the door, flipping the sign to "closed" and bolting the lock. When he turned back to me, his demeanor had shifted—now all business. "Strip down. We've got a lot of work to do."

I hesitated briefly before complying, shedding my cloak and light armor. The air in the shop was thick and humid, sticking to my skin as I laid my clothes neatly in the corner. The tattooist gathered his tools—needles, inks, and small magical devices I didn't recognize, each glowing faintly with magical energy. He brought out a large chair, more like a table, and motioned for me to lie down.

The tattooist stood back, his sharp eyes tracing the surface of my skin like a painter studying his canvas before the first brushstroke. "Before we begin," he muttered, already gathering his tools, "I have to mark the patterns. If I get even a single line wrong, the whole thing could turn out to be a very expensive mistake for you."

I stood still, a faint grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Good thing I've got faith in your abilities," I said dryly, watching him squint as he leaned in with a thin piece of charcoal to sketch the base outlines onto my skin.

His concentration was intense, the tip of his charcoal stick moving like a surgeon's blade—precise, deliberate. The shop had grown eerily quiet as the noise from outside faded away, leaving only the sound of his breathing and the scratch of the charcoal against my skin. He worked over my torso first, drawing thin lines that snaked from my chest down to my abdomen in a mesh-like design. The geometric symmetry was impressive, even for someone who had little understanding of rune patterns.

I could feel the weight of it already, the beginning stages of something vast and powerful settling into place.

"Stay still," he grunted, as though I had been planning to break out into a dance routine. I gave him a flat look, which he promptly ignored, focused on extending the design over my arms. The charcoal outlines grew more intricate the further they traveled, each stroke interconnecting the lines of strength, speed, protection, and sight.

"You're not going to pass out on me, are you?" he asked, casting me a glance as he worked his way down to my legs.

"Do I look like someone who passes out easily?" I shot back, my voice laced with mock offense.

He grunted again, amused but not distracted. "I don't know. I've seen all types come through here, and trust me, the biggest brutes sometimes fold like paper when the needle comes out."

"Well, I'm not most people."

As the last of the charcoal markings were drawn, he stood back to admire his pre-work. "I've marked you up good. Now comes the fun part."

I braced myself as the needle found my skin, the sharp pain bursting through me, but I didn't flinch. I was no stranger to discomfort. As he began to ink the first line into my skin, I let the pain ground me. It was going to be a long night.

The hours dragged on, the pain relentless and rhythmic. Each jab of the needle into my flesh was a reminder of the magnitude of what I was undertaking. It wasn't just the physical discomfort; I had to focus. The runes weren't merely decorative—they were functional, each one intricately designed to tap into a specific strength. The runes of protection needed to be linked with those of speed, and both had to tie into the symbols for enhanced vision. And then, there was the strengthening rune—its flow had to be perfect, or the whole thing would collapse.

As the tattooist worked, I found my mind splitting its focus. I had to hold the vision of the final result in my head while also managing the strain on my body. It was like balancing on the edge of a blade, one misstep, and it all would come crumbling down.

He noticed my silence and glanced up. "You're focusing on something, aren't you? I can feel it—like you're putting intention into each mark."

I exhaled slowly, my voice steady despite the growing strain. "Something like that."

He grunted but didn't press further. "You're a stubborn one, I'll give you that."

Time bled together after that. The pain became a constant companion, one that I had to accept and move past if I wanted to get through this. I shifted my focus from the individual sensations of the needle to the greater purpose. Strength, protection, speed—these weren't just abstract concepts. They had to become part of me, rooted in every cell, every fiber of my being. I could feel the runes anchoring themselves, settling into my bones.

The tattooist paused after a few hours, his hand shaking slightly as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "I've never seen anyone hold up this long," he said, awe creeping into his voice despite himself.

"I've never been one to fold," I replied, not even bothering to open my eyes. "Keep going. We're not done yet."

He continued without another word, but I could feel his gaze flicker over me with growing curiosity as he worked.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he wiped down the last of the ink and stepped back. I opened my eyes, blinking against the dim light as the room came back into focus. The intricate mesh of runes was complete, stretching across my body like a second skin. They weren't flashy. They weren't meant to be. But I could feel the power humming beneath the surface, waiting for me to tap into it.

The tattooist stared at me, his expression a mix of exhaustion and admiration. "You're one tough son of a bitch," he said, handing me a small jar of ointment. "Take care of that while it heals. No rushing into battle unless you want it to tear."

I glanced down at the nearly invisible network of runes. "Not flashy," I said, my voice low. "But that's the point."

The man wiped his hands on a rag, still watching me with that same mix of curiosity and caution. "I've done a lot of work in this city," he said slowly, "but I've never seen anything like this before. I don't know what you're planning, but it's going to be big, isn't it?"

I gave him a tight smile as I dressed, securing my armor over the freshly inked runes. "Bigger than you think."

As I stepped out of the shop, I could still feel the sting of fresh ink etched into my skin, a dull throb that pulsed beneath the surface. The night air hit me like a cool balm, but it did little to soothe the weight of what I had just done. The runes felt heavy—not physically, but in a way that stretched deeper, as if they were now intertwined with the very essence of who I was. I wasn't just David Goodchild anymore. I was carrying something far more dangerous under my skin.

I glanced around the street, my eyes scanning for a quiet spot where I could test what I'd just bought myself. The narrow alleyways off the main street would do. Just a few more steps, and I'd be far from the eyes of curious passersby, tucked into a space where I could experience the power I had bound to my flesh. The thought alone made my heart quicken. What had the tattoo artist said? He'd never seen anything like it, that's what he'd said. But he didn't need to. He didn't understand what these runes were for—how they were more than just ink, more than just symbols. They were my edge. They were what would make me unstoppable in this city.

Finding a small, shadowy alley between two taller buildings, I stepped in, leaning back against the cold stone wall as I exhaled slowly. My body felt tense, brimming with an anticipation I could barely contain. The runes were buzzing, like a distant hum just waiting to be tapped into. It was time to see what they could do.

I raised my hand in front of me, focusing on the lines of ink that crisscrossed my skin. With a thought, I gave the command—simple, direct, deliberate. The markings faded, disappearing beneath the surface of my skin, but I could feel them more acutely than ever. Then came the rush.

It hit me like a wave—an overwhelming flood of energy coursing through every vein, every muscle. My body felt light, almost weightless. My senses sharpened, the world around me snapping into crystal-clear focus. I could hear every rustle of the wind, every distant murmur of voices, and I could see the smallest details in the dim light—the cracks in the stone wall across from me, the flicker of a candle through a window three stories above. The power surged through me, a burning vitality that made me feel invincible. I flexed my fingers, watching them move with a precision that almost startled me.

It was exhilarating. It was intoxicating. And, for a brief moment, I understood why the orcs I had fought against—those savage creatures with their rune tattoos—were so psychotic. If they felt even a fraction of this power running through their bodies, it wasn't hard to see how it could warp them, twist their minds. The rush was unlike anything I had ever experienced, a high that was both physical and psychological. Strength, speed, heightened perception—it was all there, at my fingertips, like I could tear through the city's walls with my bare hands if I wanted to.

But with that came the realization: it would be so easy to lose yourself in this. To forget you were mortal. The power was seductive, and I could see how it might consume someone—turn them reckless, make them believe they were untouchable. The orcs didn't stand a chance. This kind of power, pulsing through their veins, would drive anyone mad over time. No wonder they fought with such ferocity, such disregard for their own lives. They were fueled by this, and it left little room for anything else. I could feel it, the subtle pull at the edges of my mind, whispering that nothing could harm me now.

But I wasn't them. I had prepared my mind for this. I knew that I wasn't invincible, no matter how it felt at the moment. The thrill of power was fleeting, and I couldn't let it cloud my judgment. There was a reason I had been careful with these runes, why I hadn't gone for the more ostentatious designs. Flashy power only gets you noticed, and in a city like this, getting noticed wasn't always a good thing.

The rush began to settle, but I could still feel the energy simmering beneath the surface, like a fire that had been stoked but not yet released. I knew I could call on it again, whenever I needed to. But for now, it was enough to know that it was there.

My stomach growled, and I realized I hadn't eaten since before the tattoo session. I reached into my pouch and pulled out a strip of dried monster meat, the kind I had saved for moments like this. High-level creatures had always fascinated me, and their flesh carried a healing property that I had found to be particularly useful. I bit into it, the taste as familiar as it was unpleasant—stringy and metallic, with a bitterness that lingered long after the chew. But it worked. Almost immediately, I felt the soreness in my body ease, the strain from the tattooing process starting to fade.

As I chewed, I couldn't help but wonder what long-term effects this kind of power would have on someone who wasn't prepared for it. I had read enough about ancient civilizations and their use of runes to know that this kind of magic came with a price. If you weren't careful, it could warp you, not just physically but mentally. You'd start to believe you were something more than human, something greater. And once you crossed that line, there was no going back.

I wasn't about to let that happen to me.

I swallowed the last of the meat and took a deep breath, feeling the healing properties doing their work.

Stepping out of the alley, I pulled my cloak tighter around me, the sensation of the runes still humming beneath the surface. The city was quieter now, the streets mostly empty save for a few late-night wanderers and the occasional patrol. I walked with purpose, my mind already turning over the possibilities of what I could achieve with this new power.

The world was different now. Every corner of the city, every opportunity, seemed within reach. The power the runes gave me wasn't just physical; it was psychological. It had changed the way I saw things, the way I approached challenges. The city's bureaucratic walls, its labyrinthine guilds and restrictions—they didn't seem as impenetrable anymore. I had my own path now, and I wasn't going to let anything stand in my way.

The night had deepened into the early hours of morning by the time I finally left the alley. The city, once bustling with life, had quieted to a low hum. Gone were the throngs of people crowding the streets, haggling over goods or shouting for attention. Now, only those with no better place to be lingered—night owls, guards on duty, and the occasional shadowy figure darting through the gloom. The air was cool, carrying the distant sound of footsteps echoing off the stone walls.

The streets, once illuminated by torches and lanterns, were now mostly draped in shadow, with only the occasional flicker of light spilling from windows. The respectable folk were long since tucked away in their beds, leaving the city to the few who dared walk the streets at this hour. But not just anyone walked openly. Those who did carried large lamps, sending out a clear message: Not an easy target.

I wasn't in the mood for trouble, not after everything I'd just experienced with the runes. Still, I kept to the narrower streets and alleys, not particularly keen on running into one of those groups with their bright lights and quick suspicions. With my cloak pulled tight around me and the fresh runes humming just beneath my skin, I could've easily blended into the shadows, though it seemed unnecessary. Most of the city guards were either stationed at the gates or the richer districts. They'd have no reason to patrol these quiet, forgotten corners.

As I turned down a particularly dark alley, I felt the familiar weight of being watched. You know that sense, the one that prickles the back of your neck? I didn't even have to glance around to know I wasn't alone. They were waiting for me—hiding in the narrow doorway up ahead, trying their best to appear like shadows themselves. But they weren't that skilled. Amateurs, by the look of them. Desperate.

I almost sighed. If I were in a better mood, I might have just ignored them, slipped by without a sound. But tonight, I was itching to see what these new runes could really do.

From the gloom ahead, I could make out five shapes, two standing boldly in the open now, and three creeping out from the sides, thinking they had me surrounded. I smiled. This would be fun.

"Oi, mate," one of them said, stepping forward with the confidence only a man with backup could have. His voice had that casual tone, as if we were old friends meeting by chance. "Looks like you've got a bit of coin weighing you down. How 'bout you let us lighten the load, eh?"

I stopped in my tracks, letting the darkness conceal the grin spreading across my face. This was perfect. They had no idea what they'd walked into.

"Five against one," I mused, letting my voice carry just enough for them to hear. "You must be very confident."

The leader of the group snickered. "We've done this a lot. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

"Good," I said, rolling my shoulders. "I've been meaning to test something. You're about to help me out with that."

There was a brief pause, the kind that usually precedes something going terribly wrong for one side. And tonight, that side wasn't going to be mine.

The first one lunged, knife flashing in the dim light. Poor bastard. He thought speed was on his side.

I felt the surge of energy ripple through me as I activated the runes, and suddenly, everything slowed. I could see the exact trajectory of his attack, how his arm tensed as he swung. With barely a thought, I shifted my weight and sidestepped, his blade slicing nothing but empty air. In the same fluid motion, I brought my elbow down hard on the back of his neck. He crumpled like a sack of grain.

The second man was on me before the first even hit the ground. But to me, it was like moving through water. My senses were heightened to such a degree that it was almost laughable. I ducked his wild swing and jabbed two quick punches into his ribs, feeling the satisfying crunch beneath my fists. He gasped and stumbled back, wheezing.

I barely even registered the third and fourth men before they were down. My speed was something beyond anything they'd prepared for—twice as fast, twice as strong. The runes hummed with energy, fueling each precise movement. One man found his legs swept from under him, another was knocked out cold before his dagger even left his belt.

The last man hesitated, stepping back with wide eyes. He wasn't a fool—he'd seen what had just happened to his friends in the span of a few heartbeats. His courage faltered, but pride kept him rooted to the spot.

"You still want to do this?" I asked, dusting off my hands, the slightest amusement lacing my tone.

He dropped his knife and turned to run. Smart move.

I let him go, though part of me wanted to test how fast I could catch him. But there was no point in chasing him down. I'd gotten what I wanted—a clear sense of what these runes could do in a real fight. And they did not disappoint.

The four others were groaning, still alive but very much unconscious. I looked down at them, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of my lips. "Thanks for the practice," I muttered, stepping over them as I made my way back to the main street.

The walk back to the inn felt lighter somehow, the hum of the runes still buzzing beneath my skin. It wasn't the same high I'd felt in the alley earlier, but the afterglow of victory, of control, was satisfying in its own way. My muscles were still singing with that enhanced strength, the sharpened reflexes. It felt almost too easy.

By the time I reached the inn, the streets had fallen silent, save for the occasional rustle of wind or distant bark of a dog. The night porter was dozing behind the counter when I knocked, his head jerking up with a scowl as he shuffled to the door.

"Bit late, ain't it?" he grumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Couldn't be helped," I said with a casual shrug, slipping him a coin for his trouble. He grunted, eyeing the coin before unlocking the door and letting me inside. "Try not to make a habit of it," he muttered as I walked past.

I offered him a grin as I headed up the stairs, my footsteps light despite the late hour. The buzz of energy still thrummed through me as I reached my room. I shut the door behind me, the soft click echoing in the quiet space.

I peeled off my cloak and armor, feeling the slight sting of the tattoo work beneath my clothes. It was a good kind of pain, the kind that reminded me I'd done something that would set me apart from everyone else in this city. The runes weren't just an enhancement—they were a game-changer. And tonight had proven that.

Lying down on the bed, I could feel the energy still coursing through me, like a low hum in the background. It was powerful, intoxicating, but I knew better than to let it control me. Power like this could warp a person, make them think they were untouchable. I had seen it before. But I wasn't about to fall into that trap. I would control the runes, not the other way around.

As my head hit the pillow, I allowed myself a brief moment of satisfaction. The city was starting to open up to me in ways I hadn't expected. With that thought, I let the buzz of the runes fade into the background, the hum of the city outside becoming a distant echo as sleep finally took me. The pieces were falling into place, and I had all the time in the world to play.