Chapter 37: The Outlaw (1)

Mo Hamus’s hand still throbbed faintly, the grip of that man lingering as if etched into his very bones. He moved quickly through the alleys of Venezia, the morning light casting a long, twisted shadow behind him—like a crack running across the earth.

Mo Hamus was an assassin, a man who lived in darkness, killing his targets before they ever realized his existence. Yet today, he had been stopped in broad daylight, inside a shabby inn.

Not by guards.

Not by a squad of soldiers.

But by… one man.

The first thing he felt when his hand had been caught was not pain, but sheer disbelief. A grip so firm it cut off every thought of resistance in half a heartbeat. And those eyes… calm, utterly fearless, as if he were nothing more than an insect that had crawled to the wrong place.

Never before in Venezia had he met anyone with such a presence. No— even among the most skilled assassins he had known, few carried such crushing pressure.

As he left the inn behind, Mo Hamus realized a hateful truth: he knew nothing of his target. No name, no origin, nothing but an empty void.

That void unsettled him more than failure itself.

The morning sunlight poured down on the cobblestone streets of Venezia, but inside George’s office, the light was stopped cold at the window. The wall clock struck eight, steady and measured, blending with the faint whistle of wind slipping through the cracks.

George sat on a long sheepskin chair, slowly turning the pages of a leather-bound book. Thin streams of smoke rose in spirals from a black incense stick planted in a brass burner. The smoke twisted into strange symbols before fading away, leaving behind a sharp, metallic tang, like scorched ash.

The dark wooden door swung open without a sound. Mo Hamus entered, immediately dropping to his knees and bowing his head.

“Speak,” George said without looking up, voice deep and flat as he turned another page.

“…My lord, I have failed.”

The short admission sent a ripple through the room, like wind disturbing still water. George did not reply at once, letting the bitter scent of incense curl through the air, winding around Mo Hamus’s thoughts like an invisible rope.

“Reason?”

At the question, Mo Hamus raised his head. His eyes still carried the lingering shock from that earlier encounter. Instead of words, he produced a twisted piece of metal. The deep dent across its surface was proof it had suffered an impact so great even steel had yielded.

“There was someone… I’ve never seen before. He appeared the moment I moved, as if he had anticipated it. His reflexes—beyond human. His strength… far above Venezia’s standards.”

George lifted his brows. Silence thickened, dropping like a curtain over the room.

“Level?”

Mo Hamus closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly.

“Couldn’t be determined. But… if I am wrong, then it only means I underestimated him.”

A crease formed on George’s forehead. Dozens of possibilities chained together in his mind. Venezia was a stagnant pond, under his complete control—so who had just thrown in a shark?

“Someone from the Adventurers’ Guild?”

“No insignia… I couldn’t gauge his level or his true power. He looked exactly like an ordinary man.”

For several seconds, the air grew heavier. George rested his chin on his hand, eyes dark as a bottomless pit.

“Interesting. A wolf hiding among the sheep of this town… and I had never even heard of him.”

“He was… beyond my expectations.” Mo Hamus clenched his fist. “If permitted, I will prepare again. Next time—”

“Next time?” George cut him off. His voice sank low, so low even the faint ember in the incense burner dimmed. Rising to his feet, he walked toward the window and drew the curtain slightly aside.

From there, he looked down at the square bathed in soft morning light. But in his eyes, Venezia was no longer a peaceful town. It was a chessboard, with a new piece placed upon it—its allegiance unknown.

Mo Hamus hesitated, then asked softly, “Should I summon them?”

“Not yet.” George shook his head slowly.

Beneath the pale sunlight, Venezia moved like any normal town. But through George’s eyes, every street corner bristled with unseen watchers. His people lived like shadows scattered among the crowd—some disguised as merchants, others as guards, others still as ragged beggars.

One signal from him, and all would abandon their masks, converging like predators catching the scent of blood.

“You know I dislike wasting pawns. Anyone capable of repelling you cannot be taken lightly. So tell me—why should I risk my forces first?” George’s voice rumbled, low and menacing.

“The law of this town is a scarecrow, but even a scarecrow can be a sharp blade if wielded well. Deliver my order to the town governor: arrest that man for assaulting a citizen of Venezia. The charge is clear enough, legal enough… and more than enough for the guards to drag him away.”

Mo Hamus stayed silent for a moment, then frowned. “And if he resists?”

George turned, his gaze cutting like a knife across a throat. “Then he becomes an enemy of Venezia’s law. At that point, I can unleash every force under my command with perfect justification. More than that… I will personally fund the Adventurers’ Guild. A public request, posted for all to see, with a reward high enough to drag even the coldest killers out of their dens to hunt him.”

He returned to his desk, picked up a pen, scrawled a few words, then signed the parchment. Handing it to Mo Hamus, he said, “Take it to the Town Hall. From here, let Venezia’s law make the first move. And if that man resists… then this entire town will devour him.”

From the incense burner, a thin ribbon of smoke curled upward, twisting into the form of a black serpent before dissolving into the air.

The Venezia Town Hall stood far behind the market square, its once-white marble walls yellowed by smoke from furnaces and the dust of time. Outside, its broad steps resembled the entrance of a grand cathedral, yet within lay a world of whispers and agreements that would never be written into any official record.

Morning light filtered through tall glass windows, glimmering across the black-veined stone floor. At the center of the grand hall rested a long desk, its dark varnished surface polished to a sheen like frozen winter water. Behind it sat the Mayor of Venezia—a thin man with skin pale as candle wax and narrow eyes sharp as blades—signing piles of documents stacked as high as his arm.

The heavy oak door creaked open. Mo Hamus stepped inside, the steady strike of his boots echoing across the stone floor. He said nothing, only approached the desk and laid down a paper sealed with red wax—the unmistakable emblem of a large nose, the symbol of George.

The mayor barely spared it a glance. He didn’t need to read; the words and that seal were like a pulse running through Venezia’s veins—and he was but one organ keeping it alive. His bony fingers tapped the paper with slow, deliberate rhythm. Tok. Tok. The sound was as dry as cracking wood.

“Clear enough.” His voice was low but steely, like iron striking iron. He turned to the captain of the guards waiting silently against the wall.

“Mobilize the Seven. No ornate armor—take shackles and batons. Arrest immediately. Charge: assaulting a citizen of Venezia. No need for words. Do not let him leave the town.”

The captain nodded, not once questioning the order. Commands sealed in red wax were not for debate.

Moments later, seven soldiers emerged from a side door, shadows merging seamlessly with the stone walls. Each man gripped a chain of leather-wrapped steel, the faint clink of metal sounding like the restrained breath of a chained beast waiting to be unleashed.

The mayor set down his pen. He did not look at Mo Hamus, merely spoke as though announcing tomorrow’s weather.

“He will be led through the square, through the market. Everyone will see. And then… they will remember that in Venezia, the law still has fangs.”

Light slanted through the window just then, cutting his face in half—one side bright, the other drowned in shadow—like the very nature of Venezia itself.

The Seven left Town Hall like a stream of black water—silent, cold, unbroken. No shouts, no clash of armor, only the steady echo of their steps rippling through the cobbled alleys.

They were no ordinary patrolmen. Their feet fell lighter than a cat’s, and their eyes swept across every crack and corner as though the city’s layout had been carved into their memories.

By now the sun had fully risen. The central market bustled with voices and smells: fresh bread mingled with fish and coal smoke. But within that chaos, seven figures in long gray coats—the unofficial uniform of those whose name should not be spoken—moved like a chilling fracture cutting through the flow of the crowd.

Every step was purposeful. The leader at the front kept his eyes ahead, but flicked quick glances into side alleys and low windows, memorizing every secret gaze that lingered too long. Two men behind him carried their steel-wrapped chains coiled around their arms like serpents. The rest spread into a half-circle formation, their spacing perfect to snap shut around their target the moment it appeared.

The townsfolk knew this group. Merchants hushed mid-conversation, suddenly fussing with their wares. Children at play were yanked indoors by their mothers. No questions. No stares. Venezia had taught them well: these faces only appeared when someone was about to vanish.

The morning wind carried the acrid tang of the workshops, but today it mixed with something else—an iron chill that clung to the throat, as though the whole town was holding its breath.

The narrow alley leading to the inn where Gen stayed finally came into view. The leader of the Seven raised his fist. At once, the others froze. The cries of merchants in the distance seemed to fade, leaving behind a silence heavy enough to press against the skin.

The target was only one turn away.

Their boots shifted forward—when suddenly, two figures stepped from the inn into the pale sunlight.

Predator’s instinct drew their gazes at once. But instead of prey, what they saw made their hearts beat half a step slower.

First, a tall figure encased in full black armor. Every polished plate caught the dawn’s light, sharp edges gleaming like ancient engravings. A long cloak draped from his shoulders, swaying in the breeze like a veil of shadow trailing behind.

Behind him followed a much smaller figure, almost swallowed by oversized armor, like a faint spark beside a looming shade. In their hand coiled a whip, its surface glimmering faintly with a strange, sickly green light.

A tension crept into the backs of several of the Seven. Instinct whispered: these two were not the kind of strangers one wanted to meet in a narrow alley.

Relief almost touched them when the armored man turned toward the square—yet died instantly when he shifted, pivoting on his heel, and strode directly toward them instead.

For a moment, glances exchanged quickly among the Seven. Not the target. Probably just travelers. Venezia was always crowded. Nothing unusual.

The leader’s eyes flicked over the pair. Nothing matched the description: an attacker of a citizen. Too vague to matter. He told himself: coincidence. The streets were narrow, encounters inevitable. Behind them lay the road to the market. Harmless.

And yet—something gnawed.

The metallic tread of boots echoed like a countdown no one could stop.

Not our concern. One of the Seven reassured himself, and the group pressed on without slowing. In their minds, the two figures would pass like shadows brushing in a crowd.

But then, only a few steps away, the black-armored man halted. Not because of any obstacle. He simply… stopped.

The soft clink of his boots on stone fell into silence. His cloak stilled, hanging like a curtain of night.

The Seven faltered. Their rhythm broke. A flicker of unease crossed their faces. They had not expected him to stop—especially not directly before them.

The air between them tightened, as if some unseen hand had drawn a cord taut across the alley.

“You… are heading to the inn?”

The armored man’s voice rang out suddenly.

Low, not loud—yet in the way he spoke, the question pierced straight into the listener’s thoughts.

The leader of the Seven narrowed his eyes. He didn’t understand who this was, or why, but his hand slid onto the hilt of his sword by instinct.

“Yes,” he answered hoarsely, but steady. “We’re here to find someone.”

Behind the visor, Gen’s eyes glimmered faintly. He tilted his head, voice heavier now, probing with each word.

“Looking for… who?”

A brief silence. Just long enough for the wind to whistle across the rooftops. The leader studied Gen from head to toe, something tightening in his gaze as if realization crept in.

“The one the Town Hall has ordered us to take in,” he said slowly, testing the reaction.

Gen did not move. Yet the very air around him shifted—morning chill replaced by a suffocating weight pressing down on their chests.

“Is that so?” His voice dropped, each word laden with gravity. “And what if the one you seek… is standing right before you?”

The Seven froze.

In that instant, the black-armored man was no longer a nameless traveler. He was the target. And he had known it all along.

The mouth of the alley tightened like a bowstring drawn to its limit. The smallest mistake, and the arrow would fly.